His arms flex, tightening around my waist. “These are all of Lucas’s associates. I want us to go through them so you can identify the men that hurt you.”
My shoulders tense. My heart stutters in my chest. Memories assault me, but I push them down, breathing deeply.
Eventually, I nod. I can do this. Ineedto do this.
The first page shows various faces—many of them familiar from countless events I attended with Lucas. But none arethem.
The next page though— “Marcus!” I shout.
Enzo clicks on the profile.
Marcus Whitfield. Lucas’s campaign manager. Aged forty-five. Married.
I try to stuff the anger back down, but the longer I stare at his face on the screen the harder it is.
Enzo clicks off his profile, switching to the next page of faces.
Two stand out.
Xander Bishop. Friend from childhood. Age forty-one. Never married. No children.
Derek Shaw. Head of Security. Former military with a dishonorable discharge. Age thirty-eight.
Bile rises in my throat, and a tear slides down my cheek.
Enzo turns my face to his, seeing my pain.
“We’ll make them pay, Cuore mio,” he promises.
I nod, swallowing back the fresh tears threatening to fall. I don’t trust my voice right now so I just look at him, conveying everything I can’t say.
He pulls me closer, twisting me so I’m no longer sitting with my back to his front; instead, I’m straddling his thighs on the chair.
My head rests on his shoulder, and only then do I let the rest of my tears fall. The whole time, Enzo strokes my hair, whispering reassurances in my ear.
When I pull back, his expression is one of heartbreak, like he’s hurting for me.
Maybe it’s that expression that has me pressing my lips to his.
He doesn’t respond at first and I pull back, eyes wide, cheeks flaming with embarrassment.
But then, his hands come up to cup the sides of my head, pulling me back to his mouth. His tongue runs over the seam of my lips, begging for entry. I open for him, pouring twenty-five years of longing into the kiss.
All too soon though, it’s over. His forehead rests against mine, his breathing labored.
“Iz,” he starts, and my stomach clenches. “We shouldn’t have done that.”
Humiliation burns bright inside me. Of course he doesn’t feel the way I do. He probably only kissed me back because I was hurting and he didn’t want to make it worse.
I nod, climbing off him. He reaches for me, but I dart away.
“No, you’re right. That was a mistake,” I tell him. “It didn’t mean anything. I was just in a bad headspace. Please don’t let this ruin things,” I plead.
His eyes search mine—for what, I’m not sure—before he nods. His smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Right, yeah. You’re my best friend, Iz. I don’t want to lose you again.”
I need to get out of here before I burst into more tears. “Exactly. This never happened.”
I turn and flee, my feet slapping against the warm tiles.
