Chapter twenty-one
Present Day
“Let’s get a drink,” Enzo said, spotting an open bar on the way back to the hotel.
I smirked because it seemed like neither of us wanted the night to end. We headed for the bar, ordered a beer each, and perched on the stools. We talked and laughed as if we’d been together like this for years, as if this was how we’d always been.
I got up to go to the toilet, checked my phone, and realised it was dead because I’d forgotten to charge it at the hotel. When I returned to the bar, Enzo’s stool was empty, so I scanned the room until I spotted him outside, his back to me, his phone pressed to his ear.
He hung up as I approached, pocketed the phone, then pulled out his vape and inhaled. He looked… stressed. No, worse. Tortured.
“Everything alright?”
He spun around, his blue eyes frantic when he spotted me. “Si. Just tired.”
“Who was that on the phone?”
“Oh–um–Teron. Another attack on my men in the city.”
“Americans?”
“Who fucking else?” he growled, running his hand through his hair. A hand that was shaking. I reached for it, holding it in mine.
“We’ll make sure we get these pricks out of our country. This ends tomorrow. Come on, let’s head back. We need some sleep.”
He merely nodded, not looking any better after my attempt to reassure him. But he kept hold of my hand all the way back to the hotel room.
Enzo slid his key card out of his pocket and hovered it near the scanner, then stopped.
Turning to look at me over his shoulder, I met his gaze with a smile before he leaned in and brushed his lips against mine. His open affection still caught me off guard, but that wasn’t what made my gut twist. It was the look in his eyes when he pulled back.
He held the moment like a man trying to trap time in his hands, as though, if he looked long enough, he could seal it in a glass jar and bury it somewhere safe. There was weight in his gaze. Concern. Calculation. Apology.
“I love you,” he whispered. “Be ready.”
Unease crept down my spine. Before I could ask what the hell that meant, the lock beeped.
The door swung open, and Enzo had his gun in his hand. The flash of silver he’d drawn from under his hoodie made me reach for mine, my instincts sharpening.
We weren’t alone.
Enzo stepped inside, aiming his gun at the intruders. I followed, sweeping the room. Eight bulky men, all armed, stood like military men at their stations. Two of our Italian soldiers were tied up, kneeling on the carpet with guns to their heads. The other three were sprawled across the king-sized bed—the one I’d fucked Enzo on just hours earlier. Dead. White sheets now painted red.
We’d been compromised.
The Americans knew we were coming.
My jaw clenched, my fingers hovering over the trigger. Eight to two was not great odds, but not impossible. We could take four each, clean and fast. But no one moved. They were poised, eyes tracking us, yet holding fire. Waiting for an order.
The sound of a flush from the ensuite had my eyes whipping to the slightly ajar door until it opened and a man in his late forties stepped into the room, zipping up his fly as if he hadn’t just walked into a slaughterhouse. I recognised his dark hair, slanted eyes and crooked nose from the pictures and footage I had of him. Frankie Galiz.
The New York consigliere.
“What the fuck is this?” Enzo snarled. His voice was ice, and his gaze flicked to our butchered men lying on the bed.
“You kept us waiting,” he said in a deep American drawl, striding casually into the room and taking the seat by the window, balancing one foot on his knee. “I got bored.”
Enzo’s nostrils flared. They were glaring at each other with deep hatred, but also… something else. Something sharp and unreadable passed between them, making the hair on the back ofmy neck stand on end. I needed to take control of the situation before Enzo lost his.
