Even at five-foot-seven, I have to push up on my toes just to find balance against my brother, who looks every inch the soldier he’s been trained to be—thick arms under a fitted black tee, callused hands that have both broken bones and pulled me out of fights, and storm blue eyes that never miss a single slip-up.
He’s built from war. And for most of my life, he was the front line between me and it.
But as of today, that changes. And selfishly, I wish I could keep him forever.
Enzo is officially being sworn in as Dante’s second-in-command, which means I can no longer claim him as my personal protector. No more late-night sparring to vent my rage, no more having someone at my side I can actually trust with the ugly parts. No more family at my side.
“Well,” I say, breathing a little tight as he helps me to my feet, “maybe if I were allowed to leave the east wing of this damn fortress, we could all hang out. Get some family time, you, me, and Papa.”
I glance up at him, eyes flicking over the tattoo just below his shoulder—a dagger thrust downward, a serpent coiled tight around its blade, jaws open, ready to sink into skin. Beneath text curls with blocky lettering, Fideltà o Morte.Loyalty or Death.Inked in brutal black lines. And I give him a look that’s half teasing, half tired.
We lock eyes.
Then we both burst out laughing.
“God,” he says, running hand through his hair, “I don’t know who’d end up dead first.”
We both know Dante would never want to spend time with us, and I’d likely be the one dead, unable to hold my tongue around him, but it’s worth laughing about.
With his arm around my back, lifting me to ease my pain, I walk slowly from my bed to the bathroom, my body tensing as every sudden movement makes my bruises ache. My room glows in soft gold light from the high chandelier overhead, its glass catching on the carved archways and reflecting in the marble floors. The scale of this place has always felt too big for one person, but that’s the point. Intimidation through opulence.
We step through the double arch that leads into my bathroom, a space that’s somehow even more excessive than my bedroom. The ceilings stretch at least fifteen feet, adorned with carved mouldings and a mural of the old De Luca crest surrounded by vines and daggers. Steam curls lazily through the air from the heat already pumping into the open-concept shower.
Not only did Enzo start the shower, he also filled the tub sunken into the floor with a purple bath bomb and bubbles.
I can’t help but smile knowing that I’ll get to relax for some of the night.
My tub, wrapped in obsidian tile and framed with brass lions at the corners, calls me first, but I know I need to rinse off all the dried blood before ruining my perfect bath. I turn away, ensuring I have my towel on the heated rack before dismissing my brother. And sure enough, my vanity is lined with untouched perfumes, soaps, and a plush robe that’s hanging neatly beside my prepared towel.
Enzo helps me to the edge of the shower, steadying me once more before stepping back.
“I can handle the rest,” I say quietly as I go to push the glass door open, expecting to hear the click of my bedroom door before stepping inside.
But then… the glass stops on my fingertips.
His hand pushes it closed, his fingers tense on the top frame, and I think he’s holding onto something heavier. His jawclenches, and for a second, he just stands there, looming at my side, his eyes searching mine for permission.
I wait.
I’ve learned not to rush him when he’s in his head about things.
“Elijah’s going to be taking care of you,” he says at last, the words dragging. “While I’m working with Dante full-time.”
“I know,” I answer with a smile, trying to ease the shift. “You two have basically been co-parenting me since he was let into the De Luca circle, so—”
“He’s my best friend, Ace,” he cuts me off. “The only real one I’ve ever had. He’s basically my brother.”
I blink, thrown off by the urgency in his tone. “Okay?”
His jaw tightens further. “Please don’t make me have to kill him.”
Silence.
We stare at each other—long enough for the air between us to twist tight and uncomfortable. I study his face, but there isn’t even a hint of hesitation.
“We’re just friends, Enzo,” I say quietly, the truth hanging limp in the air. “We always have been.”
“You’re not,” he replies, calm but final, “and even though he knows better, I’m asking you not to tempt him. Not when I’m not around.”
