I curledinto Enzo’s uninjured side in his bed as we watched the scandal unravel across the TV, our backs propped up against the headboard. Every headline that rolled across the screen was more shocking than the last.
My father’s disappearance had been easy to bury, but the vice president couldn’t simply vanish without the world demanding answers.
Even though I hadn’t been in the meeting, I knew Enzo, his father, Brooks, and Benny had sat down with President Byron to decide what version of the truth the public would get.
They gave the media just enough to keep them satisfied. And enough fuel to keep the headlines burning for months.
The reporter on the screen spoke in that practiced urgent tone as she delivered the story. According to the official version, the vice president had secretly convinced the president to pardon a cult leader who’d been blackmailing him. The cult leader supposedly had proof that the vice president had been involved in the original plot to assassinate the president years ago. And again recently.
She went on to say that after the vice president picked the cultleader up from prison, the two got into an altercation. The cult leader shot the vice president, then turned the gun on himself.
A murder-suicide.
I was fine with that explanation.
The man who had wanted me dead was gone.
Enzo had killed him for me, and I felt no guilt over it.
My father was a horrible man who deserved it.
The reporter continued, explaining that the cult leader’s wife—who also happened to be the vice president’s mistress—had been part of the plan. My mother’s mug shot appeared on the screen. She’d taken a deal to repeat the same story in exchange for less prison time.
She’d begged Enzo and the president to let her speak with me, most likely hoping I’d ask them to spare her. I gave her the silent treatment she’d given me for years. She also admitted that Reginald and the vice president had been the ones leaving me notes. They’d found a way to intercept the texts from reaching Enzo. All at my father’s request.
Enzo and Brooks were now trying to find out whether any other Elders had been involved in the attempts on their fathers’ lives. I’d overheard Enzo say he regretted shooting them all and wished he’d tortured them first for answers, but he’d been too enraged to think past revenge.
Fortunately, the bullet that had hit Enzo tore through muscle and missed anything vital. It passed clean through his side, so the doctor cleaned his wounds and stitched him up. He tried to keep Enzo overnight for observation, but Enzo refused. His mother had only laughed and said he was a typical Marchetti.
“Let’s watch something more positive.” I changed the channel, only to land on another reporter recycling the same story, and sighed.
Enzo stole the remote, turned off the TV, and tossed it aside. “How about wedosomething more positive?” A wicked grin tugged at his mouth.
I laughed and smacked his shoulder when his hand slipped upmy bare leg. “You’re supposed to be resting. You’re injured, remember?”
Goose bumps rippled across my skin. Every time Enzo touched me, my body reacted instantly. His touch was my own personal heaven.
“Yes,” he said, voice threaded with amusement. “But you’re not.”
The higher his hand traveled, the warmer my body grew.
I caught his wrist before he reached my core.
He frowned, giving me a stubborn look.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said softly, sliding my fingers along his arm. “It’s only been two days since you were shot.”
That stubborn look didn’t fade.
“Right, and I know exactly what’ll make me feel better.” He shifted on the bed, the movement tugging at the stitches along his side. His jaw tightened for a split second before his familiar arrogance slipped back into place. “Get up here and ride me, my Fawn.”
Being his Fawn felt so different now.
Like a privilege.
A smile tilted my lips.
I guess I have to make him feel better.
