Page 19 of The Masked King

ENZO

I don’t sleep.

Only one woman has ever kept me awake until now, and that’s Demi.

Nyx was good.

I went to the club with zero expectations and came away with the niggling sensation that she’d planted a fantasy in my head, one that I would never have considered before. Or maybe the club has installed some kind of brainwashing device inside the leather masks, or there’s something in the air inside those rooms.

Sure, I wanted to touch her. Her voice, her proximity, the palpable darkness, knowing that she was naked and I couldn’t have her… all these things were sexy as fuck. I was still rock hard when I walked out of there.

But when she asked me what I would do to her, it unlocked something inside me that scares me half to death. I wanted her to fear me and desire me in equal measures. I wanted her to look over her shoulder when she left the building, scanning the shadows for a glimpse of movement while secretly praying that I would drag her into a dark alleyway and fuck her till she forgot which way was up.

Was that what she set out to do?

Is it what they get taught in their briefings before they get offered the job, how to dig deep and reveal the fantasies their clients don’t even know about?

Because, if so, it worked like a fucking dream.

I sit up on the couch—I spent the night here rather than in one of the guest rooms because I knew I wouldn’t rest—and my erection hasn’t gone anywhere.

I don’t even know who she is. I have no clue what she looks like. But in my head, I’ve manifested her into the only woman who can give me what I want, what I need, even though subconsciously I understand that this is because she’s off limits.

Untouchable.

Forbidden.

They have the signed NDA as evidence to hold against me.

The fantasy will only last until I fuck her, then it’ll be gone. Never to be repeated. Nyx will become the name of a woman I once knew, and I’ll be left with the same gaping hole in my chest that only Demi can fill.

I reach for the almost-empty brandy decanter, fill the bottom of the amber-stained glass, and knock it back in one go.

“It’s a bit early even for you, Enzo.”

I glance around to find Bianca watching me from behind the breakfast bar. She’s wearing one of my cotton shirts, open at the collar.

“I don’t seem to recall it ever stopping you.” It’s a low blow, and I would try to soften my words if I could stand up without revealing the tent inside my boxers.

Bianca’s marriage to Mario D’Angelo was arranged by our parents. It was advantageous to both Sicilian families, a good match that would encourage stability and secure the truce that had been set in motion by our grandfathers on both sides. As the only daughter of a mafia don, she’d known that was her lot from a young age. We all thought she’d accept it, would make the best of it, provide her husband with an heir to his legacy, hold his hand and smile at social gatherings, and do nothing to disrespect either family.

In return, all Mario had to do was treat his wife, the mother of his children, with the respect she deserved. And he couldn’t even do that. Because men like Mario D’Angelo respect money and power instead of women. They think with their dicks and their fists and expect others to turn a blind eye because of their surname.

If Gio hadn’t killed him for selling our sister to the bratva, someone else would have.

So, I don’t blame Bianca for turning to alcohol. Mario was an animal. He was a violent husband, an absent father, and he allowed greed to cloud his judgement.

It would’ve been enough to tip most people over the edge.

But most people wouldn’t have sabotaged their own parents to inherit the family business. The car crash, the one that claimed the lives of our mother and father and Gio’s childhood sweetheart, his fiancée at the time, would’ve killed my brother too if he hadn’t canceled his flight to Sicily at the last-minute.

It probably would’ve only been a matter of time before Bianca came after me too.

Still, I’m not a complete fucking asshole and I can see the sadness behind her eyes. When Gio delivered her ultimatum, he also took her children away from her; Sofia and Leo have been living in the family residence in Sicily ever since, with no contact from their mom.

Bianca switches on the coffee machine. The bruises on her face are darker this morning, mottled black and purple; one eye is still shut, the skin underneath shiny and stretched taut beneath the Steri-strips I applied last night. She looks like she accidentally wandered into a boxing ring without the referee noticing.

“Does Gio know I’m here?” She leans back against the counter, her arms wrapped around her chest while she waits for coffee.