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On nights like this, it’s hard not to think about my run-in with Enzo the Enforcer five years ago. That stone jaw and his full lips. The crooked nose and those dark eyes that hold nothing back and give nothing away.
A thrilling encounter only matched by that stranger’s kiss two years ago…the one who might’ve been Enzo.
Chapter 2
Enzo
Blood covers my knuckles.
It’s a sight I’ve seen countless times since I turned fifteen and started tagging along with my brother Dante to enforce Benedetti rules.
But instead of an alley or a street corner, I’m standing in the basement gym of the Benedetti villa compound.
Sweat hangs thick in the air, trapped by concrete stained with old water damage. Iron plates line the far wall beside cracked leather punching bags.
A suspicious, rust-colored smear streaks across the rubber mats. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in harsh white. The rhythmic clank of metal is akin to a priest’s bell, only here, the worship means discipline, not salvation.
Every hit is a confession.
Marco Santori, a thirty-year-old former kickboxer and the closest thing I have to family within this compound, stands across from me in the ring.
After the death of my older brother, Dante, I became somewhat of a loner. Because my name’s often used to strike fear into the Benedetti family’s enemies, I haven’t earned many friends. Marco was an undefeated golden boy in regional kickboxing, a flashy showboater who knew how to smile for the cameras.
He lost it all when a doping scandal hit, and shame drove him somewhere even darker.
The Benedettis opened the door for him.
We’re good at collecting men with nowhere else to go. Hungry dogs always get fed somewhere, and the trick is to ensure they remember who fills the bowl.
Marco became my friend because he was the only one brave enough to spar with me in the ring. That bravado even reeks off him now as he bounces on the balls of his feet and circles me.
The tape around my knuckles tightens as I clench my fist. Dante taught me the wrapping ritual after my fists split open as a teenager and bled through cheap gauze. That marked my first backroom fight against one of the family’s business rivals. Keeping my knuckles firm and my skin sealed with smooth tape has become almost a compulsion. More importantly, the ritual gives me a sense of control.
Control keeps you from drowning in chaos.
“Getting tired?” Marco taunts with a cocky grin.
The smirk earns him a quick jab, sharp enough to snap his head back. He stumbles but recovers fast, his eyes blazing. Recklessly, he lunges forward, surprising me. His fist grazes my cheek in just a whisper of a hit, but I backpedal anyway. He laughs too loudly, his chest puffed.
“You almost had me.” I hook to the ribs, low and brutal. He folds.
When I drive my knee into his gut, he wheezes like a punctured tire. Lifting my left hand, I give him one more elbow shove. In seconds, he’s on the mat, sweat pooling beneath him.
I pace around him. “You’re fast. But speed without discipline is suicide.”
He spits red on the floor and glares up at me, then grins through his bloodied teeth. “One day, I’ll beat you.”
Even while flat on his back, his confidence never wanes. It’s why he’s useful. He’s too stubborn to know when to stay down.
“One day, you’ll understand control before ambition kills you.” My voice drops. “Maybe.”
I wind the tape tighter. My body hums with the fight. Sparring is the closest thing to clean violence left. Violence without guilt. In here, fists don’t bury men…just bruise them. No funerals. No widows. Only sweat, pain, and survival.
Noise drains from the room. I sense the shift in the air as the men still, their attention drawn toward the door.
Following the direction of their gazes, I watch Isabella Benedetti enter the gym.
Silk clings to Izzy’s body like sin itself, a blood-red dress slicing mid-thigh. Gold heels click sharply against the gym floor. Her hair spills down her back in dark waves, and her heavy perfume masks the chalk and sweat. She prowls into the space with cat-like grace.
