Page 17 of Twisted Vows

I swing the plate. Metal cracks against his skull with a sickening clang. He cries out, more from shock than pain, his hands flying to his head as he stumbles back and slams into the doorframe. His knees buckle, and as he collapses, his phone slips out of his pocket.

I act quickly, snapping the phone up and sprinting straight out the door with my heart screaming in my ears.

Gio’s pain-slurred curses follow.

Outside, the night air cuts. Asphalt tears my skin from my soles, but the pain fuels my speed. The phone lights up. The screen shows nothing but hollow bars. No signal. No lifeline.

“Come on.” I press the numbers anyway, praying for a miracle. Nothing.

The highway looms ahead, and cars roar past like indifferent gods. I throw my arms up, waving frantically. Through my tears, the headlights blur into streaks. Some drivers slow, their gazes flicking over before they speed off. Cowards. Clearly, no one risks involvement when the sight and stench of mafia cling to me like skin.

I stumble. With my blouse torn, my hair wild, and my shoes long gone, exhaustion drags my bones down. I wrap my arms around myself, trembling against the night chill.

I keep walking. One step, then another. My breath curls in white puffs, in stark contrast with the darkness.

A car’s headlights slice through the black, the engine humming steadily. Courage or desperation or both shoves my body into the lane. Brakes screech. Tires burn.

With a heaving chest, I slam my hands against the hood.

The driver’s door opens, and a figure emerges. He wears a baseball cap low over his face. “Easy,” a smooth, strong voice rolls out. “Breathe. Slowly. You’re safe now.”

Safe. The word tastes like salt. Safe doesn’t exist.

“Kidnapped…they…they took me! Please, you have to call the police. I…”

“Shh.” He reaches out with his hand. “Calm down. Get in. You’re safe with me.”

He guides me into the car, shuts the door, and goes around to the driver’s side. The leather seats are cold against my skin. The world is muffled. As he settles in, his sandalwood scent, a mix of smoke, leather, and expensive cologne, wraps around me.

Recognition hits when I glimpse a jaw sharp enough to cut and dark eyes heavy with judgment, as if they weigh every sin. That same shadowed mouth that kissed me in my classroom two years ago.

My face flushes, and a traitorous warmth pools in my belly. The ache I’ve tried so hard to ignore, to bury, to pretend doesn’t exist every time I close my eyes and remember his touch rears up.

The men watching me at the school, following me in the shadows for the last five years, they weren’t him. They were his soldiers. But he came that one time, two years ago, to claim my mouth, to brand me with that kiss that’s haunted me ever since.

The Enforcer. Enzo Ricci.

My lungs empty of air, and I grapple for the door handle, desperate as my stomach flips violently.

Before I can escape, his hot, unyielding, steel-like hand grips my wrist, scorching my skin.

“Don’t.” His voice adopts a dangerous tone, the kind that could carve flesh from bone. “If you jump, you won’t survive the night. Probably not even the impact.”

My chest rises and falls in a frantic rhythm. I hate that every nerve burns with awareness. Hate that my body craves his touch while my mind fears it.

“You?” My voice cracks. “You’re him.”

His eyes cut sideways, then back to the road. “And you’re still alive because of me.”

Both rage and confusion knot together in my mind. I blink as I try to figure out what to say.

“Why? Why me?” My voice comes out small and defeated.

He offers me no answer, the silence between us taut as piano wire. When he releases my wrist, he leaves the impression of his fingers behind.

I take slow breaths as my heart crashes against my ribs. Not wanting to appear weak, I sit rigid, my spine like iron. Even so, a storm of terror and molten heat tear through me.

After he throws me another long, silent look, his hand tightens on the wheel and he drives on.