Page 42 of Twisted Vows

When I yank the door open, I do a double take.

A wiry guy with a bright grin and hair dyed a glowing white blond stands at my door.

Where’s Enzo?

“Marco Santori.” He offers me a hand before I can utter the question. “Enzo sent me.”

I force a neutral expression. No way am I going to show him my disappointment. “Well. That’s cute. Swap me for the B-team, why don’t you?”

He flinches in a mocking way, then gives that little after-you gesture, polite as can be.

I’m being given the velvet-glove treatment.

Outside, the air’s sharper tonight. The garden smells like a florist’s fever dream, something I didn’t notice on my last stroll. Probably because Enzo attracted all my attention.

I decide to focus on the garden, inhaling the scent of roses and jasmine. The place is designed like some Edith Wharton rich people fantasy. Marble statues glint in the dying light, shining like ghosts. The whole setup’s gorgeous, but honestly, it’s like watching the world through bars. And Enzo’s absence? Oof. Heavier than a loaded gun.

After wandering around the maze of marble statues in silence for about ten minutes, Marco suddenly blurts, “You’re not like the others. You shouldn’t be here.”

I snort. “Ten points for detective work.”

He rubs his neck, his gaze darting everywhere but at me. “I kickboxed. Thought I’d be somebody. Something happened, and the Benedettis scooped me up. Enzo, really. Pulled me out of a pile when a fight became an ambush. Not that he’d remember. But I do. I owe him my life.”

The way he says “Enzo”—reverent, almost tender—prickles at my skin.

He stops talking, chewing on his unspoken words.

I prod him. “You gonna spit it out or what?”

He glimpses around. “Not supposed to.”

I roll my eyes. “Then why tease?”

Marco glances away and sighs heavily. “Yesterday, at the warehouse, we found some Russian-hired second-rate mercenaries. They aimed to snatch you. Enzo stopped them.”

Everything slows in my head, and I’m suddenly struggling to drag air into my lungs. “Stopped? How exactly?”

He doesn’t have to say that Enzo killed for me.

Gratitude, dread, and arousal tangle together in my chest. “Why tell me?”

He shrugs one shoulder, as if it weighs a boulder. “Figured you oughta know. He’s not just following orders out here. If it’s you? He doesn’t miss.”

The words settle into my heaving, aching bones.

We find a spot under a tree as that quiet, gentle purple dusk seeps into the sky. Marco goes mostly silent, but tension vibrates around us, unsaid words swirling in the air. Protector, killer, and obsession, all wrapped up in one man.

Eventually, Marco walks me back, his steps echoing through empty halls. At my door, he nods once—awkward, protective—then leaves.

Back inside, the door clicks. I fall onto the cot, all bones and nerves as my mind runs wild.

Does Enzo experience this too?

This infuriating mix of heat and tingles that started that night on the highway? Pictures and sensations flash in my mind. The blindfold, his command, the way his hand grazed my thighs…

Maybe he feels all this as strongly as I do. Maybe that’s why he stares at me the way he does…like I’m both a threat and a weakness.

While I can bundle myself up in this blanket, I can’t block out the thoughts or lie to myself any longer about this man… I want him. It’s stupid and dangerous to desire a man who could order my death by tomorrow, but the pull is strong, and I’m done pretending I can wish it away.