Page 43 of Twisted Vows

Chapter 8

Enzo

I’ve never slept well, courtesy of dreams littered with screaming men and gunshot battles that leave me waking up drenched in sweat.

Tonight, something else pulls me from slumber. Not the nightmare. The weight of eyes on me.

My hand slides under the pillow, and I wrap my fingers around the cold metal of the Glock .45. Safety on. Always on when I sleep, though my thumb finds the switch before I’m fully awake.

I keep my breathing steady. Deep. Even. Like I’m still out. My eyes stay shut, but every sense sharpens as I listen.

There.

A shift in the air. The subtle give of a floorboard near the door.

Someone’s in my room.

My pulse kicks up. Adrenaline floods my system. My muscles coil, ready.

How’d they get in? Who sent them? Gabi? The Russians?

Another creak. Closer. By the foot of the bed.

Fuck waiting.

My eyes snap open. The room, with bare walls and beaten gear piled in the corner and strips of boxing tape peeling off the floor, comes into focus. A crash pad. Not a home.

I glimpse movement in my peripheral. Left side. A shadow detaches from a darker shadow.

I roll, my gun up, the barrel tracking the figure. My finger finds the trigger. Applies pressure. One more ounce and…

“You’re not gonna shoot me, are you?”

That familiar voice stops me cold.

With a hammering heart and energy still coursing through me, I keep the gun trained at center mass.

I exhale slowly, force my finger off the trigger, and lower the weapon just an inch.

Not a threat. Not some Volkov hitman sent to put me down.

Nah, just Izzy.

With feline grace, she plops onto the mattress like she’s claiming ownership, her red silk robe sliding off one shoulder, her jasmine perfume invading every breath.

In the past, her scent would turn me on. Today, it just reminds me she’s not Sophia.

Sophia’s wildflower fragrance drives me crazy now.

My head throbs. Last night’s dreams cling like cigarette smoke. I’m haunted by those damn green eyes. Her voice needling in when I want silence. The feel of her hand gripping mine with that desperate don’t-go squeeze. Distance just makes the ache bite harder. Apparently absence causes the heart to go nuts. I throw back the sheets and cross to the cracked mirror above the sink, putting distance between myself and Izzy. Izzy doesn’t follow. She knows better than to push when I’m like this.

My palm rakes over my rough, scratchy, salt-and-pepper stubble.

When exactly did that happen?

I mutter at my reflection, low enough that Izzy can’t hear. “Weakness,” I spit. That’s what this is. Weakness gets men killed. Ends up with you bleeding out in an alley, or worse, leaving someone behind. And still, Sophia’s ghost just won’t get out of my head.

“You know, you could just move up.” Izzy regards the space like it’s a disappointing Airbnb. Her gaze sweeps over the cracked concrete walls, the single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, and the rust stains bleeding through the pipes overhead.