Page 60 of Twisted Vows

Enzo’s eyes darken. Usually, the shadows in them are unreadable, but tonight, the sorrow is very visible. “Dante was my brother. Your father’s evidence put him in jail. He didn’t make it out.”

The realization hits me with such impact, I nearly double over. Fragments of my memory scatter and then piece together. It’s suddenly all sharp and clear. My own testimony, my own eager nodding, the certainty of an uncomfortable girl who had no idea, put Enzo’s brother in jail. I was the loose pebble that started the avalanche.

A wave of nausea claws up my throat.

He goes on, his voice rough and frigid. “Your father was a coward. A snake. He sold his soul to both sides and thought no one would notice. He isn’t worthy of trust.” His eyes flick to my mother. “And maybe she isn’t either.”

Rage ignites inside me, and my hand moves before my brain can even register the action.

I slap his cheek, the smack echoing against sterile walls. Enzo’s head snaps sideways, and a red mark immediately brands his skin.

I can’t breathe, and my palm stings. Everything is too loud, too close.

My mother. He’s questioning my mother, the woman who gave up everything when my father vanished. Who shielded me from his world even as it swallowed her whole. And he dares to imply she can’t be trusted?

I expect him to retaliate. His eyes are dark and menacing in a way that should terrify me.

His hand shoots out and catches my wrist in an iron grip, his thumb pressing firmly on my pulse point, like he’s reminding me he could crush me if he wanted to.

“Let go.” I yank hard, but he doesn't budge…doesn’t even seem to notice my struggle.

Instead, he steps closer, his other hand finding my waist and pulling me against him until I stop shaking.

He leans close to whisper, “breathe,” in my ear.

I hate that his voice is calm and steady when I feel anything but. I’m trembling from rage and fear and something else I can’t name and don’t want to examine. His grip softens but doesn’t release me as his eyes continue searching mine for an answer I’m not ready to give.

My heart pounds against his chest, and it’s obvious we’re too close, too charged, the air between us crackling with everything unsaid.

When he eventually lets go of me, the world shrinks. A whiff of sandalwood laced with citrus fills my lungs, making me a bit dizzy. Inches away, warmth radiates from his chest, through layers of black fabric. Beneath the grief, beneath the horror, heat roars to life.

Wide-eyed nurses freeze in the doorway, unsure whether to intervene. His voice cuts through. “Enough.”

I pull free and stumble back, my heart pounding.

My mother murmurs my name, but her voice is a blur. I can barely see straight.

“We leave now.” He grasps my hand again and drags me into the hall with a scalding grip.

My body trembles. I’m split in two, a child drowning in culpability and a woman reeling from the blaze of a dangerous man.

Both halves are in overdrive.

In the corridor outside my mother’s room, lights buzz overhead. Enzo’s grip remains on my wrist, tethering me like a shadow that won’t lift. Even here, his presence smothers the air.

“Let go.” As he releases me, I choke unable to utter anything more regardless of my urge to defend, to explain, to scream that I slapped him out of my own guilt.

Enzo stares, his face unreadable. I look at him—really look—and for the first time, I see the grief etched into him. Behind every line of his face, I picture Dante, a ghost I helped chain.

The nurses are watching me, my hand, his cheek, and the way we’re standing too close. As they whisper behind the desk, I want to disappear. I’ve spent years being the calm one. Now I’m the chaos.

On the way out of the building, something nags at me. A doctor near the nurses’ station has a smile fixed too tight. I don’t like the way his eyes skip over Enzo but linger on Mama’s chart. Can this mafia world even bend her quality of care? The thought settles in my stomach and refuses to leave.

The car ride home coils with silence. I can tell by Enzo’s white-knuckled grip on the wheel that he’s furious. Miles pass in a hush, and every second feels deliberate.

I cave first. “I shouldn’t have…” I trail off. “That slap. I…I wasn’t in my right mind…” The rest won’t come. I can’t say I’m sorry for Dante. I can’t even say his name without choking.

His jaw flexes once, and his thumb brushes the pulse point on my wrist like he’s trying to soothe me. The anger in his eyes fades, revealing an unexpected vulnerability underneath.