From the restaurant. The one who kept saying Boss, we gotta go while Dario stayed.
My uterus just sent a mass text to every nerve ending:Abort mission. Or don’t. Unclear. Systems failing.
He’s coming toward my house.
A mob guy is walking toward my house at dusk and I’m standing here in my stress-baking apron cataloging his thighs like a deranged sports commentator.
I should be scared. I’m not. That feels important and also incredibly stupid.
“Hi, Enzo,” I say when he reaches the sidewalk. Because apparently I greet men sent by criminal families like I’m the welcome wagon for organized crime.
Welcome to the neighborhood! Here’s a casserole and would you like a blowjob?
He stops. Blinks. His lashes are long. Thick. Completely wasted on a man who probably uses them to distract people before he breaks their kneecaps.
His eyes are lighter than Dario’s. Caramel instead of coffee. Still dark enough to drown in if you weren’t careful.
I’m not careful.
I’ve never been careful.
“You know my name,” he says.
His voice has this cadence. Italian-American. Brooklyn, maybe? The kind of accent that makes innocent words sound vaguely threatening.
Or vaguely sexy.
Both. Definitely both.
“Dario said it,” I manage. “At the restaurant. When you were trying to get him to leave.”
He’s staring at me like he’s deciding whether I’m a problem or an opportunity.
The answer is both, Enzo. For you? Both.
“Did Dario send you?” I ask, because I apparently don’t value my continued existence. “Is he okay?”
Something crosses his face. Confusion. Surprise. Maybe amusement if the situation weren’t so fucked up.
He’s clearly realized I’m not normal. Took him long enough.
“You...” He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re worried about him?”
God, he’s got strong hands. Bigger than Dario’s. Fingers that would bruise thighs.
“Of course I am.” It comes out more defensive than I meant. “I’m about to testify against him. That’s not... I don’t want to hurt him.”
“Then don’t.”
The words land hard. Simple. Direct.
We stare at each other.
I study him in the fading light. Younger than Dario, maybe late twenties. Scar on his cheek. Nose broken at least once, healed crooked. The kind of face that’s been in a few fights and looks better for it.
He’s sexy in that dangerous, rough-edged way that makes my hindbrain scream run while my lady parts scream climb him like a tree.
My survival instincts and my reproductive system are in a cage match and nobody’s winning.
