Page 188 of Fallen Rook

My smile faded. I didn’t like his wistful tone. He looked…on edge. Worried. “Tomcat…? Why are we here? What’s the meaning of this?”

“It was here—in fact, right on this spot”—he toed the cobblestone with his elegant boot—“that you asked me for a kiss. Just a kiss, not a ring, were your exact words, Enzo.”

I looked up at him, confused, when suddenly his lips fastened on mine, his tongue coaxing them open in this cocksure, potent way that still made my entire body quiver. The passion and skill were present in the kiss, like they always were. But there was something new, too.

Desperation.

Something that told me the hunger of his mouth wasn’t just for my body.

I stumbled back a step when we disconnected, heaving. Both our lips were swollen and pink.

“I wish I’d known,” he said.

“Known what?” I blinked.

“That I couldn’t fight this. This…this thing you stir in me. Even back then, I had a catastrophic feeling I was going to destroy my life to save yours.”

“Tom…” I cupped my mouth. That man better have a fucking ring in his pocket.

He went down on one knee. The universe shivered. It felt like my entire life, every heartache, every self-doubt, every minute of darkness, and cutting, and itching, and crying, had led me to this moment. To this man.

He produced a blue velvet jewelry box from his pocket and popped it open.

“Now you get to have both, my love. The kiss and the ring.” And then Tom Rothwell gave me the smile of all smiles. “Say yes.”

The ring was amazing. Exactly what I’d envisioned wearing when I thought of myself as a married man. A BVLGARI black ceramic. Thick and edgy, with small diamonds.

I offered him my outstretched hand. He slid the ring onto my finger, bringing my hand to his mouth and kissing my knuckles.

I snapped a picture of him doing that, uploaded it to my Instagram, and wrote a simple caption, no hashtags.

I said yes.

And that’s the story of how I broke the internet.

Tom

He looked so fucking beautiful with my ring on him.

Like a striking painting made even better with a genius splash of color.

Grams, Iris, and I had gone back and forth about this ring. It had to be masculine but striking, and stylish to a fault. I prided myself on my elegant, sophisticated taste, but even I had my doubts.

It needed to be perfect.

Just like him.

As I laced my fingers through Enzo’s, we glided back in the direction we’d come from.

I would love him in broad daylight from now on, but some things I would forever keep in the dark.

Like the time I’d met with Slava in Vegas shortly after Enzo and I had started texting, and offered him a mouthwatering sum of money, as well as the pakhan throne, if he collaborated with the FBI.

I was the one who’d conjured the idea of the Bratva shipment. The one who’d steered both organizations straight into the eye of the storm, but made sure only one of them was able to avoid catastrophe.

Initially, I’d done it for my own selfish reasons. I had wanted to rid myself of my Enzo obsession—and what better way to do that than locking him up for life?

Bringing down the Camorra, and Enzo with it, had been the master plan. However, I had made sure to have a plan B in store, for a different scenario.