Page 10 of Twisted Vows

“Enzo.” Her voice slides across the ring, dripping with honey and arsenic.

She leans against the ropes as her eyes rake over me. My pecs and abs glisten under dim light. Her gaze carries hunger and nostalgia.

“Thought you’d still be hiding down here.” Her lips curve in a challenge.

Her presence isn’t a coincidence. If I know anything about Isabella Benedetti, it’s that she never moves without motive. She thrives on games, power plays, and the little strings she loves to pull.

I drape the towel around my neck, sweat trickling down my ribs. “What do you want?”

“The dons are waiting.” She traces a finger along the rope. “Some of them asked for you.”

“And Gabi?” My voice is stone.

She shrugs while continuing to trace the rope. “You know he hates it when the old men prefer you. Hates it even more when I do.”

My chest constricts, not with desire but with irritation. Gabi resents me. Fears me. Wants me gone but can’t act. Not yet.

“I don’t care for meetings.” I glance away from her. “Politics rot men faster than bullets.”

Izzy tilts her head, her smirk deepening. She climbs into the ring, her heels clicking against the canvas as she defies balance yet never falters. She’s always been reckless with gravity.

“You broke things off because you’re afraid.” She taps my chest with a sharp nail. “Afraid of ambition. Afraid of me. You could’ve been more. Wearing me would’ve made you untouchable.”

A humorless laugh escapes me. “You mistake loyalty for fear.” I pin her with my stare. “I walked away because I won’t play your games…or anyone’s.”

Her eyes flare, then soften with raw intensity. She inches closer, her hand trailing down my chest, her nails grazing over the tape on my knuckles in an intimate reminder of nights tangled in silk sheets, of breathless gasps swallowed in darkness.

The touch does nothing for me. My chest stays cold, and my pulse keeps steady. Whatever we had burned out months ago. Now her hands just feel like empty promises.

She leans on me. “You still belong with me.”

“Belong?” I yank the towel free and throw it aside. “I’m no one’s possession.”

Her jaw clenches before the smirk returns, transforming her expression to one of sharp triumph that suggests she’s already plotting. “Fine. Don’t come for Gabi. Come for appearances. Come because every Capo in that room will shift in their seats when you walk in. You don’t even want the throne, but they still sweat at the sight of your shadow.”

She loves a spectacle…always toying with people to watch them squirm. Witnessing discomfort in others fuels Izzy, and unfortunately, she knows exactly how to get under my skin.

I stare long enough to feel her fidget, then navigate around her, my muscles taut. “Let’s get this over with.”

The villa’s stone halls swallow us as we stride through arched doorways and pass framed oil paintings of dead patriarchs. Her heels echo a sharp staccato against the white marble, clicking past antique side tables and bronze sculptures. Everything Izzy does is a performance. The heels are just the opening act.

My mind drifts to darker depths. I have no interest in crowns. No hunger for politics. But Gabi’s obsession with revenge promises nothing but pain, much of which might end up being ours if we aren’t careful.

Dante taught me blood is our currency. But currency spent recklessly leaves you broke.

Enzo

While Izzy waits outside, I head to the bathing stall. All the other men inside step out as soon as I enter and start to strip. Cold water from the steel showerhead crashes down like hailstones on my bare skin. Soap cuts through the sweat but not the itch beneath…the itch of combat that I’ve missed ever since Izzy’s brother assumed the throne and told me he doesn’t want me taking unauthorized action.

After the bath, I dress quickly, then venture out with my suit jacket slung over one shoulder. Izzy greets me with crossed arms, her eyes roaming over my body as if she owns what they see.

“Finally.” Her heels clack as she pivots toward the hall. “The dons don’t wait for anyone.”

“They will for me,” I mutter, my voice thick as gravel.

Stone corridors rise around us, lined with wrought-iron gates as two shadows surge forward.

Vito— all sharp cheekbones and eager ambition and slicked back hair like he’s some extra in a mob movie—plants himself in our path. Beside him, the thick-necked Rocco smirks and thrusts his chin forward like he already outranks me. Gabi’s new pets. Both young, both arrogant, and both eager to prove their teeth. They dress in tightly fitted black suits, their pistols strapped across their ribs like medals.