Page 22 of Twisted Vows

He should repel me. Instead, his presence only reminds me of how he left me on that highway, quaking with want. I hate myself for remembering.

“You expecting me to eat that?” I cross my arms.

He doesn’t blink. “Eventually.”

If I didn’t know him, I’d guess he intended that line to be charming.

He leans against the far wall, his expression unreadable. His stillness unnerves me. He’s like a statue that might suddenly strike. The silence between us stretches long and taut, like a rope pulled too tight.

My stomach betrays me first, growling loud enough that we both hear it…traitor. I reach for the bread as if it personally insulted me, tear a piece off, and chew while scowling at nothing in particular.

He blatantly watches my every gesture, his dark eyes tracking my hand to my mouth and the way I swallow. Heat crawls up my neck. Though I don’t want to acknowledge this, being watched while eating feels weirdly intimate.

“Why am I here?” The words come out around a mouthful of bread. Miss Martinelli’s kindergartners would feel completely vindicated right now.

But desperate times call for desperate measures.

Enzo obviously doesn’t care. He clearly doesn’t concern himself with etiquette.

He shrugs. “Why do you think?”

“You kidnapped me for brunch?”

A dimple appears at the corner of his mouth, vanishing again before I can blink. I resent how my heart beats faster.

“Tell me about the accounts.”

My chewing slows, and my throat goes dry, the bread suddenly tasteless. “What accounts?”

“The ones your father siphoned money into before he vanished.”

I force the food down past the lump forming in my throat. “I don’t know anything.”

He shifts his weight and uncrosses his arms, one hand moving to his belt. I freeze, but he just adjusts his stance, his eyes never leaving mine. “Try again.”

“There were keys to deposit boxes that I saw a few times.” I keep my voice steady even as my hands shake. “I remember seeing him once, counting money…and something about Jersey? But he never brought that part of his life home. Not to me or my mother. He mostly kept us separate from all of that.”

A muscle tics in his jaw like he’s grinding his teeth. “Are you sure about that?”

“Positive.”

Enzo’s head tilts like he’s weighing my words against some internal scale.

My heart pounds as I go on the offensive.

“How long do you think you can keep me here?”

He raises an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely. “You expect a guess?”

“My boyfriend’s a cop. I live with family, and my friends will be on the police’s neck the minute I don’t show up to our dinner this weekend.”

“I know your life,” he says quietly. “Jacob Callahan is your ex. No family but your mother. No friends. No other lover. You work. You go home. You visit a woman who barely remembers your name.”

I try to hide my flinch of surprise, but those piercing eyes spot it.

“My point,” He pushes off the wall and shrinks the air between us to nothing in two, three strides, “is that no one’s coming to rescue you.”

The chill of his words cuts deeper than the concrete floor. But it’s not just fear making my skin prickle. It’s also his proximity. How he moves like a predator, with all that controlled power.