Enzo didn’t say a word when she slapped him. Not then. Not in front of her. Not when her eyes flashed with that fury she hadn’t known she was capable of.
But now?
Now he sat alone in the blacked-out car parked three streets down, the engine idling, his jaw locked so tight it ached. The red mark on his cheek had long since faded, but the memory of her hand striking his face burned like acid in his bloodstream.
She slapped him.
She f*****g slapped him.
The nerve. The audacity. After everything. After every time he had been the one crawling back, giving her room to breathe, pretending to be the man she wanted him to be—soft enough to approach, strong enough to crave.
And she dared put her hands on him like he was the villain?
No. No, no, no.
She had no idea who the villain was.
She d
