VIDAL

ELEVEN

He blinked up at the ceiling, disoriented. For a brief moment, he had no idea where he was. The sterile stillness of his room felt wrong, too peaceful, too quiet. Then, like shards of broken glass coming together, the memories of the previous night slammed into him.

The mission. The fight. The searing pain of the blade piercing his shoulder. The blood. And Camilla.

He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily as the image of her kneeling beside him flashed through his mind. Her face, a mixture of fear and determination, was as vivid now as it had been then.

She came for me.

The thought filled him with a strange warmth, quickly doused by the icy chill of realization.

What if they followed me home?

His pulse quickened as the possibility gripped him. The men he'd killed weren't amateurs—those who sent them certainly wouldn't be either. If they'd tracked him back to the penthouse, Camilla could have been a target.

Adrenaline surged through him, dulling the pain as he sat up, biting back a hiss when his shoulder protested the movement. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, pushing himself to his feet.

"Camilla," he muttered under his breath, his voice rasping with worry.

He moved through the penthouse with practiced quiet, his bare feet barely making a sound against the polished wood floors. The space was just as he'd left it—silent, pristine, untouched by the chaos of the night before.

Still, his eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, searching for any sign of intrusion.

When he reached the guest bedroom, his breath caught. There she was, curled up under the soft white duvet, her hair spilling across the pillow in messy waves. Her chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of deep sleep, her face serene. She was safe.

Relief crashed over him like a wave, nearly buckling his knees. The tight knot of worry in his chest loosened, replaced by something warmer, softer. She was here. She'd stayed. He hadn't realized just how much he'd feared waking up alone, unsure of her fate, until now.

For a moment, he simply stood there, watching her. The sunlight creeping through the blinds highlighted the curve of her cheek, the delicate line of her jaw.

But his presence wasn't as quiet as he thought. Camilla's eyelids fluttered open, her body tensing as her eyes adjusted to the sight of him standing over her. She gasped, jerking upright in the bed.

"Enzo?" she said, her voice sharp with alarm, her hand clutching the duvet to her chest.

Her fear pierced through him, and he raised his good hand, his expression softening. "It's me," he said quietly. "You're safe."

Her wide eyes flicked between him and the door, her chest heaving with quick breaths as the reality of the situation caught up to her.

Enzo stood silently for a moment, his dark eyes locked on Camilla as she pushed herself upright in the bed. Her hair was slightly disheveled, her face etched with concern that was quickly hardening into something sharper—annoyance, perhaps even anger.

He could see the questions forming on her lips, her chest rising as she drew in a breath to speak. But he didn't give her the chance. Without a word, he turned on his heel and started walking away.

"It's you who needs worrying about," Camilla called after him, her voice cutting through the silence like a whip. The sound of the blanket being thrown back followed, and then the soft patter of her footsteps as she quickly climbed out of bed and moved after him.

"I'm fine," Enzo said, his tone flat and dismissive, though his posture betrayed the truth. His steps were purposeful, but the tension in his body was unmistakable—the way his left shoulder seemed just slightly stiffer, the faint hitch in his stride whenever he moved too quickly.

"You're not fine," she snapped, her tone rising. Her footsteps quickened as she closed the gap between them, her determination outweighing her fatigue. "Stop walking and let me look at your wound!"

Enzo didn't respond, his jaw tightening as he continued toward the hallway. His hand reached out for the door to his bedroom, his fingers curling around the cool brass handle. He pushed it open with a measured force, the movement stiff but deliberate.

Camilla, now only a step behind, felt her frustration boil over.

"Enzo!" she snapped, grabbing his arm before he could disappear into the room.

The sudden contact made him pause, his body going rigid under her touch.

For a moment, he didn't turn, the silence between them heavy and charged. Then, slowly, he turned his head just enough to glance back at her. His expression was shadowed, unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—exhaustion, perhaps, or irritation.

"I can see the blood soaking through the gauze," she said, her voice softer but no less insistent. "You're not fooling anyone. Let me help."

His shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of her words settling over him. He let out a long, slow breath through his nose before giving a reluctant nod.

"Fine," he muttered, stepping fully into the room and heading straight for the en suite bathroom.

He moved with a quiet grace, but even that couldn't hide the faint limp in his gait or the wince that briefly crossed his face as he sat down heavily on the closed toilet lid.

Camilla followed him in, the tension between them palpable as she reached for the first aid kit she'd left on the counter the night before.

"Stubborn," she muttered under her breath, her fingers rummaging through the kit for supplies.

"I heard that," Enzo said, his voice dry but tinged with the faintest trace of humor, his lips twitching into what might have been a smirk if he weren't so clearly in pain.

Camilla shot him a glance but said nothing, instead focusing on her task as she knelt in front of him. She couldn't deny the slight satisfaction she felt at his small concession, but she pushed it aside.

She peeled back the blood-soaked gauze carefully, her fingers gentle but deliberate. The wound had reopened slightly, a dark line against his tanned skin, surrounded by angry red swelling. "You're going to survive," she said lightly, trying to ease the tension as she cleaned the area with antiseptic.

Enzo's gaze flicked down to her, and his breath hitched when he noticed the shirt she was wearing—his shirt. The faded band t-shirt hung loosely on her, brushing against her thighs, its oversized fit swallowing her smaller frame. But it wasn't just the sight of her in his clothes that struck him. As she leaned closer, the scent of his soap and cologne clung to her, mingling with her own soft, natural fragrance.

Something primal stirred in him—a deep, possessive instinct that made his chest tighten.

She's wearing my shirt. She smells like me.

The thought took root in his mind, sending an unexpected surge of satisfaction through him.

Camilla, oblivious to his inner turmoil, taped fresh gauze over the wound and leaned back, looking up at him with a small, reassuring smile.

"There. Good as new. Or close enough."

Enzo shook himself out of his thoughts, meeting her gaze. For a moment, the usual mask of stoicism he wore slipped, replaced by something softer.

"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice unusually sincere.

Camilla's brow furrowed slightly, caught off guard by his tone.

"Of course," she said, brushing her hands on her borrowed shirt.

Enzo hesitated, his mind circling back to the text he'd sent her the night before. His voice dropped slightly, laced with an undercurrent of something darker.

"Did I... interrupt anything?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly at his tone, but she didn't miss the meaning behind his question. "I was with Kevin," she admitted, shrugging lightly as if it were no big deal.

The words hit Enzo harder than he cared to admit. His jaw tightened, and he looked away briefly before forcing a neutral expression back onto his face.

"You seem close," he said, trying to sound casual but failing to hide the edge in his voice.

Camilla blinked at him, confused by the sudden shift. "We've been working together for a long time. It's nothing serious."

Her words were meant to reassure him, but the tone of her voice—the way it wavered slightly, unsure—did the opposite. Enzo nodded slowly, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"I see," he said, though he didn't.

The jealousy simmering beneath his calm façade was harder to push down than he expected. But he let the subject drop for now, the unanswered questions lingering in the space between them.

"Enzo," she said, her voice sharp but controlled, "you need to tell me how this happened."

His dark eyes flicked to hers, and for a moment, he said nothing. He knew he owed her an answer. After all, she had shown up in the middle of the night, saved his life, and stayed when she could have walked away. But the truth—the tangled web of his connection to Francesco, Ivan, Aleks, and the life he lived—wasn't something he was ready to share.

Not with her.

Not yet.

"It's not a big deal," he said finally, his tone deliberately casual. "I got jumped."

"Jumped?" Camilla repeated, incredulous. She pulled back slightly, her brows knitting together. "You're telling me someone stabbed you on the street? Just like that?"

"More or less," Enzo said with a faint shrug, ignoring the pain that flared in his shoulder at the movement. "It happens."

"It happens?" Camilla's voice rose, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "You don't just get stabbed and act like it's some casual thing, Enzo! Did you call the police?"

Enzo shook his head, his jaw tightening. "No point."

"No point?" She stared at him, her disbelief plain. "You were attacked, nearly killed, and you think there's no point in reporting it?"

"I didn't see who did it," he said, his tone calm but firm. "It was dark, fast, over before I could make sense of it. What would I tell the cops? That I got jumped by a shadow?"

Camilla frowned, clearly unconvinced. Her eyes searched his face for any sign of deceit, her lips pressing into a thin line. She didn't believe him—not fully—but she also didn't push. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe she sensed the walls he'd put up around the truth were ones she wasn't going to break down tonight.

After a long moment, she let out a sigh, standing up and crossing her arms over her chest.

"Fine," she said, though her tone carried an edge. "But you're lucky you didn't bleed out. If this happens again, I'm not going to sit around while you refuse to get help."

Enzo nodded, a small flicker of relief passing through him at her reluctant acceptance of his lie. "Understood."

But the way her eyes lingered on him, her concern and doubt still evident, made it clear that this wasn't over. Camilla might have let it go for now, but she wasn't done questioning him.

And Enzo, for his part, wasn't done avoiding the answers she deserved. Not yet.

Camilla stood in front of Enzo, her hands planted firmly on her hips, a mixture of concern and frustration etched across her face. The oversized band t-shirt she wore—his t-shirt—hung loosely on her, but the determined set of her jaw made her presence command the room. Her eyes, usually warm, were sharp as they locked onto him.

"You need to lie down," she said, her tone brooking no argument.

Enzo leaned back against the doorframe, his dark eyes meeting hers with a flicker of defiance.

"I'm fine," he replied, his voice low and gravelly, though the stiffness in his posture betrayed him.

Camilla narrowed her gaze. "Fine? You're bleeding through the gauze, you look like death warmed over, and you're standing there like you're about to keel over any second." She crossed her arms. "So no, you're not fine. Go lie down while I make breakfast."

Enzo's lips quirked up in the faintest shadow of a smirk. "Didn't take you for the bossy type."

"And I didn't take you for the kind of guy who refuses to take care of himself, but here we are," she shot back, stepping closer. "Bed. Now."

He let out a soft sigh, resigning himself to her persistence. "Alright, alright," he muttered. "But don't burn anything."

Camilla rolled her eyes but smiled faintly as she turned toward the door. "And while I'm at it," she called over her shoulder, "I'm putting my clothes in your dryer. I'm not spending the day in bloody pants."

"Feel free," Enzo said, settling back onto the edge of the bed, though he winced as the motion pulled at his shoulder. "Just don't set my place on fire."

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered, disappearing down the hall toward the kitchen.

Once the faint sounds of her moving about the kitchen reached his ears—pots clinking, cabinets opening—Enzo straightened slightly. He shifted his good hand toward the nightstand, picking up his phone seeing the missed call from Aleks hours prior. He hesitated for a moment, his thumb hovering over the screen, before dialing Aleks.

The line rang twice before Aleks picked up, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Well, well. I didn't think I'd hear from you again. What's the matter, Enzo? Did the big bad knife wound finally take you out?"

Enzo's grip on the phone tightened. "Still breathing," he said evenly. "But I take it you didn't call to check on my health."

Aleks chuckled, a sound that grated on Enzo's nerves. "No, I didn't. I called to ask about the ledger. Do you have it, or should I tell Ivan you failed?"

Enzo's jaw clenched. "I have it."

"Perfect," Aleks said, the smugness in his tone practically tangible. "Then you should hand it over. If you're too delicate to meet Ivan tonight, I'd be happy to take it off your hands. Someone has to keep the old man happy, right?"

Enzo inhaled slowly, his annoyance barely contained. Aleks's eagerness to play the loyal son was obvious, as was his real motive: presenting the ledger as his own accomplishment to curry favor with Ivan.

Normally, Enzo would have fought back against the attempt to undercut him. But not this time. If Aleks wanted the glory, he could have it—Enzo had no interest in holding onto a position that was forced on him.

"Fine," Enzo said at last, his tone clipped. "Come get it."

The other end of the line went silent for a beat before Aleks responded, his voice tinged with surprise. "Really? No fight, no objections? You're just going to hand it over?"

"I said I would. But listen carefully," Enzo continued, his voice hardening. "Stay in the lobby. I'll meet you there and give you the ledger. You're not coming up here."

Aleks let out a low laugh, clearly enjoying this unexpected acquiescence. "Whatever you say, Enzo. See you soon."

Enzo ended the call without another word, tossing the phone onto the bed. He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. His shoulder throbbed with a dull, insistent ache, a reminder of how close the night before had come to ending far worse. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing himself to his feet.

The faint scent of coffee brewing wafted into the room, mingling with the faint clatter of pans from the kitchen.

For a brief moment, a strange calm settled over him, a rare reprieve from the chaos of his life.

Then the blaring shriek of the fire alarm shattered the moment.

Enzo's eyes snapped open, and his head whipped toward the door. "Camilla," he muttered under his breath, a mixture of exasperation and concern flashing across his face as he hurried toward the sound.

~*~

A sudden shrill beep pierced the air, jolting Camilla out of her thoughts. She spun around to see smoke curling out from the edges of the oven door, the fire alarm screaming its urgent warning.

Panic surged through her as she rushed to the oven, her fingers fumbling with the handle. She yanked the door open, and a burst of flames leaped out, licking the air hungrily.

"Oh no!" she gasped, grabbing the nearest towel and waving it at the fire in a futile attempt to smother it. The flames only seemed to grow, feeding off the fresh oxygen and her frantic movements.

Before she could react further, strong hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her back.

"Move," Enzo commanded, his voice firm but calm. He stepped in front of her, swiftly shutting the oven door.

He pressed a few buttons on the control panel, cutting off the power. Deprived of oxygen and fuel, the fire inside began to suffocate, the flames dwindling until they extinguished themselves.

Camilla stood there, her heart pounding against her ribcage, a mix of embarrassment and relief flooding through her.

"I'm so sorry," she stammered, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson. "I—I thought I could make us breakfast, but clearly, I'm not much of a cook."

Enzo turned to face her, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips despite the lingering tension.

"I can see that," he said, his dark eyes glinting with a hint of amusement. "Why would you offer to cook if you don't know how?"

She shrugged helplessly, her fingers twisting together. "I just... I wanted to take care of you. You've been hurt, and I thought it was the least I could do after you—"

She stopped herself, biting her lower lip. The concern she felt for him was deeper than she wanted to admit, even to herself.

His gaze softened, the teasing glimmer fading into something warmer. "I appreciate the thought," he said quietly. "But setting my kitchen on fire isn't necessary."

She let out a nervous laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Noted. I'll steer clear of your appliances from now on."

"Probably for the best." He gestured toward the sleek barstool by the kitchen island. "Why don't you sit? I'll make breakfast."

Camilla blinked in surprise. "You don't have to do that. You're the one who's injured."

He arched an eyebrow. "I'm perfectly capable of scrambling some eggs. Besides, it's my way of thanking you."

She hesitated, then moved to sit down. "Thanking me for what?"

He opened the refrigerator, pulling out a carton of eggs and some vegetables.

"For coming last night when you didn't have to," he said, placing the items on the counter. "And for leaving your boyfriend to do it."

Her eyes widened slightly. "Kevin's not my boyfriend," she corrected quickly.

Enzo paused, glancing at her over his shoulder. "No?"

She shook her head. "No. We're... colleagues. Friends, maybe." She wasn't sure why she felt the need to clarify, but something about the way he said it—tinged with an emotion she couldn't quite place—compelled her to set the record straight.

"Ah," he said simply, turning his attention back to chopping vegetables with practiced ease.

Camilla watched him, noting the subtle tension easing from his shoulders. Realization dawned on her—was that jealousy she'd heard in his voice?

The possibility sent a flutter through her chest, both exhilarating and frustrating. Enzo was as enigmatic as ever, his emotions guarded behind a stoic façade. If only he'd just say what he was feeling. If he showed even a fraction of the interest she sensed beneath the surface, Kevin would be a distant memory.

"Enzo," she began softly, "about last night..."

He looked up, his eyes meeting hers briefly before flickering back to the cutting board. "What about it?"

"Why did you text me?" she asked. "I mean, I'm glad you did, but... I was surprised."

He was silent for a moment, his knife stilling on the board. "You were the only person I could trust," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her breath caught. "Trust? You barely know me."

He set the knife down, his gaze steady as he faced her fully. "I know enough."

The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken words and lingering questions. Camilla felt her heart race, her mind scrambling for what to say next. But before she could find the words, Enzo turned back to the stove, the moment slipping away.

"How do you like your omelet?" he asked casually, as if the weight of his previous statement hadn't just hung between them.

She exhaled slowly, accepting the temporary retreat. "Surprise me," she replied, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

As he cooked, the rich aroma of eggs and sautéed vegetables filled the kitchen, mingling with the lingering scent of smoke. Camilla rested her chin in her hand, watching him move with a grace that belied his injury.

There was something undeniably captivating about him—a complexity she was eager to unravel.

"You're pretty skilled at this," she noted. "Cooking, I mean."

He shrugged lightly. "You pick up a few things living on your own."

"Still, not everyone can make an omelet without burning down the kitchen," she teased.

He glanced at her, a genuine smile flashing across his features. "I suppose that's true."

She found herself smiling back, the earlier tension easing into a comfortable rapport. Yet beneath it all, her curiosity simmered. There was so much she didn't know about him, so much he kept hidden. And the more time she spent with him, the more she wanted to peel back the layers.

"Enzo," she ventured again, "I hope you know you can trust me. If you ever want to talk about... anything."

He slid the omelet onto a plate, garnishing it with a sprig of parsley before setting it in front of her. "I appreciate that," he said softly. "Maybe someday."

"Maybe," she echoed, picking up her fork. The first bite was delicious, flavors melding perfectly. "Wow, this is really good."

"Glad you approve."

They ate in a companionable silence for a few moments before she couldn't help herself. "So, no more getting stabbed, okay? I don't think my nerves can handle another night like that."

He chuckled softly. "I'll do my best."

"Good." She met his eyes, her gaze steady. "Because next time, I might insist on calling an ambulance, whether you like it or not."

"I'll keep that in mind."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward, and she felt that familiar flutter again. He was so close, yet still just out of reach. But perhaps, she thought, there was hope. His jealousy over Kevin, however subtle, hinted at feelings he wasn't ready to voice.

As they ate, the clinking of forks against plates and the occasional hum of appreciation from Camilla filled the quiet kitchen. The tension from earlier had mostly dissipated, replaced by a tentative ease. Camilla glanced at Enzo as he took a bite of his omelet, his movements deliberate, his posture slightly more relaxed than before.

"This is seriously good," she said, breaking the silence. "So, who taught you how to cook like this?"

Enzo looked up, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "My mom," he replied simply. "She was a great cook. Always experimenting in the kitchen, trying new things. She made sure I knew my way around a stove."

Camilla leaned her elbows on the island, intrigued. "You must've been close."

He nodded, his smile fading slightly as a flicker of emotion crossed his face. "We were. She was everything to me growing up. I remember the first time she let me help her in the kitchen. I was maybe ten, and I wanted to show her I could handle it. She gave me a simple task—just toast some bread. But I got distracted and ended up setting the whole toaster on fire."

Camilla laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. "No way."

"Oh, it was bad," Enzo said, shaking his head. "Smoke everywhere. I panicked and started yelling for her. She came running in, calm as ever, grabbed the fire extinguisher, and put it out like it was nothing. Then she looked at me and said, 'Maybe next time, we'll stick to stirring soup.'"

Camilla chuckled, imagining a younger, panicked Enzo and the calm, capable mother who must have raised him. "She sounds amazing," she said softly.

"She was," Enzo replied, his voice quieter now.

Camilla tilted her head. "Where is she now?"

A shadow passed over his face, and he hesitated before answering. "She passed away a long time ago."

"I'm sorry," Camilla said sincerely, her voice barely above a whisper. "I lost my mom too."

Enzo's gaze softened, the vulnerability in her tone striking a chord in him. "It never really goes away, does it?"

She shook her head. "No, it doesn't. My mom... she was everything to me. She raised me on her own, worked herself to the bone to make sure I had what I needed. And my dad..." She trailed off, her expression hardening. "My dad was a liar. He broke her. He lied about everything, and when she finally couldn't take it anymore, he left."

Enzo's jaw tightened imperceptibly, though Camilla didn't notice. "I promised myself I'd never give a liar a second chance," she continued, her voice steady but laced with quiet anger. "Because once trust is gone, it's gone. There's no getting it back."

The words hit Enzo harder than he cared to admit. He looked away briefly, his hand tightening around his fork. Camilla's declaration, so absolute and resolute, felt like a weight settling on his chest.

Camilla, oblivious to his reaction, leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharpening with curiosity. "So, why did you kiss me and then leave?"

Her question caught him off guard, and he shifted in his seat. The movement was subtle, but it didn't escape her notice. She mistook it for embarrassment, but in truth, it was something far more primal—an instinctual reaction to the memory of that kiss and the warmth radiating off her now.

"I thought it was the right thing to do," Enzo said vaguely, his tone deliberately even.

Camilla narrowed her eyes. "That's not an answer."

He offered a half-smile, a poor attempt at deflection, but she saw through it. The realization sparked something in her—a simmering frustration at his unwillingness to be honest. She pushed her chair back abruptly, the scrape of wood against the floor breaking the moment.

"I think I should go," she said, her tone clipped as she rose to her feet.

"Camilla," Enzo began, standing as well, but she was already heading toward the laundry room.

"I need to get my clothes," she said without looking back, her voice steady but firm. "Thanks for breakfast, but I think it's time I leave."

She reached the dryer, pulling open the door to retrieve her damp clothes, but before she could grab them, a hand closed gently over her wrist. She froze, her breath catching as she turned to see Enzo standing close, his dark eyes locked onto hers.

"Don't go," he said softly, his voice low and charged with something unspoken.

She blinked up at him, her brow furrowing in confusion. "Enzo—"

"Just—don't," he interrupted, his hand firm on her wrist but not forceful. His gaze never wavered from hers, as though he were trying to communicate something without saying it aloud.

The air between them was heavy, thick with unspoken tension. For a moment, neither of them moved. Camilla's heart pounded in her chest, her body torn between the instinct to pull away and the strange comfort of his touch.

Finally, she spoke, her voice softer this time. "Why? What is it you're not saying?"

Enzo exhaled slowly, his grip loosening slightly but not letting go. "I just..." He hesitated, his words trailing off. His jaw tightened as he looked away briefly, as if trying to gather his thoughts. When he met her gaze again, his eyes were darker, filled with something she couldn't quite read. "You don't need to leave."

Camilla's brows knit together, a mixture of confusion and frustration bubbling inside her. "Enzo, you're not making any sense. I thought we were done here. You've eaten, I've helped you with your wound, and I've already overstayed."

His lips pressed into a thin line, his hesitation only frustrating her more. "You haven't overstayed," he said finally, his tone quieter but no less firm. "If anything, you're the only reason I'm still here."

The weight of his words hung in the air, and for a moment, Camilla felt her resolve falter. There was something raw in the way he looked at her, something that made her chest tighten.

But then the doubts crept in—the secrecy, the half-truths, the way he'd evaded her questions earlier. She pulled her wrist from his grasp, stepping back slightly as if to regain her footing.

"Enzo, if you want me to stay, you need to be honest with me. No more vague comments, no more dodging questions. If you can't do that, I'm leaving."

"You're right," he admitted quietly. "You deserve the truth."

"Enzo..." she said softly, her voice laced with both curiosity and concern.

But he didn't look up. "It's complicated,"

The words only fueled her frustration. "Then explain it to me," she said firmly. "I'm not asking for your life story, Enzo. Just tell me why you keep pulling me into this...whatever this is, and then pushing me away."

"I can't keep doing this," she said, her voice tight with emotion. "Thank you for breakfast, but I need to go."