VIDAL

SIXTEEN

They left her apartment in silent agreement, no further words exchanged on the curb. The sky hung heavy with a deep indigo wash, city lights sparking in quiet constellations. Camilla felt the adrenaline still thrumming in her veins after seeing her home destroyed, her possessions scattered and broken in a puzzle of violence.

She had wanted to call the police instantly—wasn't that the natural response? But Enzo's firm refusal had puzzled and frustrated her. More secrets, more walls, more of these unspoken rules that seemed to govern his world.

She followed him into the car without protest, but her mind buzzed with questions.

In the truck's cab, the air conditioning hummed softly. Enzo gripped the wheel with a tension she hadn't noticed before—his knuckles pale against the dark leather. He didn't speak as he drove back toward his penthouse.

Camilla wondered what was running through his mind, what he planned to say. Whatever it was, it would have to be big. He'd promised her truth this time. She cradled her purse in her lap, thinking of the day they'd spent: brunch, boutiques, gentle laughter. It all felt distant now, overshadowed by the sight of torn books and shattered porcelain in her home.

Soon, the familiar building loomed into view. He parked in silence, his posture rigid. She stepped out of the truck, noting how he paused to scan the street—an instinctive move, as if wary of watchers in the shadows.

His guard was up.

She caught a glimpse of something in his eyes—fear, regret, determination? It was hard to read. He guided her inside with a hand on the small of her back, the same protective touch that had felt comforting hours ago. Now, it carried a weight of unspoken confessions.

The elevator ride was quiet. She could hear the soft hum of the machinery, feel the slight shift in gravity as they ascended. Her heart was beating fast.

The memory of her ransacked apartment hovered at the edges of her thoughts: Who would do that? And why?

Enzo seemed to know, or at least suspect. She yearned to demand answers, but something about his posture—head bowed slightly, eyes distant—made her wait until he was ready.

They entered his penthouse. Gone was the casual warmth of the morning, replaced by tension thick enough to taste. Yet the space remained calm and orderly, dimly lit by floor lamps. The scent of the day's cooking lingered faintly, a ghost of comfort amidst the storm.

He closed the door behind them, locking it with a decisive click. She noticed he turned the deadbolt and then pressed a small button on the side—some additional security measure, perhaps. Her chest tightened. What kind of life required so much caution?

"Camilla," he said softly, turning to face her. His voice carried a seriousness she hadn't heard before. "Sit down, please."

He gestured toward the sofa in the living room. She moved to it, each step feeling heavier. When she settled, she realized her knees were trembling slightly. She placed her purse on the coffee table, folded her hands in her lap, and looked up at him.

Enzo remained standing for a moment, gazing at her as if searching for something—permission, perhaps, or resolve. He ran a hand through his hair, then crossed the room to sit in the chair opposite her. This was not a man lounging at ease; he leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, his head bowed briefly before he spoke.

"I owe you an apology," he began, voice low but steady. "And an explanation." He lifted his eyes to meet hers. She saw regret there, and something that might have been sadness.

"I know how important honesty is to you. I've tried to keep certain things hidden, believing it was for the best. For your safety, and for my own." He paused, letting his words settle. "But what happened tonight—your apartment being trashed—is a consequence of the life I lead. A life you don't fully understand."

Camilla's heart fluttered with anxiety. Part of her wanted to scream at him—why keep her in the dark if she's at risk?

Another part of her recognized that he was about to lay down cards he'd long held close to his chest. She nodded slightly, encouraging him to continue.

He exhaled slowly. "There's a reason I kept insisting no authorities, no police," he said. "Because the people we're dealing with—the people who would do this—aren't deterred by official intervention. They operate outside it. And I—" He paused, swallowing. "I work with them. Or rather, for them."

She blinked, surprised by how direct he was being. Her throat tightened.

"There's a reason why I know them," he went on, voice quieter now. "Why I understand their methods, their motives. It's because I'm not who I said I was. My line of work..." He hesitated, as if the words were bitter. "It involves dealing with dangerous people—permanently. I'm—" He looked her dead in the eye, his gaze unwavering. "I'm a hitman, Camilla."

Time seemed to slow. The hum of the building's ventilation was suddenly too loud in her ears.

A hitman.

The word struck her like a physical blow, forcing her to confront images of violence and death, images that didn't fit with the man who held her hand in a bookstore, who laughed at her stories, who cooked for her in the kitchen. She opened her mouth but no words emerged, so she closed it again, focusing on breathing.

Enzo watched her reaction closely, and seeing her shock, he lifted a hand slightly, as if to say he understood.

"I've killed for pay," he said softly, "more than once. For people who demanded it, who paid for it. I won't sugarcoat it. I've taken lives. And I know that must be horrifying to you."

She managed a shaky whisper: "Why?"

He nodded as if he expected that question. "I need you to know that I didn't wake up one day and choose this path out of cruelty or greed. My father died before I was born, leaving my mother alone and struggling. We had nothing. I grew up hungry, angry, watching my mother break her back for scraps. As a boy, I fought in street fights to bring home a few bills. It was brutal, demeaning, but I learned how to survive. That's where Francesco's father found me."

She recognized the name Francesco—he'd mentioned the family at brunch, the father who taught him about food and patience. She tried to piece together this puzzle: a kind man teaching cooking, but also leading him into a life of killing?

"Francesco's father," Enzo continued, voice steady but filled with old shadows, "he saw potential in me. Not just in cooking or in stories, but in violence. He trained me to be a killer, to fight efficiently, quietly, without mercy. At the time, it seemed like a way out of misery. He was connected—very connected—to powerful men. Men who would pay, or demand, the removal of certain enemies. I was good at it." He grimaced, hating the admission. "Better than most. It earned me enough money to take care of my mother. I fed her, clothed her, gave her some comfort—just to find that comfort in her life that she'd never had after my father's death."

Camilla noticed how his voice softened when speaking of his mother, regret and sorrow mingling in every syllable.

He pressed on: "I stayed because I felt I owed it to my mother. I wanted her to never suffer again. But fate is cruel. She died unexpectedly, leaving me with money and a debt I could never fully repay. By then, I was too deep in this world. Bound by loyalty and fear. I tried to leave once," he said, voice tight. "I tried to vanish, start anew. But these people—they don't let go easily. They pulled me back in, threatened what few attachments I had left, made it clear that if I didn't comply, others would pay for my disobedience."

Camilla's heart ached for him, even amid the shock and horror of his confession. This wasn't the life of a cartoon villain. This was complicated, messy, tangled in the fabric of survival and loss. She still couldn't fully condone it—how could she?—but at least she understood he wasn't just a monster. He was a man trapped by choices and obligations that had narrowed the path before him.

Enzo paused, taking a breath as if the weight of these revelations pressed down on him.

"I'm telling you this because you deserve to know what you're caught up in," he said, meeting her gaze again. "Your apartment was trashed because my enemies want to rattle me, to show me they can reach into my life and harm what I hold dear. They know I care about you." He swallowed, voice quieter now. "Yes, I care about you, Camilla. More than I should. They're using that against me. That's why I insisted on no police. The authorities wouldn't understand or stop them. It would only escalate matters."

Her mind swirled with questions: Why her? How much had he told these people about her? Was she safe anywhere?

She wanted to argue, to say that he was wrong not to involve the police, but the seriousness in his eyes and the memory of those men who must have done this... She bit her lip.

He leaned forward, voice earnest. "I want to protect you. Truly. I know it sounds impossible, given what I am, what I've done. But your safety and comfort matter more to me than my secrecy. I kept you in the dark, hoping you'd never have to face this reality. But now that it's at your doorstep, I won't hide anymore."

Camilla's throat tightened, anger and sadness mixing in equal measure. "You... you killed people," she said, voice trembling. "And you expected me to trust you without knowing this?"

Her eyes were moist, but she kept herself from crying. She would not show weakness now, not when so much was at stake.

"I know," he said simply, remorse etched on his face. "I know I broke your trust. I know you may never see me the same way again. And I'm sorry."

There it was again: that sincerity, that regret. She wanted to hate him for it, to curse him and call him all sorts of names. But something in his eyes told her he cared about her, truly.

Why else would he risk telling her now, putting himself at her mercy?

She exhaled slowly. "So what now?" she asked, voice steadier than she felt.

"Now," he said, "I keep you safe. I can't promise miracles, and I can't promise I can walk away from this life tomorrow. But I swear, I'll be more honest with you moving forward. No more half-truths. No more forcing you to follow my orders without explanation. If we're going to... if you're going to stay in my life, you deserve better." He sat back, searching her face for any sign that he had totally lost her.

Camilla closed her eyes, thinking of the devastation in her apartment, the feeling of being violated by unseen hands. It made her sick.

"I can't stay there now," she said softly, "Not with everything ruined. It's not a home anymore."

He nodded. "That's why I want you to come back here. At least for now. I know it's a lot to ask, but my place is secure, guarded. I can protect you better here."

She opened her eyes and regarded him with a mix of suspicion and longing.

On one hand, how could she trust a killer?

On the other, she'd seen him care for her, indulge her, show a gentle side that belied his profession.

More importantly, she believed him when he said there were dangerous people out there targeting her now because of him. Like it or not, he was her best shot at safety.

"I'll come," she said at length, voice quiet. "But on one condition."

He inclined his head, waiting.

"I'll stay here while you handle whatever you need to handle. But I want my apartment fixed. I want my home repaired. I won't be forced out forever." Her voice held a determined edge. She would not become a permanent refugee in his world. Enzo's shoulders eased slightly.

"I understand," he said. "I'll arrange for it. Whatever it takes, I'll make it right. You'll return home once it's safe and livable again."

Camilla weighed his words. He had just admitted to being a contract killer, a pawn in some violent underworld. Yet here he was, promising repairs, safety, honesty. Could she forgive him for lying to her, for not calling the police, for dragging her into this dangerous scenario?

She touched the back of her neck, the skin there damp with nervous sweat.

"You said you'd be honest now. No more secrets?" Her eyes were pinned to his, testing him.

"No more secrets," he confirmed, voice firm. "I'll tell you what you need to know. Ask me anything."

She considered him in silence, feeling the weight of the moment. He had saved her life, in a sense, by taking her out of her apartment before she walked into it alone. He'd protected her from something worse. He'd come clean now, after much reluctance. If she demanded more details—body counts, names, blood-soaked histories—would that help her trust him, or only horrify her further?

For now, it was enough that he agreed to tell the truth. She would hold him to that promise. If he failed her again, she would leave, no matter the danger. But something told her he wouldn't fail this time, not after all that had happened. Her heart ached with a strange sympathy for him, trapped in a life of violence he once tried to escape.

She finally nodded, accepting his words.

' "All right," she said, voice steadier. "I'll stay here, and you'll fix my apartment. But most importantly, you'll keep your word. You'll keep me safe and tell me the truth from now on."

Enzo breathed out, as if he'd been holding his breath for hours. "I promise," he said softly.

Camilla glanced around the penthouse, noting how its quiet luxury now felt like both a refuge and a prison. She would be here under his guard, protected by a man who'd done terrible things.

Could she live with that?

Just for now, she decided.

Just until she understood more, until she felt secure enough to confront the world outside.

They sat like that for a moment, caught between a past undone and a future uncertain. The lamplight cast their shadows on the polished floor.

Outside the windows, the city moved on, indifferent to their drama. Inside, Camilla and Enzo had reached a fragile understanding. He had risked her disgust, her rejection, by telling her who he truly was. She had chosen to trust him enough to stay, at least for now.

Footsteps thumped softly in the hallway—just the building settling, or maybe his security detail outside. Camilla didn't flinch. She was no longer the same woman who walked into her ruined apartment hours ago, no longer the woman who believed Enzo was just a mysterious contractor. Now she knew better, and despite the fear and confusion, she remained by his side.

He rose first, offering her a hand. "I should show you to a guest room," he said quietly, as if eager to re-establish some normalcy. "You must be exhausted."

She took his hand and stood, feeling the warmth of his palm.

"Lead the way," she said. Her voice was calmer now.

If he was a monster, he was at least a gentle one, for her sake. If he was something else entirely—just a broken soul in a world of violence—perhaps she could understand that. Perhaps, in time, she could help him find a different path.

They walked down the hall, the hush of the penthouse wrapping them in a fragile peace. Behind them, the conversation lingered in the air, an invisible presence. She would need time to process all this: the reality of his profession, the cruelty of his enemies, the risk that now lingered over them both.

But as he opened a door to a warmly lit guest room, showing her a neat bed and fresh linens, she saw the care in his actions. He was trying, in his own way, to care for her, to shield her from the darkness he knew all too well.

Camilla stood in the doorway, watching him watch her, and thought again of the promise he'd made. No more secrets.

Safety, honesty, a chance to rebuild trust. It was more than she'd expected to get from a confession so terrible. In the silence of this elegant refuge, she decided that, for the moment, it was enough.

It was well past midnight, perhaps one or two in the morning, when Camilla finally found sleep in the guest room of Enzo's penthouse.

After the confession and the turmoil of the evening, she had accepted his hospitality but not his bed. There was too much to process, too many emotions churning behind her closed eyes. She'd chosen a quiet, neutral space to rest, a room that smelled faintly of linen and the subtle cologne Enzo favored.

Its decor was minimal—a soft beige armchair, a reading lamp with a warm, low glow, a landscape painting of Mediterranean hills—nothing that bore Enzo's personal mark too strongly. Just a quiet, safe corner in a world turned upside down.

The guest bed felt strangely luxurious beneath her—Egyptian cotton sheets cool against her skin, the duvet pleasantly heavy. She lay on her side, eyes drifting shut, heart still fluttering from all she had learned. She tried to slow her breathing, each exhalation releasing a fraction of the tension coiled in her muscles.

Eventually, despite the lingering adrenaline and confusion, exhaustion claimed her. Her breaths grew even, her posture relaxed, and the world of questions and fears faded into the quiet darkness of sleep.