VIDAL

FIFTEEN

Enzo had slept poorly—if you could even call it sleep. The entire night had been a cycle of drifting off only to jerk awake, heart pounding and jaw clenched. When he closed his eyes, he saw Ivan's cold smile, saw the glint of a blade and Camilla caught in the crossfire.

Or worse yet, Francesco's stony, silent judgment as he discovered Camilla lying in Enzo's bed, her presence indicting Enzo's betrayal of old rules. Each nightmare rattled him, a reminder of how thin the line he walked truly was.

Yet, every time he startled back into wakefulness, sweaty and tense, there she was, warm and real at his side, her sleeping form a gentle anchor. Just feeling the heat of her body, hearing the faint sigh of her breath, banished the phantoms long enough for him to settle back onto the pillow.

Despite the restless cycle, Enzo couldn't recall a time he felt more rested come morning. Perhaps it was because, for once, he had something good and true beside him when the fears receded—a calm, steady presence in a world of chaos.

The early light filtered in softly, illuminating the edge of the bed and painting gentle highlights on Camilla's skin.

As Enzo shifted onto his side, careful not to disturb her, Camilla rolled slightly away, dislodging the blanket that had half-covered her. The fabric slipped down, revealing the smooth curve of her back, the subtle dip of her waist, the line of her hip.

She looked like something carved from light and shadow, all soft shapes and grace.

He swallowed at the sight, a warmth blooming in his chest.

He'd never given much thought to women's figures beyond passing appreciation. But with Camilla, each detail held meaning, each contour felt meant for him. She was slender yet strong, tender yet confident. He loved the way she breathed, the way she occupied the space beside him without apology.

In his mind, she was already his—somehow, he decided then, he would make sure she would remain at his side, no matter the price.

The thought stirred something deeper within him, a surge of want that he couldn't ignore.

A flush of heat rose inside him, as if his body knew no line divided emotional closeness from physical desire. He tried to focus on something else—the gentle hum of traffic, the coolness of the sheets—but his gaze kept drifting back to her bare shoulders, the exquisite arch of her spine.

No.

Not now.

He wasn't about to ruin a peaceful morning with selfish impulses. With a careful exhale, he eased himself out of bed, moving quietly so as not to wake her. Standing at the foot of the bed, he took one last admiring look, then grabbed a towel from the nearby chair and slipped into the bathroom.

A cold shower, he thought grimly, turning on the water and stripping out of his boxers. Let the shock of it clear his head.

Fifteen minutes later, Enzo stepped out of the bathroom with a towel slung low around his hips, droplets of water trailing down his chest.

The morning sunlight seeped through the windows, painting gentle streaks across the bedroom floor. He ran a hand through his damp hair, ruffling it dry as he returned to his room. To his mild surprise, Camilla was awake, propped up on one elbow, her eyes half-lidded with sleep and still heavy with dreams.

"What time is it?" she murmured, voice soft and husky from rest.

"It's morning," he replied, his tone casual. He reached for another towel, running it over his hair.

From the corner of his eye, he caught her stare lingering on him, slow and appreciative. Her gaze roamed over his arms, his chest, the subtle lines of muscle revealed by the shifting towel.

He could sense her interest, feel the hunger in her eyes as if it were a tangible warmth in the air.

Camilla cleared her throat, looking flustered. "I, uh... need to go home and shower."

"Home?" Enzo repeated quietly, letting the word hang in the air as if it were foreign on his tongue. Her brow knit slightly at his response.

"That's the second time you've acted as though me going home is some sort of alien concept," she said, a hint of confusion and amusement in her voice.

He shrugged it off with a faint smirk, refusing to elaborate.

Instead, Enzo decided to play a little, to tease her. He knew the desire in her eyes, felt it tightening the space between them.

With a deliberate, unhurried motion, he let the towel drop to the floor. He stood like that for a moment, arching a brow and enjoying the way Camilla's breath hitched, her cheeks reddening before he turned and stepped into the closet.

From inside, his voice drifted back, low and confident. "I'm thinking we should have breakfast together. Spend the whole Sunday doing something relaxing, just the two of us. I hope you're hungry."

He chose what he needed from hangers and drawers, picturing how Camilla must look at that very moment: flustered, off-balance, unable to fully meet his gaze after what he'd just done. He emerged dressed casually but neatly, a light shirt and well-fitted trousers, and sure enough, Camilla seemed caught off-guard, her eyes darting to the towel now abandoned on the floor and then back to his face.

"You're impossible," she said, half-laughing, trying to regain her composure. "I don't have anything proper to wear for a day like this."

Enzo smiled, genuine amusement lighting his eyes. "Go shower," he instructed smoothly, "and I'll have my assistant bring over something appropriate." He didn't give her a chance to protest, to ask questions, to wonder how he'd manage that on a Sunday morning. Instead, he brushed past her, descending the stairs without another glance.

In the living room, he picked up his phone and dialed Giulia. He could already envision her knowing smirk on the other end of the line.

~*~

Dressed and composed, Camilla made her way downstairs.

She heard Enzo's voice before she saw him, speaking low and fast in Italian. Pausing at the bottom step, she listened quietly. She understood some Italian—her father's native tongue, as her mother once told her, though she'd never really known him.

She caught snippets of Enzo's words:

"Things are complicated here now," and "No, I haven't yet. I am trying to find the time."

Her brow furrowed as he said something about Francesco and "playing babysitter." She strained to catch the nuances. "Now isn't the time. I will call you later. Bye."

The conversation sounded serious, and she could sense tension in his tone, but before she could dwell on it, she decided to make herself known. She stepped forward into his line of sight. Enzo looked at her, phone still in hand, before giving her one of those smiles that made her heart do a small, silly flip. He disconnected the call and approached her, pressing a soft kiss to her lips as if nothing unusual had happened.

"Ready?" he asked, and the warmth in his eyes banished her lingering suspicion. She nodded, slipping into her trench coat.

Whatever that strange phone call meant, she'd leave the questions for another time. Today, she'd let the weekend stretch before them, filled with whatever plans he had, and whatever secrets still lingered beneath the surface. She followed him out the door, feeling at once curious and comforted.

They stepped out onto a city soaked in the fresh promise of Sunday morning. A gentle warmth floated in the spring air, sunlight dancing off car hoods and rippling across windows.

In this neighborhood, people moved at a leisurely pace—couples arm-in-arm, families laughing, old friends lingering over coffee. The restaurant Enzo had chosen for brunch was tucked into a quieter side street, its door propped open to let in a mild breeze carrying the scent of roasted beans and buttery pastries.

Camilla and Enzo settled into a small table near a window, the light streaming over linen napkins and polished silverware.

The menu was simple—scrambled eggs, brioche French toast, fresh berries drizzled with honey, and dark roast coffee that steamed in delicate cups. Camilla found comfort in these uncomplicated flavors and textures; there was no pretense here, just honest, satisfying food. She and Enzo traded bites, each discovery accompanied by murmurs of appreciation.

They talked easily: he asked about her favorite childhood breakfasts, and she described weekend mornings with her mother, the way butter would melt across warm toast, how they'd watch old cartoons and giggle over silly characters.

Enzo, in turn, offered glimpses of his own memories, painting for her small vignettes of Italian summers and family gatherings. He recalled how his best friend's father, Francesco's father, once taught him to knead dough for bread under a blazing sun, insisting that the effort of one's hands was part of the flavor.

These were gentle stories, devoid of the weight Enzo usually carried. Camilla noticed how his face softened at these recollections, how he seemed lighter and younger, even if just for a moment.

After brunch, the day spread before them like a blank canvas. The sky arced clear and blue, the city whispering with promise. Yet beneath the surface, Camilla wrestled with the sensation that something profound was happening inside her. She'd long held men at arm's length, certain they weren't worth the complications they brought. Her mother's heartbreak had taught her to be cautious, to avoid vulnerability.

Dating had been minimal. She recalled one clumsy one-night stand in her early twenties, a moment of curiosity rather than passion, and in the end it left her no more convinced that men had anything real to offer.

But Enzo was different.

He spoke little of his secrets—she sensed more hidden than revealed—but he behaved like a man who treasured her presence.

He guided her with a hand at the small of her back, smiled when she made a clever remark, and truly listened when she spoke of her past, her dreams, her small amusements.

Every gesture said: I see you. I value what I see.

The more time she spent with him, the more the guardrails of her old defenses fell away. She felt herself leaning into him, wanting to know him better, to understand the complexities behind those dark, thoughtful eyes.

They took a break in a quiet corner café, where he ordered two espressos and studied her with a mixture of calm pride and gentle curiosity. She stared down into the tiny porcelain cup and realized that if she were not careful, she could fall quickly and deeply. The thought was both exhilarating and frightening.

Yet here, in this warm slice of a Sunday, fear retreated. She wanted him, not just physically—which was undeniable, especially after witnessing his confident stride, his sculpted form—but emotionally. She craved the safety he seemed to offer, the steadiness of his presence. It was as if the world outside could be dangerous and chaotic, but with him, she could find a haven.

As they resumed their walk, arms now comfortably linked, Camilla realized she wanted to spend all her free time with him. She imagined lazy afternoons reading side by side, evenings cooking meals together in that beautiful penthouse kitchen, nights tangled in his sheets and waking to that same serenity she felt today. The idea of it made her heart feel full, her pulse light and quick.

The sun dipped lower as they strolled, the pace unhurried, the conversation turning quiet and affectionate. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted from a nearby bakery, and she thought, this is it: simplicity and sweetness, laughter and honest enjoyment.

Enzo was showing her another way to live, another way to trust. If there were secrets still lurking in the background, here and now she could forget them, lost in the quiet, intimate space they created together.

In that moment, as a gentle breeze ruffled her new blouse and he squeezed her hand gently, Camilla decided that she would not resist the pull any longer. She would let herself feel, let herself hope that this man, so different from what she'd imagined, might indeed be worth all the risks love entailed.

The sky outside had deepened into a curtain of deep purple and navy, the glow of lamplights and neon signs painting the edges of the evening in gentle, flickering colors.

As Enzo guided his truck through the city's winding streets, Camilla sat in the passenger seat, the warmth of their day's adventures lingering between them like a shared secret. She still wore the cream blouse and dove-gray trousers he'd insisted on buying her, the fabric soft against her skin, a tangible memory of the kindness and indulgence he'd shown her.

The hum of the engine and the quiet rush of air through the vents cocooned them in a low, comforting hush. Enzo glanced sideways at her, shifting gears smoothly as they waited at a red light.

"Just because the work week is starting," he said, his voice steady but warm, "doesn't mean you can go without talking to me."

He tried to sound casual, but there was a protective note in his tone, as if he wanted to stay connected to her no matter how busy their schedules became.

Camilla smiled softly, turning her head to meet his gaze. The streetlight illuminated half his face, casting the other half in shadow.

"I wouldn't dream of it," she replied, voice light.

Truthfully, after the day they'd spent together—browsing boutiques, sipping coffee, laughing over small stories—she couldn't imagine stepping back into her usual solitude so easily.

"I'll be in touch," she assured him. The notion of continuing their connection brought a warmth to her chest.

After a few more turns, Enzo's truck pulled onto her quiet residential street. The sidewalks were mostly empty now, save for a neighbor walking their dog a few houses down. He found a spot near her building and parked.

Camilla's apartment sat at the top of a short flight of stone steps, the wooden door usually painted a cheerful jade green.

Under the gentle wash of the building's porch light, she could see some leaves caught in the corner by the door—ordinary, unremarkable details that set her mind at ease.

This was home, after all.

Enzo got out first, coming around to open her door. She noticed the tension in his shoulders as he offered her a hand to help her down, as though he sensed something amiss even then. They walked up the stairs together, the crunch of grit under their shoes barely audible over the soft sounds of distant traffic. As they neared the top, Enzo slowed, frowning slightly.

Camilla followed his line of sight, her heart giving a small jolt.

The door was ajar. Not by much—just an inch or two—but enough that the lock and the hinges caught the light oddly. She'd locked it yesterday, hadn't she? She was sure of it. At the realization, a prickle of unease traveled down her spine.

Before she could say a word, Enzo stepped in front of her, one arm extending backward as if to keep her in place. His posture changed instantly, turning rigid, purposeful. She watched in shock as he reached beneath his jacket and drew out a gun. The metallic gleam in the soft porch light stole her breath, transforming the evening's gentle calm into something tight and dangerous.

"Stay here," he ordered quietly, his voice low and firm, leaving no room for argument. Camilla opened her mouth to protest, confusion and alarm swirling, but his eyes flashed with a sudden authority she'd never seen before.

He eased the door open with the barrel of the gun, stepping inside without a backward glance, leaving her on the landing, heart pounding in her chest.

Seconds stretched into what felt like minutes. The silence from inside the apartment was suffocating. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, fists clenching. Every instinct screamed at her to check if he was safe. Camilla had never been good at waiting passively. Her eyes darted around the darkened corridor, the hum of the city below too distant to provide comfort. She heard no shout, no thud, nothing to suggest what Enzo might have found.

Unable to stand it any longer, she followed him in.

The moment she crossed the threshold, her stomach sank. The overhead light Enzo must have switched on revealed chaos. Her apartment, once tidy and modestly furnished, looked as if a storm had torn through it. Books were scattered across the floor, their spines bent, pages crumpled.

Cushions and blankets lay torn, stuffing poking out like white clouds. Her kitchen chairs were overturned; the lamp by her reading chair lay in shards. It was destruction, not theft—she realized that none of her valuables seemed missing at first glance, just broken or defaced.

She stumbled over a toppled box of photographs, half bending to pick one up—an old snapshot of her mother smiling under a summer sun, now creased and smeared with dust. Rage and fear fought for dominance in her chest.

Who would do this? Why?

Enzo stood a few feet away, scanning the room, gun still in hand. He looked even more tense, jaw clenched. His gaze flitted to her as she drew closer, her breathing uneven. She wanted to call the police, to report this vandalism, this violation.

"I'm calling the cops," she said, voice tight and trembling with shock.

"No," Enzo said immediately, "I'll handle this." His tone was non-negotiable.

Camilla whipped around to face him.

"This is the second time," she hissed, remembering the night he'd insisted no authorities when she'd found him injured in her place. "The second time you demand we don't call the police." She spread her arms, indicating the ruin of her home. "Look at this, Enzo! This isn't normal. What do you mean you'll handle it?"

Enzo lowered the gun slowly, slipping it back under his jacket. He exhaled, as if trying to steady himself before speaking.

"I haven't been entirely honest about my line of work," he admitted quietly. The words came out slow and heavy, each syllable reluctant. "I think this is retaliation for... actions I've taken."

Her heart sank further, anger and confusion twisting together. He'd lied to her. But she also saw the regret etched in the lines of his face, the burden he carried in those dark eyes.

Everything about tonight, about the tension humming through his body, suggested that whatever he was involved in was dangerous, and that danger had now bled into her life.

She took a step back, pressing a hand to her forehead as she tried to think. She'd been falling into trust with him, feeling safe and warm, and now look at this mess. She wanted answers.

Enzo advanced a step, voice gentler, his gaze pleading with her.

"For your safety, I need you to pack some clothes and come back to my house."

She stared at him, breath catching in her throat. Leave her home, her independence, because of some threat he won't define?

"I'll only agree," she said firmly, lifting her chin, "if you tell me the truth." She crossed her arms, refusing to budge on this point. If he wanted her to trust him now, after all this, he'd better show some honesty.

Enzo hesitated, his silence thick enough to feel. She watched him wrestle with whatever secrets he held. At last, he nodded slowly. "All right," he said quietly. "I'll tell you."