VIDAL

TEN

A/N: Hey guys, NJ here! I wanted to let you guys know I love reading your comments and lately I have been getting far less than usual, making it feel like I'm writing for no one, but the reads have been increasing. Feel free to leave a comment! I read them all and they motivate me... HAPPY READING!

Camilla stepped inside the penthouse, her breath catching as the door closed softly behind her. The space was stunning, a testament to understated luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall, offering an expansive view of the glittering New York City skyline. The lights of the city stretched endlessly, reflecting off the sleek black marble floors.

The open-concept design featured modern furniture with clean lines, a plush gray sectional facing a massive flat-screen TV, and a glass coffee table perched atop a white fur rug.

The kitchen, visible from where she stood, was equally impressive, with state-of-the-art stainless steel appliances, dark granite countertops, and pendant lights casting a warm glow over the pristine space.

A few personal touches caught her eye—a row of books on a minimalist shelf, a decanter of whiskey on the counter, and a single potted plant adding a touch of green to the monochrome palette.

It was nicer than Kevin's townhouse, she realized with a pang of surprise. More refined, more expensive.

The kind of place that belonged to someone with wealth and power, but no interest in flaunting it.

"Enzo?" she called out, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.

No response.

She stepped further inside, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor as she scanned the room. A faint metallic smell pricked at her senses, and her heart began to race.

"Enzo?" she called again, louder this time.

Her eyes darted toward the kitchen, where a figure was slumped against the base of the cabinets.

"Oh my God," she whispered, rushing over.

Enzo was sprawled on the floor, his shirt torn and soaked with blood. His breathing was shallow, and his usually sharp eyes were heavy-lidded with pain and exhaustion. Beside him, a knife rested on the counter, its blade blackened from being heated.

"Enzo," she gasped, kneeling beside him, her hands hovering uncertainly over his chest. "What happened? You're bleeding—oh my God, I need to call an ambulance."

She fumbled for her phone, but Enzo's hand shot out, weak but firm, gripping her wrist. "No police," he croaked, his voice hoarse.

"Are you insane?" she demanded, panic rising in her chest. "You need a hospital! You're covered in blood!"

Enzo shook his head, his grip tightening for a moment before his arm fell limply to his side.

"No hospital," he muttered. "It's... closed. Stopped the bleeding."

Her eyes flicked to the knife on the counter, realization dawning. "You cauterized it yourself?" she asked, horrified. "What the hell, Enzo?"

He gave a faint, humorless smile, his head tilting back against the cabinet. "Had to... no time." His words slurred as his eyelids fluttered. "Just... give me a minute..."

"No, no, no—stay awake," Camilla pleaded, her heart pounding as his body slackened. But his breathing evened out, and his head lolled to the side.

Camilla stared at him, her hands trembling as she tried to think. She couldn't leave him like this, but he'd made it clear she couldn't involve the authorities. Torn between fear and instinct, she glanced around the pristine penthouse, the sight of his blood staining the immaculate floor only heightening the surrealness of the moment.

Camilla didn't waste another second. She leaned over Enzo, her hands trembling slightly as she inspected the wound. Her panic softened into reluctant admiration as she realized how methodical he had been.

The gash on his shoulder had been stitched with precision, albeit in a rough, survivalist way, and the edges were sealed with the unmistakable marks of cauterization. The bleeding had stopped, but the area around it was raw and angry.

She needed to clean it properly. Rising to her feet, she scanned the penthouse, spotting a staircase tucked into the corner of the open floor plan.

"Stay alive, Enzo," she muttered under her breath as she climbed the stairs, her heart hammering in her chest.

The second floor was just as immaculate and modern as the first. The master bedroom was expansive, with large windows showcasing a breathtaking view of the city skyline.

Thick, blackout curtains were tied neatly to the sides, contrasting with the smooth, dark gray walls. The bed was a low platform style, dressed in crisp white linens and flanked by two sleek nightstands, each holding a single reading lamp.

A black leather bench rested at the foot of the bed, and on the far wall, a mounted flat-screen TV was recessed into the wall, framed by minimalist shelving that displayed a few books, a single framed photo, and a small glass sculpture. There was no clutter, no sign of personal chaos. Everything was deliberate, coldly efficient—much like Enzo himself.

Camilla's eyes darted to the adjoining bathroom, its door slightly ajar. Inside, the sleek design continued. The walls were tiled in a smooth, slate-gray finish, and the double sink vanity was topped with black granite.

A walk-in shower with a rainwater head took up one side, while a deep soaking tub occupied the other. She opened the mirrored cabinet above the sink and let out a relieved breath when she spotted a first aid kit tucked neatly inside.

Grabbing it, she hurried back downstairs. Enzo was still unconscious, his breathing shallow but steady. She knelt beside him, flipping open the kit and laying out gauze, antiseptic wipes, and adhesive bandages.

"This is going to hurt if you wake up," she murmured, working quickly. She dabbed at the wound with antiseptic, cleaning the area thoroughly.

The blood had crusted around the stitches, and her touch made her wince even though Enzo remained still. Once she was satisfied, she carefully applied clean gauze and secured it with medical tape.

The worst of it taken care of, Camilla glanced at his blood-soaked shirt.

"Okay, this has to go," she said to herself. With careful hands, she unbuttoned the remaining intact buttons and eased the shirt off him, revealing a chest marred by scars and defined by lean muscle.

The sight made her pause for a brief moment, her breath catching in her throat before she shook herself back to reality.

She grabbed a clean cloth from the kitchen and dampened it with warm water, using it to wipe away the blood smeared across his torso. The act was intimate in a way that felt almost surreal, the softness of her movements at odds with the tension in her chest.

When she was finished, his skin was clean, though the paleness of his face left her stomach in knots.

"Enzo," she said softly, shaking his uninjured shoulder. "Come on, you need to help me get you to bed."

He groaned faintly, his eyelids fluttering open. His gaze was unfocused, but he managed a faint nod. With effort, Camilla hooked an arm under his good shoulder and helped him to his feet. He leaned heavily on her, his weight forcing her to move slowly as they ascended the stairs.

By the time they reached the bedroom, she was sweating, her muscles aching from the effort.

She guided him to the bed and eased him onto it, arranging the pillows to support his head and shoulders.

Pulling the blankets over him, she tucked him in, her hands trembling as she brushed the hair back from his clammy forehead.

"You're going to be okay," she whispered, though the words felt like they were more for herself than for him.

She sank into the chair beside the bed, her mind spinning. What had happened to him? How had he ended up like this? The thought of him dying, of the questions that would follow if someone found her here, was enough to make her stomach churn. She considered calling Kevin, but the idea felt wrong. This wasn't something she could explain—not without answers.

No, she would stay.

She would ensure Enzo's survival, and when he woke up, she would demand the truth.

~*~

The kitchen gleamed under the soft ambient lights, the mess now completely erased. Camilla stepped back, inspecting her work with a critical eye. Not a speck of blood remained, the granite countertops shining like a polished mirror, the dark marble floors pristine again.

Yet, despite her satisfaction with the cleanliness, her thoughts were far from settled.

Her hands rested on the sink edge as she stared out of the window, the glittering city skyline a stark contrast to the turmoil in her mind.

Why am I so shaken? she wondered.

She'd seen people hurt before—working in law meant reading case files full of gruesome details, sometimes even staring at crime scene photos without flinching. But this was different.

Seeing Enzo—this strong, enigmatic man—reduced to a bleeding figure on his own kitchen floor had left her rattled in a way she couldn't explain.

Maybe it was his vulnerability, so at odds with the confident, commanding presence she remembered from the gala. Or perhaps it was the flicker of fear she felt when he'd passed out. Fear that he might not wake up, fear that she might not be able to help him. Why does it matter so much? she thought, shaking her head.

Her gaze dropped to her clothes, now stiff and sticky with dried blood. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"I can't stay like this," she muttered, peeling the shirt away from her skin as she turned toward the staircase.

Camilla turned toward the closet, her fingers grazing the cool brass handle before pulling the door open. The space was immaculate, lined with custom shelving and rows of meticulously hung clothing.

Tailored suits in various shades of black, gray, and navy dominated one side, while the other held crisp button-down shirts, all in monochrome or subdued tones. Even his casual wear looked expensive—soft, high-quality fabrics folded neatly on the shelves. It was as if every item had been curated, every choice deliberate.

Her fingers skimmed over the hangers, searching for something that wouldn't feel too personal to wear. Finally, she spotted it—a faded band t-shirt, its edges worn and frayed.

The graphic on the front was barely visible, but it was the only item that didn't scream luxury. Smiling to herself, she grabbed it and headed toward the bathroom.

Camilla turned the shower on, adjusting the water until steam began to fill the room. She slipped out of her bloodied clothes and stepped under the warm spray, her head tilting back as the water cascaded over her.

She grabbed one of the bottles from the shelf—a body wash that smelled distinctly like Enzo, a mix of cedar, musk, and something crisp, almost like fresh air. The scent was intoxicating, enveloping her as she lathered up.

For a moment, she let herself forget the events of the evening, her eyes closing as the tension melted from her shoulders.

But the image of Enzo slumped on the floor crept back into her mind, and her heart tightened again

After drying off, she slipped into the oversized t-shirt, the soft fabric brushing against her skin. It hung loosely on her frame, its hem brushing mid-thigh. She glanced at herself in the mirror, feeling oddly out of place in this space that was so meticulously curated, so distinctly his.

Back in the main living area, she tried to sit and wait, settling into the plush sectional with her phone in hand. But the stillness gnawed at her, the minutes crawling by.

Restlessness won out, and she decided to explore the penthouse.

She wandered through the space, taking in every detail. The living room, with its sleek furniture and panoramic windows, felt more like a luxury hotel than a home. The dining area boasted a long, dark wood table paired with minimalist chairs, while the kitchen was a chef's dream—state-of-the-art appliances gleaming under pendant lights.

A small study tucked into one corner caught her attention. The walls were lined with shelves holding an eclectic mix of books—philosophy, tactical manuals, and classic literature. A sleek black desk sat in the center, its surface almost bare except for a leather notebook and a single pen.

Upstairs, she found the gym, equipped with weights, a punching bag, and an elliptical machine. The mirrored wall reflected her image back at her, a stark contrast to the polished space.

By the time she finished her tour, exhaustion had begun to creep in. She returned to the master bedroom to check on Enzo. He hadn't moved, his breathing steady but shallow. Her worry deepened as she stood there, watching him.

The idea of leaving him alone felt wrong, but the thought of climbing into bed with him—especially in his vulnerable state—made her stomach twist with embarrassment.

Instead, she turned to the guest room she'd seen earlier. The bed there was smaller but just as inviting, its linens crisp and cool against her skin as she climbed in. She pulled the covers up to her chin, her mind still spinning with questions and concerns. If he doesn't wake up, this will all fall on me.

But as her eyelids grew heavy, a new thought surfaced, unbidden.

I just need him to be okay.

And with that, she drifted into a restless sleep.