VIDAL

NINETEEN

Ever since that tense Monday night, catching Enzo had become impossible. Camilla quickly learned his new pattern: he would slip out of the penthouse long before she stirred in the mornings, and return—if at all—after she had fallen asleep in the guest room.

Once or twice, she'd dragged herself out of bed in the predawn gray, hoping to spot him in the kitchen or lingering in the hallway. Each time, she was greeted by nothing but silence and a note about breakfast waiting if she wanted it.

The only living person she consistently saw was Gianni, stationed in the living room with his gun cradled on his thigh, eyes never straying far from the front door.

She'd asked Gianni point-blank where Enzo went all day and half the night, her frustration mingling with genuine worry. But Gianni gave only vague replies, meeting her questions with polite shrugs and neutral expressions. His loyalty was painfully clear—he was loyal to Enzo, not to her curiosity.

And so the week ticked by in a strange half-life: her mornings felt hollow, her evenings unsettled by Enzo's absence, and Gianni's quiet presence became oddly routine.

After a few days, she barely noticed how unsettling it was to see a retired hitman perched in the living room, gun in his lap.

By Friday, Camilla had decided she couldn't let this silent standoff last.

All day at work, she found her attention drifting from her tasks. She ended up scribbling a grocery list during her lunch break, determined to cook that evening, determined to stay awake until Enzo came home.

She needed answers, and more than that, she needed to address the bitter pang of jealousy in her gut. The one that whispered—what if he's with someone else?

When Gianni arrived to pick her up from work, she asked him to drive her to the grocery store. Though his brows rose at the unusual request, he obliged without comment.

Now, in the buzzing lights of the store's produce aisle, Camilla trailed down the shelves, methodically crossing items off her list: fresh herbs, chicken, pasta, tomatoes, wine.

Her mind churned, imagining Enzo's mouth on some other woman, recalling the unmistakable experience he'd displayed when he touched her. It made her cheeks warm even in the cold fluorescent light, and an uncomfortable twist tightened her chest.

She couldn't chase away the memory of his fingers trailing her skin or the hunger in his eyes. He hadn't learned that from reading books—he had experience. The idea that he might be satisfying someone else the way he once satisfied her was maddening.

She found herself gripping a can of diced tomatoes too tightly, forcing herself to set it gently in the cart instead of crushing it.

After loading up on necessities, Gianni carried her bags to the trunk, and they headed back to the penthouse in a subdued silence.

The driver must have sensed her turmoil; he kept glancing at her through the rearview mirror, but offered no advice or reassurance.

Once they arrived home, he helped her carry the groceries inside, then retreated to his usual station by the living room couch. She almost thanked him but held back—the tension swirling in her chest made casual small talk impossible.

In the kitchen, she laid out ingredients on the marble island: bread to toast, chicken to marinate, vegetables to slice. She unwrapped a few sprigs of basil and inhaled their fresh scent, willing herself to stay calm.

This meal was meant to keep her busy, to give her a reason to remain awake until however late it took for Enzo to walk through that door. But as she lined up the chicken breasts, measuring out spices, her mind kept wandering to the possibility that Enzo could be out with someone else at this very moment.

She conjured images she didn't want: Enzo's hands on another woman's waist, his mouth pressing into a throat that wasn't hers, the same skill that had left her trembling put to use for somebody else.

The thought sent a fierce stab of jealousy through her. It almost embarrassed her, how strongly she felt over a man who, for all her knowledge, was a killer embroiled in criminal entanglements she couldn't fully grasp. Still, the jealousy was real, bright and ugly, making her heart pound and her breath catch.

Distracted, she started chopping with less care than usual. The blade kissed the tip of her finger in a sudden, sharp nip. She gasped, dropping the knife with a clatter. A small line of red formed on her fingertip.

"Dammit," she hissed, pressing her lips together to stifle the flare of pain. She fumbled for a paper towel to stanch the bleeding, frustration and worry cresting.

She barely heard the front door open over the pounding of her pulse. At first, she thought it was Gianni, perhaps checking on the noise. But then she glimpsed a familiar silhouette in the hallway. Enzo. He was back.

Her heart seized up with a mixture of relief, annoyance, and that ever-present jealousy, all rising together. He stepped into view—dark coat, hair slightly mussed, an inscrutable expression on his face. He paused at the threshold of the kitchen, taking in the scene: groceries sprawled across the counter, Camilla clutching a paper towel to her bleeding finger.

Enzo's expression shifted the moment he spotted the crimson staining Camilla's fingertip.

In two strides, he was at her side, one hand cradling hers while the other rummaged through a kitchen drawer. His closeness sent a jolt through her, a stark counterpoint to the week of distance and fleeting glimpses.

She inhaled sharply, half from the pain in her finger and half from the rush of seeing him again—really seeing him, not just hearing the hush of his late-night footsteps or reading his short notes left for her in the morning.

"Hold still," he said, voice low with concern. He found a small first-aid box at the back of the drawer. Opening it, he pulled out a gauze pad and a bandage. She watched, transfixed by the gentle focus in his eyes. If he felt any anger from earlier or any trace of jealousy, he hid it under this swift, protective instinct.

"It's really not that bad," she mumbled, but her voice trembled. She realized she was trembling everywhere, in fact. The day's tension, her resentful imaginings, the sight of him suddenly in front of her—she wasn't sure what made her heart pound more.

He shook his head. "It's bleeding," he said simply, wrapping the gauze around her fingertip.

His touch was practiced, deliberate—she might have guessed he'd handled injuries a thousand times before. A pang of memory hit her, reminding her of the first time she'd seen him deal with a wound, the night he'd refused her pleas to call the authorities.

He'd insisted on cleaning up his own blood. Now he was just as confident with hers, though the wound was mercifully small.

Camilla swallowed, feeling the gentle press of bandage as he secured it.

"Thank you," she whispered, voice subdued. She wasn't sure how to act—part of her wanted to lean against him, let the closeness wash away a week of confusion. But she couldn't shake the tension still thrumming beneath his quiet.

Enzo finished the bandaging, then looked up at her. A conflicted light flickered in his eyes, but he pressed his lips into a firm line and spoke in a low command.

"Gianni, take the night off," he called, raising his voice enough to carry into the living room.

Immediately, footsteps padded across the marble tiles. Gianni appeared in the doorway, brows raised. "You sure?" he asked, glancing between them. His gaze lingered on Camilla's bandaged hand, then the groceries scattered on the counter.

Enzo nodded. "We'll be fine here. Go get some rest." There was a finality in his tone that Gianni didn't contest. With a curt nod, the older man turned away, silent as a shadow in the hall. A minute later, the soft click of the door signaled his departure.

Suddenly the penthouse fell quiet again, leaving Camilla hyperaware of Enzo's presence. Her eyes flicked down to his shirt, noticing a stain near his left side that looked dark and tacky under the overhead light. She froze, chest tightening.

"Oh, God," she said, brow furrowing in alarm. "I got blood on your shirt, didn't I?"

Enzo followed her gaze, glanced down, and a ghost of a smile—humorless, tense—twitched at his mouth.

"It's not your blood," he said evenly.

Her pulse stuttered. She lifted her face to him, heart in her throat. "Then...?"

He didn't let her finish. "It isn't mine either."

A flicker of shock must have flashed across her features, because he softened slightly.

"Don't worry," he murmured, a strange gentleness threading through his voice. "I'm not hurt."

Then the quiet returned, the meaning of his words sinking in. He'd come home wearing someone else's blood, which told her more about how he spent his nights than any direct confession.

The tension between them dispersed.

Now, the truth was more harrowing—some underworld conflict, or a job gone violent. Camilla realized she was almost relieved.

Her cheeks grew hot with embarrassment at that realization: I'd rather he be doing something dangerous than be with another woman... That's how far gone I am.

He must have noticed some shift in her expression, because his own face drew taut, concern returning.

"I'll clean it off," he said quietly, touching the spot. "Are you okay?" His gaze lingered on her bandaged finger.

Camilla nodded slowly, words failing her.

Enzo moved as though he intended to take the skillet from her, his expression hinting that he was fully ready to resume where she'd left off. But before he could reach for the handle, Camilla placed a firm hand over his, stopping him.

"Go shower," she said, her voice even. It was not a request, but rather an instruction wrapped in quiet insistence.

A faint flicker of surprise crossed his features, followed by that guarded look again. The tension in his posture lingered, but he didn't protest.

"I've been gone all week," he said lowly, almost as if to remind her that he was used to being the one who prepared meals. "I can handle dinner."

She shook her head. "You've handled everything else," she countered, meeting his gaze. "You always do. Let me do this—just this once." There was a resolved softness in her eyes, a plea he couldn't turn down.

Enzo held her stare a moment longer, then gave a slow nod. He backed off, turning from the kitchen island with a final glance at her bandaged finger, as if to be sure she could manage.

Satisfied, he left the room, footsteps receding down the hall toward his bedroom and the attached bath. A minute later, Camilla heard the rush of running water, a steady hush that offered her the smallest measure of peace.

Alone, she stood before the half-finished meal, the savory notes of cooking onions and garlic drifting upward. She released a quiet breath, rolling her tense shoulders.

The hum of the stove's low flame mingled with the distant patter of water against tile.

Enzo returned from his shower just as Camilla was plating the last dish at the kitchen island. His dark hair was damp, his white T-shirt clung slightly to his chest, and a faint scent of his soap lingered in the air. He looked calmer, more collected, but there was still something guarded in his eyes.

Camilla glanced up at him, offering a tentative smile as she set the plates down. "Dinner's ready."

Enzo opened a bottle of wine, pouring them both a glass as he surveyed the spread. "Smells good," he said, his voice warm but cautious. "You didn't have to go through all this trouble."

She shrugged, her fingers brushing the stem of the wineglass as she sat down across from him. "I wanted to. You've been taking care of me all week. It's the least I could do."

They ate in silence for a few moments, the quiet hum of the city beyond the windows their only backdrop. The tension hung between them, unspoken words lingering just beneath the surface. Camilla could feel it tightening around her chest, making it hard to enjoy the meal she had carefully prepared.

Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, she spoke.

"I've been thinking about Monday night," she began, her voice steady but soft. "I want to explain what happened."

Enzo's eyes flicked up from his plate, dark and unreadable. He said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

Camilla took a sip of wine, gathering her thoughts. "Kevin and I... we've worked together for a long time. He asked me to help him with a case he's been working on. That's why I was at his place that night. It was all about work."

Enzo leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. His expression didn't change, but there was a subtle shift in his posture—something tense and defensive.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," he said, his voice low and calm. "Especially not about who you choose to sleep with."

Camilla froze, her wineglass halfway to her lips. "Excuse me?"

Enzo met her gaze, his expression unflinching. "I'm saying... I don't have a right to be jealous. If you're seeing someone, that's your choice."

She set the glass down with more force than intended, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "You think I'm sleeping with Kevin?"

"You kissed him," Enzo said simply, his voice quiet but firm. "I saw it."

Camilla blinked, stunned. "You saw—" She broke off, processing his words. "When?"

Enzo's jaw tightened, his gaze dropping for a moment. "A few weeks ago. I've been... keeping an eye on you."

"You've been watching me?" she asked, her tone a mix of disbelief and anger.

"I needed to make sure you were safe," he said, his voice softening. "But then I saw you with him, and I thought..." He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. "I thought it was obvious."

Camilla shook her head, laughing bitterly. "You thought wrong." She stood, grabbing the empty plates and moving to the sink. "For your information, Enzo, you're the first man to touch me in over six years."

Enzo stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor as he followed her. "Camilla—"

"No." She turned, her eyes blazing with anger and something deeper. "Do you know how insulting that is? To assume I'd just... jump from one man to another? You think I'm that kind of person?"

"I don't think that," he said quickly, stepping closer. "I misunderstood. I saw something out of context, and I... I was jealous."

Camilla's hands stilled on the dish she was rinsing.

"Jealous?" she echoed, her voice quieter now, the fire in her eyes dimming slightly.

Enzo nodded, his gaze steady.

"I didn't want to be. I knew I had no right to feel that way, especially after everything that's happened. But I couldn't help it." He took another step closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "The thought of you spending your evenings with him... it drove me insane."

Camilla stared at him, her chest rising and falling with each breath. Slowly, the tension began to drain from her shoulders.

"It hurts more when you avoid me," she said quietly. "When you disappear and leave me wondering if I've done something wrong."

Enzo reached out, his fingers brushing against her arm before sliding up to cup her cheek.

"I thought I was protecting you by keeping my distance. But I see now... I was only making things worse."

She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before meeting his gaze. "You did."

They stood in silence for a long moment, the weight of their emotions hanging between them. Then, without thinking, Camilla lifted her hand to cover his, holding it against her cheek.

"I don't want to feel like this," she whispered. "Like I'm waiting for you to walk away again."

"I won't," Enzo said firmly. "Not again."

Camilla searched his eyes, looking for any hint of deception or hesitation. But all she saw was sincerity—and something deeper, something raw and vulnerable that he rarely let show.

"I want to try," she said softly. "But only if you're honest with me. No more secrets. No more half-truths."

Enzo nodded, his thumb brushing gently across her cheek. "No more lies."

Camilla exhaled slowly, a sense of relief washing over her. "Okay."

"Okay," Enzo repeated, his lips curving into a small, tentative smile.