VIDAL

FOURTEEN

Enzo stood in the center of his living room, rolling up the sleeves of a charcoal-gray shirt that fit him just so. Early evening light filtered through the double-glazed windows, transforming the penthouse's muted palette into warm gold and honeyed ambers.

Outside, the city hummed softly, distant traffic reduced to a gentle murmur. Inside, discreet speakers played low, instrumental music—an old piece he vaguely remembered from his childhood, something soothing and unassuming. He wanted no distractions, nothing brash. The atmosphere should invite conversation, vulnerability, and understanding.

He'd spent the better part of the afternoon preparing: setting the table with simple elegance, arranging fresh herbs in a small vase, choosing a dish that was special, personal.

Tonight, he planned to teach her how to make Ciceri e Tria, a Salentine dish he'd learned long ago—something unique to the heel of Italy's boot.

It was pasta and chickpeas, but with a twist: ribbons of handmade pasta, some boiled, some fried until crisp, all tossed with chickpeas and fragrant oil. Francesco's father had taught them the recipe one summer, insisting that food carried memory and heritage. That lesson returned to Enzo now, comforting him as he contemplated the truth he needed to share.

The truth about her family. About why he had been keeping such dangerous knowledge close to his chest.

He had chosen to arrange for his driver to pick her up at home. He didn't trust anyone else's driving; he wanted her safe. His driver, an old ally, waited outside her building.

Armed, of course, though she would never know. These were the precautions Enzo took—quiet steps in the shadows to ensure no harm came to her. The city had grown treacherous. He wouldn't let her wander its streets alone, not tonight of all nights.

He checked the time. She would arrive soon. For the first time in a long while, he admitted he was nervous.

Usually, he orchestrated events in his life with cool detachment, never losing the upper hand.

With Camilla, he found himself wanting her to understand. Not just the facts, but the whys and hows—how fate, duty, and old secrets had twisted their paths.

She was sureheaded, and he respected that. It meant she might take offense at the months of subtle lies and guarded truths.

She might reject him outright. He'd prepared himself for that, or so he told himself. But the thought of her turning away, of losing that trust he'd fought to earn—was harder to swallow than he'd expected.

Enzo inhaled slowly, steeling himself. The music drifted gently, notes wafting through the open space. The kitchen island was ready: fresh pasta dough under a clean cloth, chickpeas simmering slowly on the stovetop, rosemary, garlic, and olive oil at hand.

An old apron Francesco's father had once gifted him lay folded neatly beside the cutting board. He considered putting it on now, but decided to wait. Better to greet her calmly, guide her into this moment, this story he was about to unveil.

Outside in the corridor, he thought he heard the elevator's quiet chime. He straightened, smoothing his shirt, allowing a steadying breath. This evening he would break open a guarded secret—and with the aroma of home cooking and the sound of gentle music, he hoped to soften the blow.

Tonight, he would show her a piece of Italy, and in doing so, reveal a piece of himself and the dangerous tapestry that linked them both to her family's past.

Camilla stepped through the door, the soft click of her heels announcing her arrival before she fully entered the glow of Enzo's carefully arranged lighting.

She paused just inside, glancing around the open expanse of his penthouse as though mentally noting every subtle luxury.

Even after previous visits, he could sense a hint of nerves in the way she held herself—shoulders slightly tense, hands clasping the strap of her purse.

Odd, he thought, since she had no reason to feel uneasy here. Yet the slight tightness in her posture intrigued him. He brushed off his curiosity and offered a subdued smile.

"Good evening," he said quietly, stepping forward. He reached out to help her with her trench coat, performing the small courtesy with practiced grace. She handed it over, and as he lifted it away from her shoulders, he finally saw what lay beneath.

Her dress was red silk, clinging to her every curve in a way that made it impossible for Enzo to maintain his usual composure. The hue flattered her skin, the fabric catching the light in subtle ripples whenever she moved.

Her figure was lithe but softly feminine, the lines of her body elegant and alluring. The neckline dipped just enough to hint at the curve of her collarbone and the gentle rise of her chest, and the skirt ended at mid-thigh, showcasing long, graceful legs that ended in heels that somehow made her appear both taller and impossibly delicate.

As he hung her coat near the door, Enzo tried not to let his eyes linger too long, but her beauty demanded attention.

She exuded a quiet confidence tempered by what seemed to be her own inner tension. Her dark hair, styled simply, framed a face of striking features: eyes that seemed to shimmer with unspoken intentions, a mouth that promised laughter, secrets, and perhaps something more dangerous.

There was a careful detail in her appearance tonight, a note of deliberate effort that had his heart beating harder than he cared to admit. She was radiant, a vision crafted in scarlet silk and poised elegance.

He had met countless beautiful women, escorted them through nights of indulgence or danger without flinching.

Yet none had captured him in quite this way, left him feeling slightly off-balance and overly conscious of each subtle intake of breath. She had stepped into this world of subdued light and gentle music, and now he feared that he might fail to present the calm, controlled image he had intended for the evening.

How ironic, that he, who faced down threats and owed nothing to fear, should find himself rattled by a single glance of hers.

He cleared his throat softly and moved toward the bar.

"Would you like a drink?" he offered, voice steady enough. She nodded, and he poured her a scotch the way he made it—a favorite preparation of his, perfected over time: two fingers of a well-chosen single malt, a single large cube of ice that wouldn't melt too quickly, no garnish. He handed it to her, their fingertips brushing in a moment that seemed electric.

Camilla took the glass and, to his mild surprise, downed it with more speed than grace. Her throat worked as she swallowed, eyes momentarily closing.

Was she that nervous, or was she looking for courage in the amber warmth of the liquor? He watched her place the empty glass down with a quiet clink, marveling at this unexpected boldness.

He didn't know that she had come here intending to seduce him, that she'd chosen that dress and that wine-red lipstick with a very different scenario playing out in her mind.

He saw only that she was tense, more than he expected. His own nerves were due to the revelation he planned to share tonight—the truth about her family. But from the way she kept adjusting her stance, the fleeting glances, and the flush on her cheeks after a single scotch, it seemed she was anxious for reasons all her own.

They stood there, mere feet apart, both unsettled by private worries, both too proud to show it openly. The penthouse hummed with low music, and distant traffic murmured beneath the double-glazed windows.

Enzo ushered her into the kitchen, leading her toward a wide marble island where a wooden board, a few bowls of ingredients, and a rolling pin awaited.

The dimly lit penthouse living room gave way to a space of quiet concentration, the fragrance of garlic and dried chickpeas lingering in the air. He'd already prepared some of the base—chickpeas simmering in a pot, delicate strands of dough waiting to be cut—but now it was time to show her how tradition shaped the simplest meal into something deeply meaningful.

"This dish," he began, brushing his fingers lightly over a pile of semolina flour, "is called Ciceri e Tria. It's from the Salento region in Puglia, down in the heel of Italy's boot."

He pointed to the dough he'd laid out, a simple blend of flour and water.

"We'll cut these into strips—most we'll boil, but some we fry until crisp. That's the trick, the contrast: soft and chewy mixed with crunchy."

Camilla leaned in, eyes curious and focused. He took a knife and guided her hand along the dough, helping her slice thin ribbons.

"It's something Francesco — my best friends, father taught us when we were younger," Enzo continued, his voice steady but his mind drifting as he spoke. "He believed food carried memory, carried history in every bite. He used to say that a good meal could connect you to your past as easily as reading an old diary."

Camilla tilted her head, a soft smile playing on her lips.

"He sounds like someone special." Her words were gentle, and Enzo could hear the sincerity in them. He nodded, carefully dropping a few of the pasta strips into hot oil, watching them bubble and crisp.

"He was," Enzo replied quietly. He picked up a wooden spoon to stir the boiling chickpeas, inhaling their earthy scent. "He taught us more than cooking—he taught us patience, respect, the importance of small details. Nothing about him was rushed. Every movement had purpose."

Camilla's gaze lingered on him, as if memorizing the way he handled the kitchen tools, the way his shoulders relaxed just a bit when talking about the past.

"I never met my father," she said after a pause, her voice unexpectedly soft. "My mom never talked about him much. I guess he just wasn't around, never wanted to be a part of our lives." She gave a short, quiet laugh, a fragile sound. "I wouldn't know what it's like to have a father figure like that, teaching me things."

Enzo felt something tug inside him, a subtle reminder of the secret he was meant to share. He hovered on the brink, tempted to respond with truths that would fracture the evening's calm.

But he looked at her again—her hands dusted with flour, hair tucked behind one ear, her face touched by a soft amber light. He had invited her here for this moment, to cook together, to show her something genuine and comforting before he burdened her with heavier truths.

Not now, he decided silently. He wanted her to feel this calm, this closeness without the weight of revelations that might sour her mood. He owed her a gentle memory, something stable and warm before he shattered her understanding of her own past.

Enzo cleared his throat and forced a small, genuine smile.

"Let's get these strips fried up," he said, lifting a few crisped ones out of the oil and setting them aside to drain on a paper towel. "You'll see, when we mix them with the chickpeas, the textures—boiled pasta and fried pasta—come together in a way that's... well, you'll taste it soon enough."

He gently guided her hand over the ladle, helping her scoop out a spoonful of chickpeas, and she listened, her earlier comment drifting quietly into the background.

For the moment, they stood together over a fragrant pot, sharing something personal and ancient, and Enzo let the secret remain unspoken, content with the comfort of cooking and the warm glow in Camilla's eyes.

With the pasta simmering quietly behind them, Enzo opened a bottle of wine with a practiced twist of the corkscrew. He poured two glasses, handing one to Camilla, who accepted it with a bright look and raised it in a small, silent toast.

Standing side by side at the kitchen island, they let the gentle warmth of the wine and each other's company settle in.

Camilla took a small sip, then spoke softly of something from her childhood—an old family dog who had a habit of sitting by the windowsill and barking at leaves drifting past.

She laughed at her younger self's fear of thunderstorms, describing how she used to hide under the kitchen table with her mother, who reassured her each rumble was just the sky clearing its throat. Her words were light and unguarded, revealing a playful girl she once was.

Enzo listened intently, nodding, smiling at the image of a tiny, storm-fearing Camilla.

When she invited him to share something, he hesitated only a moment before offering a memory unburdened by the darkness he usually carried. He told her of a summer with distant relatives in the countryside, helping to pick olives under a scorching sun, his younger self slipping and nearly knocking over a whole basket in an attempt to impress a teacher who was visiting the family.

He chuckled at the memory, shaking his head at the boy he once was—awkward, earnest, and trying too hard.

Soon, the pasta was ready, and they arranged the dish—crisp fried strips mingling with soft boiled ones and tender chickpeas—onto delicate plates. With glasses and plates in hand, they stepped onto the balcony.

The warm glow of an overhead lantern bathed their small table, and beyond the railing, the city spread out like a field of scattered gems. They ate slowly, sampling each texture and flavor.

Conversation drifted effortlessly: discussing favorite authors, places they'd like to travel, gently teasing each other's habits—he mocked her meticulous note-taking, she teased his habit of tapping a finger when thinking.

Eventually, they found themselves settling into a companionable silence. The hush was comfortable rather than strained, the kind that existed between people growing more at ease with one another. As Enzo contemplated this serenity, he thought perhaps it was time. He'd planned to tell her something important about her family, to finally reveal a truth he'd carried too long.

But just as he gathered himself to speak, Camilla pointed with sudden enthusiasm toward the piano in the corner of the living room.

"You have a piano?" she asked, her eyes lighting up.

The mixture of scotch and wine had softened her edges, making her voice a touch louder, her steps more impulsive. Without waiting for a reply, she hurried inside, leaving Enzo to follow with a puzzled smile.

In the living room's gentle lamplight, Camilla ran her fingertips over the piano's polished surface.

"I can't believe you never mentioned it!" she exclaimed, voice dancing with excitement.

Enzo stepped up behind her, hands in his pockets, admitting quietly, "It came with the apartment. I've never learned to play."

Camilla turned, looking genuinely surprised.

"Never?"

He shook his head. She grinned, slipping onto the bench and patting the space beside her.

"Come here," she said, a playful command that he obeyed willingly. He settled next to her, their shoulders almost touching, the scent of her perfume drifting faintly.

"I'll show you," she said. With a careful precision that surprised him, she began to play a simple melody—soft, lilting notes that fell like petals on the silence. She played it twice, then gestured for him to try. He attempted it and stumbled immediately, fingers too stiff, timing off.

She laughed, not unkindly, and tried guiding his hand over the keys. They repeated this a few times—he would press a wrong note, she would giggle, he'd apologize, and she'd tease him gently about his butterfingers.

Enzo loved the sound of her laughter and the feel of her leaning in to show him which keys to strike. He could sense how comfortable she was becoming, how, in this private bubble, they could be just two people sharing music and laughter.

The seriousness of the world outside and the secrets he held slipped from his mind.

On the next attempt, she reached over him, her hand guiding his fingers carefully. The move brought them closer, her cheek nearly against his, the warmth of her body radiating through the thin layers of their clothing. He could smell the hint of wine on her breath, see the spark in her eyes when she turned to look at him.

They sat close at the piano bench, their shoulders touching lightly as Camilla guided him through the simple melody.

Outside, the hum of traffic had given way to a quieter hush, and the dim lamplight turned every polished surface into a warm, golden reflection.

Enzo focused on the keys, or at least he tried to—his clumsy fingers missing notes he couldn't quite remember. Her gentle laughter and soft instructions shimmered in the air between them, intimate and kind.

He knew he should have his mind on other things: the truth he needed to tell her, the dangerous world he inhabited, the loyalties binding him to men like Ivan and tangled pasts he'd kept hidden. But in this moment, all of that seemed distant.

What mattered was the way Camilla leaned over him, her arm brushing his as she tried to guide his hand, her perfume lingering near his cheek. He felt her presence, warm and real, pulling his attention from every dark corner of his life.

Enzo glanced sideways, catching Camilla's profile in the lamplight. She looked hopeful, encouraging—her eyes sparkled when he hit a correct note, her lips curved in a tender smile when he stumbled.

There was something pleading in her expression, as if asking him to trust this quiet moment, to let go of whatever weighed him down. He found it disarming. He was supposed to remain distant, calculating, in control. But here, with her so close, he felt something unravel, some guard lowering against his will.

He knew it was reckless. He shouldn't be drawing her in, not when he still had so much to confess. Not when doing so would put her deeper into a world she didn't belong. He told himself he should pull away, keep it simple and professional.

He repeated his own warnings in his head, the mantras that had always kept him safe: Don't get attached, don't let anyone in, don't give them weapons to use against you. But as his gaze drifted from the piano keys to her eyes and then to her lips, he felt his resolve weakening.

Camilla turned to him, expecting perhaps another attempt at the tune or a silly joke about his lack of musical talent. Instead, she found him watching her intently, his face caught between longing and hesitation.

He tried to think of all the reasons he should not do this—her safety, his obligations, the truth he still hadn't laid bare—but those arguments faltered under the softness of her gaze.

In that instant, his heart gave a quiet surrender. Enzo lifted his free hand, grazing the back of his knuckles softly against her cheek, feeling the gentle catch of her breath. Without thinking further, he closed the space between them, pressing his lips to hers. The kiss was slow, tentative, as though he were asking permission rather than taking it. He felt her surprise melt into acceptance, the tension in her posture easing as she responded in kind.

As their lips met, he understood the risk he was taking—each second of closeness would make it harder to tell her the truths he carried. Each moment they lingered in this tenderness would make the looming confession more painful.

But as she leaned into him, as he tasted the sweet traces of wine on her lips, Enzo let the future worry for itself.

Any sense of carefully crafted control Enzo had built up had crumbled. He brought both of his hands up, cupping her face before deepening the kiss. Even still, he wanted her closer.

Breaking the kiss, Enzo stood and lifted Camilla. Her legs wrapping around his waist for leverage as he made his way from the living room and up the stairs into his bedroom. Camilla's kisses continued as she kissed him down his jaw as he kicked the door open.

He desposited her on the bed, falling on top of her. As her hands traveled beneath his shirt, his body reacted with shudders at her touch. Enzo knew he should have stopped now, pull away and give her some excuse and hope it was enough to placate her. But he was far from his right mind. From the moment he had first laid eyes on her he had felt an instinctual need for her. He had wanted Camilla and all of the problems that came with it.

And he knew if he didn't stop now, he would only cause more. It'd likely ruin his life, but he didn't care — he was already ruined.

Camilla's hands clawed at his shirt and he relented, letting it slip from over his shoulders and fall onto the floor. Her eyes darkened as she marveled at his chest.

Enzo had never been self-conciouss — never had a reason to be, but his body had been marred with scars from fights that nearly took his life. He had attempted to cover them in tattoos over time, but as her fingers skimmed his bare flesh, he knew she could feel them.

Taking his own liberties, his hands traveling down her body to the hem of the silk dress. It was like a second skin. He knew he had made the right decision in sending his driver to get her.

She'd likely have every man that laid eyes on her foaming at the mouth.

He began to lift the hem of her dress, eager to reveal what was underneath when he paused.

This isn't right. He thought. If we are going to do this, you have to tell her the truth. Don't ruin her trust more...

Enzo was unsure if she had noticed his hesitation when Camilla took the control, rolling them both until he was beneath her and she was straddling him.

Enzo watched her in shock and arousal as she arched her body above him and slipped the dress over her shoulders. Enzo wasn't sure it was possible, but he hardened more at the sight, his hands instinctively gripping her hips as he tried to remain in control.

Contratry to what he believed, Camilla had been wearing something under the dress. That something had been the sheerest red lace lingerie set. He could see her hardened nippes through the material and craved to pull them into his mouth, listening to her moan at the feeling.

When he reached for her, she stopped him, placing both of his hands above his head.

"I will be in control," she said with a breathy voice, "for once."

Enzo hadn't known what that meant, and his curiousity led to his obedience. He watched as her manicured hand traveled over the buldge in his pants, straining in great pain looking for some sense of relieve.

"Camilla..." Enzo's voice came off as more of a plea than anything else — but it hadn't been a plea to stop.

She unbuttoned his jean and freed his erection from it's restraints. Her eyes widened in shock as she took him in her hands. That motion was nearly enough to send him over the edge, and before she could finish he intentions, Enzo reversed their roles until Camilla lay beneath him.

Some lingering restraint in the back of his mind, knew he couldn't have s*x with Camilla — not now, not tonight. But his own selfish desire to keep her close wouldn't let him pull away completely.

He knew the signs of a woman who was frustrated with desire. Hell, he was a man who was frustrated with desire. He understood the build of of desire. Camilla wanted him as much as he wanted her. He couldn't give her... that, but he could give her something.

He pulled the lace thong down her thighs and discarding them near his shirt. Enzo stood and pulled her hips to the end of the bed. From here he could see all of her.

deep skin contrasted the cream linen sheets on his bed. Her breasts were full enough to fit in his hands perfetly — she was practically made for him. Her waist was slim and flared to wear her hips expanded.

A small nests of tight black coils lay in the center of her thighs, leading to sweet nectar that Enzo could see seeping from her.

He knealed before her as if he was about to say a prayer, wanting to drag this out — he was going to enjoy this.

Camilla looked down at him with a confused worry as Enzo took his time, first massaging her feet. Camilla sat up on her elbows to watch him and he chuckled.

"Are you in a rush?" He asked with a teasing voice.

"Kinda..." she said in a flustered tone. Enzo only switched his attention to her other foot.

"What are you doing?" She asked.

"I am taking care of you. What does it look like?"

"Then I think you should do this a little higher."

Enzo moved up to her calves.

"Enzo." She said his name like a command.

To silence her, Enzo kissed her inner thigh, feeling success in the sharp gasp she made. He slowly trailed kisses up her thigh and once he was near her center, Camilla let out a relieved sigh. But Enzo pivoted, switching to her left thigh. Camilla fell back into the bed in frustration but Enzo paid her little mind.

He had a long time as a bachelor and spent most of that time perfecting his skills. Through this, Enzo realized that he found more pleasure in bringing his partners pleasure.

He was going to pour every ounce of that skill into Camilla tonight.

Using one hand to grip her hips, his other found her core. She was dripping in arousal already, lubricating his index finger in one pass.

Camilla let out a moan at the touch, showing her approval in him finally finding his target. With his tongue finding her c**t, Enzo slowly inserted a finger into her. She was incredibly just one finger, yet she responded positively.

Her moans where his ammunition as he used his tongue to focus on his intentions, slowly pumping his finger inside of her.

When she began to buck, Enzo restained her hips with his other hand. Her body loosened around his finger, and Enzo slid another in.

Enzo knew she was close as her arousal began dripping down his arm. Her moans of his name made his own arousal unbearable and he used his free hand to pump his own erection, knowing he wouldn't survive without release himself.

As Camilla came around his fingers and mouth, Enzo's climax came as he spilled his seed on the floor below him.

Camilla was still convulsing when Enzo pulled his fingers out, his forehead resting on her stomach as his body was somewhat satisfied with his release.

Enzo stood and grabbed a towel from the bathroom, cleaning himself, then Camilla, then the floor before tossing it into the hamper. Enzo pulled Camilla to the pillows as he climbed into the bed, pulling her beneath the covers.

She was still naked while he remain in only his boxers, the feeling of her against his chest satisfied him in ways that were unsettling if he thought about it too long.

"Are you not going to call your driver to take me home?" She asked, but there was a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

"Home?" He repeated the word as if it were foreign to him, "You're not goin anywhere." His declaration was one he made conciously. The thought of sending Camilla away right now sounded like torture to him.

Camilla laughed, the sound Enzo adored — though her moans now took the number one place.

"Good, because I don't think I can move." Her words were said while her eyes were closed, Enzo knew she would soon be alseep.

He pulled her closer until her head was laying on his chest and her leg lay across her stomach. As her breaths deepened, Enzo's hand traced absent patterns on her back.

Ivan was correct in his assumptions, Camilla was going to go down in history as his greatest weakness.