Collateral for the Lycan Don

Chapter 4: The Underboss's Apology

The intense, heavy silence in the room broke with a soft, rhythmic knock at the heavy oak doors.

Enzo’s silver eyes flickered, the luminescent glow slowly fading back to a deep, impenetrable brown. He slowly pulled his forehead away from hers, giving her space to breathe, though his thumb lingered near her jawline for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

"Enter," Enzo commanded, his voice instantly returning to its usual icy authority.

The doors swung open. Elara tensed, pulling her knees back to her chest, half-expecting a squad of armed guards to drag her away to the kitchens. Instead, Matteo stepped into the room.

The ruthless Underboss who had hauled her toward the SUV the night before wasn't holding a weapon. He was carrying a massive, polished silver tray loaded with fresh fruit, warm pastries, fluffy eggs, and steaming coffee. The rich aroma filled the room, making Elara’s violently empty stomach give a traitorous ache.

Matteo walked forward and carefully set the tray on the edge of the mattress. He didn't offer his usual shark-like smirk. He didn't look at Enzo for approval. Instead, he took a deliberate step back, looked directly at Elara, and respectfully bowed his head, exposing his throat in a sign of submission.

"Miss Elara," Matteo began, his tone entirely devoid of its previous mockery. "I brought you breakfast. More importantly, I am here to formally apologize for my actions at the packhouse. I laid hands on you roughly, and I failed to recognize your proper place within this Famiglia. I was out of line, and I ask for your forgiveness."

Elara stared at him, completely stunned. An Underboss of the most feared syndicate on the continent—a man who could have snapped her neck with two fingers—was bowing to a dud. She glanced nervously at Enzo. The Lycan Don stood completely still with his arms crossed over his chest, quietly watching her to see how she would wield the protection he had just given her.

Elara didn't say a word. She stared at the tray of food, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

The steam rolling off the fluffy eggs and warm pastries smelled like heaven, and her stomach gave a sharp, painful twist of profound hunger. But she didn't reach for it. Instead, she pressed herself harder against the mahogany headboard, her eyes darting between the silver tray, Matteo’s bowed head, and Enzo’s imposing silhouette.

It’s a trick, her mind screamed.

In her old pack, food was a weapon. When she failed to clean a room perfectly, she was starved for days. On the rare occasions Arthur Vance offered her something from his own table, it was always a setup—a test to see if she would drop her guard before he yanked the plate away or struck her for being greedy. A ruthless mafia Underboss didn't just apologize and serve breakfast to a dud without strings attached.

"I... I don't..." Elara stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked at Enzo, sheer panic swimming in her eyes. "What do I have to do for it?"

Enzo’s jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck jumped, and Matteo visibly stiffened, recognizing the dangerous shift in his Alpha's demeanor. Enzo didn't look angry at Elara; the murderous rage was entirely directed at the ghosts of the men who had broken her.

"Leave us, Matteo," Enzo commanded, his voice cold and flat.

"Yes, Don," Matteo replied instantly. He backed out of the room, shutting the heavy oak doors silently behind him.

Once they were alone, Enzo slowly approached the bed. He didn't loom over her. Instead, he carefully sat on the very edge of the mattress, leaving plenty of space between them so she wouldn't feel cornered.

"You do nothing for it, Elara," Enzo said quietly.

Elara shook her head, her bandaged hands trembling as she pulled the silk sheets higher. "Nobody gives me anything for free. There's always a price. If I eat it, my father will say I stole it. He'll—"

"Your father is a dead man if he ever crosses my threshold again," Enzo interrupted, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument.

He looked at the tray, then back at her bruised, terrified face. Understanding dawned in his dark eyes. He realized she didn't just fear the cost; she feared the food itself.

Slowly, deliberately, Enzo reached across the tray. He picked up a perfectly ripe strawberry, brought it to his mouth, and took a bite. He chewed it slowly, swallowed, and then picked up a warm pastry, breaking off a piece and eating it as well.

He didn't say a word. He just sat there, allowing the silence to stretch between them, proving with his own body that the food wasn't poisoned, tainted, or a trap.

"There are no tricks here, little bird," Enzo murmured, holding out a piece of the pastry toward her. "The only rule in this room is that you do not go hungry. Eat."

Elara stared at his gloved hand. Her stomach cramped violently, overriding her fear. With a trembling hand, she reached out, her bandaged fingers brushing against his leather glove. She took the pastry, brought it to her lips, and took a tiny, hesitant bite.

It was the best thing she had ever tasted.

Before she could stop herself, the dam broke. The starvation took over, and Elara practically fell forward, grabbing the fruit and the eggs, eating with a desperate, frantic speed. Enzo didn't mock her. He didn't tell her to slow down. He just sat on the edge of the bed, a silent, immovable mountain of safety, watching her finally take something for herself.