Chapter 4 (Enzo)

I sink into my couch, muscles aching from the work of assembling that makeshift jail cell in my apartment. Sweat still clings to my skin as I take a long pull from my beer, trying to wash away the frustration of this whole fucking situation. The cold liquid offers little comfort – I don't like any of this, not one bit. Sure, my line of work isn't exactly filled with morally upstanding moments, but this... this feels different.

The bottle dangles between my fingers as I stare at the ceiling, my thoughts circling back to the sexy as fuck girl I've got locked up in my spare room.

I've dealt with plenty of messed up shit in my life as a mobster and killer, but this situation is unnecessarily complicated. Having her here, in my space – it's a complication I don't need, especially with the Irish mob potentially gunning for her. Sometimes I catch myself wishing someone had already put a bullet in her head. Hell, it would have been more merciful than whatever fate awaits her now.

But then I remember – if she had been killed, I never would have seen her. Never would have noticed the way her emerald eyes flash with defiance even through her fear. The memory of her makes my grip tighten around the beer bottle

She's gorgeous, even with the injuries and obvious concussion. There's something about her that draws me in – maybe it's that fierce spirit I can see burning beneath her vulnerable exterior. Even in her weakened state, I find myself imagining her curves, the way her full lips trembled when she...

"Fuck," I groan, shifting uncomfortably on the couch as my body responds to the direction of my thoughts. I'm hard as hell, and angry at myself for it. This isn't what I'm supposed to be thinking about. This isn't what I'm supposed to be feeling. But no matter how much I try to shake these thoughts away, they keep coming back, leaving me frustrated and aroused.

I down the rest of my beer in one long swallow, hoping the alcohol might dull these inappropriate thoughts.

It doesn't help.

Nothing helps.

I'm stuck here with my twisted thoughts and a beautiful captive, wondering how the hell I'm going to handle this situation without losing my mind.

I need to get one thing straight in my head – I'm not some lowlife rapist. Whatever else I might be, whatever blood might stain my hands, I won't stoop to that level. Though a treacherous voice in my mind whispers that I might taste her if she begged...

In some fucked up way, she's lucky Giacomo dumped her with me instead of some of the other mafia scumbags.

Not that he gave her to me so much as forced her on me – another thing I'm not exactly thrilled about. I've seen how some of our guys operate, the sick pleasure they take in breaking people. They would've beaten her, probably taken turns with fucking her, treated her like she was less than human. The thought makes my stomach turn, even though I've witnessed worse in this life.

The least I can do is treat her like a human being, even if she's locked up. Sure, she has to piss and shit in a bucket because I can't trust her to move freely around my apartment. It's fucked up, I know that. But I won't beat her or abuse her. Won't treat her like some animal in a cage. And I'll make sure she gets decent food, not just whatever slop I can find lying around.

I'm not the good guy here – far from it. But maybe I can be less of a monster than the others would be. It's a low bar, but it's something to hold onto in this mess. The heavy gold chain around my neck suddenly feels like it's choking me, and I find myself tugging at it absently.

Giacomo's latest orders echo in my head: "Keep her alive, keep her contained, wait for further instructions."

I've done plenty of dirty work for the family, but usually it's quick – in and out, bullet to the head, problem solved.

This... this is different.

This is torture by a different name, and I'm the one holding the keys.

I decide to treat her as decent as I can, given the fucked up circumstances. Though in the end, it probably won't make a difference – her fate lies in the hands of my bosses. The thought that I'm not the one making the final decisions about her should be a relief, but I know it's just a fucking copout.

Standing up, I head to the kitchen and put together a simple sandwich and a glass of water. It's not much, but it's something. As I approach her room, I slide open the eye slit in the door. She's curled up on the mattress, looking small and vulnerable. The sight doesn't move me – or at least that's what I tell myself as I close the slit and unlock the door.

The moment I step inside, she explodes into action like a fucking madwoman. Her nails rake across my face as she screams, catching me off guard. The plate and glass crash to the floor as I instinctively push her back toward the mattress. But she's not done – she springs up again, charging at me with wild determination. This time, I'm ready. In one fluid motion, I catch her and pin her to the mattress.

"Let me go, you bastard!" she screams, thrashing beneath my grip. Her emerald eyes burn with fury and tears.

"Stop fighting," I warn her, my voice steady despite the chaos. "Or I'll have no choice but to tie you up and gag you."

"Fuck you! Fuck you!" She spits the words at me, still struggling against my hold. The defiance in her voice shouldn't affect me the way it does, but I feel heat coursing through my veins.

I maintain my grip, staring down into those fierce green eyes as I repeat, "Stop. Now."

Gradually, the fight drains from her body. The transformation is sudden – one moment she's all rage and resistance, the next she's dissolving into tears, curling into herself on the mattress. I stay still for a moment, making sure the switch is genuine before I release her.

Standing up, I survey the mess on the floor. The sandwich is salvageable, mostly. I pick it up, reassemble it as best I can, and place it at her feet.

"You're stuck here," I tell her firmly. "Fighting won't change that. It'll only make things worse for you."

"I want to go home," she whimpers, her voice breaking on the last word.

"There is no home anymore. You're mine now." The possessiveness in my voice surprises even me.

"Never," she shoots back, and despite her tears, there's steel in her tone.

I find myself studying her, wondering how much to reveal. Finally, I say, "I work for the Bellini Family. The largest Italian mafia organization in the city." Her blank look tells me she doesn't recognize the name, and I frown. Either she's a damn good actor, or she really was kept in the dark about her father's dealings.

"My father..." she starts, then swallows hard. "He must have done something to upset your... your mafia."

I can't help but laugh darkly at that understatement, shaking my head at her naive interpretation of events.

I lean against the wall, studying her tear-stained face and wondering how the daughter of Shamus Pietro could be so clueless about her surroundings. Then again, I've seen how the women in our world are often kept on the periphery, shielded from the brutal realities of what their men do. She probably even thinks her brothers were nice guys – the thought almost makes me laugh again.

The Pietro brothers. Fucking scumbags, every last one of them. I've heard stories that would turn most people's stomachs. Like the time the youngest Pietro brother gutted a man over a measly two hundred dollar debt, making the poor bastard watch as his intestines spilled out. That's the kind of madness they brought to our streets, the kind of terror they spread through our city.

Shamus Pietro himself started as nothing more than an Irish hitman, but his capacity for brutality earned him a promotion. He carved out his territory through brute force, and his sons were following right in his footsteps, becoming just as infamous as their father.

I feel no guilt about our boss's decision to wipe them out. The Pietros were hurting our people, terrorizing our city. The ambush was clean, executed in broad daylight when they least expected it. Sometimes the only way to deal with rabid dogs is to put them down. Call it brutal, call it whatever you want – it had to be done.

But looking at her now, I can't help but wonder how much she really knows. Could someone really live under the same roof as the Pietros and not catch on to what they were? Their reputation was legendary in certain circles – the kind of stories mothers used to scare their children straight.

Looking at her, I can't decide if she's a devil in angel's clothing or truly as innocent as she seems. The way she fought me earlier – that fire in her eyes – it reminds me that appearances can be deceiving.

I find myself remembering the feel of her beneath me during our struggle, the fierce defiance in those emerald eyes.

"Eat," I command, gesturing to the sandwich at her feet. "And calm down. If you scream or attack me again, this level of niceness ends. Consider this your final warning."

"Please," she begs, her voice barely above a whisper. "Just let me go. I'll leave town, never come back. Please..."

I ignore her pleas, turning toward the door. As I lock it behind me, I hear her voice, raw with anger.

"Fuck you, Enzo!"