: Chapter 6

I’d rather stare at a pile of horseshit for hours than glance in Enzo’s direction. Still, it’s taking some serious willpower to avoid it, considering he has spent the last fifty-three minutes waiting for me to do exactly that.

Not thirty seconds after I walked off with the girl who might be my new sister-wife, Clair clinked off in her heels, tears streaming down her pretty face. The fairytale-esque setup I walked out to was packed and carried away before I had a chance to pretend to inspect all the diamonds laid out before me.

I’m getting sick of hearing her voice now, though, and even more tired of the damn history lesson about each one I pause too long on. I don’t care where the diamond was born or the million reasons why one is rarer than another and so on, so I finally point at one.

“Ah,” she muses. “The Quad Queen. Shocker.”

I ignore her dig, being it’s well deserved considering. “What now?”

“Now we show the groom. Enzo!” She spins, calling Enzo from where he leans against the stone railing.

He kicks off immediately, heading this way, and when she eagerly intercepts his advance, I could kiss the bitch for her obvious enjoyment of having his attention. I take advantage of the moment, rushing away.

I hurry into the house, not caring what he thinks about my wedding ring of choice. Or is he calling it an engagement ring?

I should probably ask at some point.

Either way, I chose the largest diamond on the gaudiest setting for a band she had to offer—and there were plenty to pick from. The entire display just went to show my fiancé—no, my husband, if he’s telling the truth—knows nothing about me. He sees a pretty face and privileged past and assumes I’m like every other daughter sold off to the man he or her daddy can benefit from most.

Except, according to him, this marriage is of no benefit to anyone, not anymore.

Bastian Bishop, my sister’s man, is the head of my family.

I would say it’s ironic, but it isn’t.

I go after the man closest to my father in power, and then my sister’s new toy rises above him in name.

Fucking figures.

Even as I think the words, they feel shitty.

It’s not that I went out with the goal of competing with Rocklin. I love her, but I wanted something of my own. I have no place in the Revenaw world, but being born into it means I can’t leave it either, so a life onstage was out. I’m not a Greyson girl, an heiress chosen to represent the union of the underground world. I’m just a girl from Greyson Elite, a daughter like any other.

Being with Enzo was supposed to separate me from the northern district and pull me from the prison of my father’s reigning territory, thrusting me into something entirely new. Here, with a man—the only man—who has ever earned the right to employ those across all four districts without pledging loyalty to one over the others, while taking up residence in what’s been left unclaimed without permission—the abandoned sections of the east. I was supposed to thrive in a life of my own with a man of power at my side.

And all that makes this sound so much worse. Fantastic.

“Jesus, Boston, what did you do?” I cover my face with my hands, sighing into them.

Why the hell I thought tying myself to someone like Enzo Fikile was a good idea, I don’t know, but I’m beginning to think my sister was right to want to murder me for it.

Slipping into my room, I lean my head against the door and pull in a long, full breath. My muscles tense, and I take another, slowly turning, my eyes instantly locking on what wasn’t there this morning.

My pulse jumps in my chest as I move toward the bay window and the small cabinet now sitting below it. A shiny silver espresso machine rests on top, an array of small bottles of caramel beside it, and when I open the little cabinet door, I find it’s no cabinet at all, but a mini fridge with two canisters of whipped cream.

With shaky fingers I turn it on, smiling to myself when the little photos of different types of drinks it can make light up.

The wind blows hair into my face, and I push it away.

Wait, wind?

My head snaps left, and I gasp.

The balcony doors are not only unlocked, but wide open, and it’s not just that.

It’s been wiped clean and fully decorated.

Rushing over, I kick my flats off, gliding my hands along the frame.

Rather than a small table and chairs, the floor is made up of cushions no less than fifteen inches thick, my feet sinking in perfectly. Pillows are piled high on the left, and on the right is a small boxlike tabletop with a candle, a few mini succulents sitting on top. That’s not even the best part.

There’s a bookcase beside it, a handful of books already sitting inside. Lowering to the soft cushions, I cross my legs, smiling at the green, sweater-like throw tucked in the corner. I grab it and lay it across my legs, then tuck a small, amber-colored pillow in my lap. I read over the titles and suspicion grows as I realize all are novels I’ve read before. Not that I’m complaining. I’ll happily reread old favorites and not just to pass the time. Picking one, I set it beside me and lift the candle. There is no label, so I close my eyes and inhale. It’s a subtle scent I can’t quite place, but I like it.

“How am I supposed to…” I glance around, smiling when I spot matches sitting nearby. “Nice.” Stretching slightly, I reach for the small box, but my hand freezes as I realize it’s not a mat they were sitting on. It’s a folder.

Sliding it free, I set the candle down, tension coiling in my gut as something that feels a lot like anticipation bubbles around it. I flip it open and my heart beats double time.

There it is, the state seal stamped loud and proud along the paper’s edge.

I really am married to Enzo Fikile.

A shiver runs down my spine and I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to decipher the millions of emotions flitting through me, irritated with myself that it’s not only anger and annoyance.

“You’re surprised.”

I tense at the sound of his voice, glancing over to find him leaning in the now open doorway to the room. His eyes roam over every inch of me, from the blanket to the pillow in my lap, to my book of choice at my side, taking in every single thing in sight with rapt attention. When his gaze finally settles, it’s locked with my own.

“Why?” he wonders. “I told you the marriage was legal.”

He says it so simply, like that should have been all there is to it.

“Do you really expect me to blindly trust your word simply because you speak it?”

“Yes. I don’t lie.”

“Yet you want to lie to everyone you know by pretending this marriage is a real one.”

He studies me closely, and I don’t cower, letting him search for whatever it is he feels the need to look for. When his blank expression grows to a firm frown, he lets his arms fall to his sides. “Run from me and you will regret it.”

He slams the door closed on his exit, and I wait for that harsh click of the lock turning, but it never comes. Neither does the relief I thought it would bring.

The next morning, I wake early, and I’m ready and dressed in something I chose before cranky Grandma even opens my door.

She pauses, raising a brow, and I wait for her to tell me she’ll be back later to “collect me” or something akin to an order, but instead she asks, “I don’t suppose you would like to join me for coffee before you’re due for breakfast?”

“Seriously?”

She blinks, so I wipe the shock away and push to my feet, sweeping a hand out to her this time, pretending I didn’t enjoy one in my new favorite spot this morning.

She leads me down the same hall as always, but instead of curving to the right where the kitchen is, she takes me left and into an open elevator. We go up what feels like several floors, and when the doors open again, it’s to a giant sitting room overlooking the back side of a large lake I didn’t even know was there. This is my first time on this side of the house.

“This is stunning.” I walk over to the balcony doors, testing the handle, and a little spark of excitement flickers through me when it gives way. The early morning breeze sweeps in, and I step out, my eyes traveling the grounds inch by inch.

I look to the swaying branches and fluttering leaves as the wind carries them across the grassy grounds. The swish-swashing of water beats somewhere, but I can’t spot the source.

“It’s a private lake. Part of the Fikile estate,” she offers from behind me.

“It’s so…peaceful.” A small frown pulls at my brows as I say it.

Peace is not something I would have expected to find here.

My balcony is peaceful, too.

“No one else has access. It is exclusively, well, yours.”

Mine.

Because I’m the future wife of Enzo Fikile.

Not future, Boston. You’re already his.

I swallow, peeking at her over my shoulder quickly and offering a small smile. As I turn back, something catches my eye several hundred yards out, and I squint.

Not something, someone.

Enzo jogs along the water, his shirt tucked into the back of what looks like a black pair of athletic shorts. The sun hits his form, revealing the sweat streaking his bronzed skin.

He stops suddenly and I scowl wondering what he’s seen, but then his head snaps in my direction, as if sensing my stare from all the way across the lake.

I turn just as Grandma steps outside, offering me a mug.

“Your fresh caramel isn’t quite ready, so the bottled kind will have to do for now,” she offers, pulling her own coffee to her lips.

“Contrary to what you clearly believe, I’m not a spoiled brat who needs fresh caramel for her cappuccino in order to drink it.”

“You are Boston Fikile.” Her face is as stony as ever. “You will always have the option for fresh caramel with your cappuccino. You just happened to beat the baker’s time clock this morning, is all.”

“Last time I was here, no one brought me fresh caramel.” I can’t help the bitter notes in my tone.

“Last time you were here, you refused to leave your room.”

“So this is like a Beauty and the Beast kind of thing, then? No eating if I don’t eat with the giant himself?”

“Precisely.”

I frown but the woman’s face is as serious as ever, so I go back to my cappuccino. Glancing toward the lake again, there’s no sign of Enzo, and when I’m walked like a dog on an invisible leash into the dining room, he isn’t there either. The food is brought out, and he doesn’t show up to eat it.

The four days that follow play out the same way—I eat alone, and I’m led back to my room only to be locked inside it. Having the small selection of books to keep me company makes it suck a little less, but by the fifth day, I’m ready to throw myself off the balcony.

I can’t take the silence, and the beats to the songs I keep on repeat in my head begin to blend, the tempo now lost in the ball of frustration I’m becoming.

So imagine my surprise when I slip my feet into a pair of fuzzy white slippers, prepared to spend my afternoon with a book yet again, and it’s not Grandma who pushes her way inside my room without knocking, it’s my husband himself.

Our eyes lock and while I guarantee mine are full of anger, his are annoyingly empty.

“We leave in fifteen minutes. Meet me in the foyer.” His attention falls to my feet. “After you change your footwear. The gold ones with the stones will suffice.”

“Where are we going?”

He closes the door.

“Dick!” I hiss, kicking off the comfortable house slippers and gritting my teeth as I slip the socks from my feet.

Throwing the closet doors open, I step inside, raking my gaze across the shoe shelf until I spot the gold ones with the stones.

My lips purse and I shake my head, assessing the several dozen pairs that have appeared little by little, all four inches high or higher. All with sharp pointed toes.

I flip off the offensive pair of his choice and slip into the lone pair of flats in this place…that only exist because they’re what I had been wearing the day he found me at the spa. Glancing in the mirror, I sigh, tearing the navy top over my head and swapping it for a black one to match better. It lays low on the curve of my shoulders, exposing my collarbone while still fully covering my spine. Not to mention it’s long enough to tuck into the waist of the white silk skirt.

Enzo’s checking his watch as I round the corner sixteen minutes later, his frown instantly pointed my way. With a shake of his head, he opens the door and I slip outside, right into the waiting back seat of the black Hummer, this one not quite a limo but large enough to have both custom rear and front-facing seats. I choose the seat that will give me the view of the road behind us, assuming Enzo will want to watch the path ahead, as my father would, but nooo. He parks his ass right beside me.

The moment the door closes, a black glass rises behind our seat, blocking us off from the driver for ultimate privacy.

That would be a cool trick if we were a lust-crazed couple, dying to tear each other’s clothes to shreds, but we’re not. We’re a fake one and hardly even classify as that.

“We’re having lunch with some old members of the eastern district.”

I tense, head yanking his way. “But we haven’t announced anything between us. The districts will see this as a power move.”

“Good.”

My brows jump and I tug back a little to look at him better.

Everyone knows Salvador Henley, the head of the east, is in hiding, has been for a few years now. Supposedly it’s to protect himself from an unknown threat, leaving his second and a few other trusted families to hold things down until his return, but my sister thinks it has to do with the fact that his daughter, the fourth member of the girls of Greyson, has yet to come out of hiding to claim her birthright. Or obligation, depending on how you look at it.

“You want to claim the eastern district altogether?”

“That’s not the purpose of this particular outing.”

Not a denial but literally the littlest of information he could possibly give.

“Fair enough.” I cross one leg over the other.

Enzo’s gaze falls to where my skirt stretches tight across my thigh. “Not going to ask me what it’s about?”

I shrug, pretending I don’t care. In all fairness, I don’t, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious. I’ve been locked in his house, mostly without his presence, for nearly two weeks with no one to talk to. I’d be happy to have a full-ass conversation about the weather right now.

“What’s the point?” I lead with instead. “You’ll only tell me a fraction of the truth anyway.”

“How would you know?”

My eyes slide his way. “Do you think I’m so naive I haven’t learned people omit the truth, if not flat-out lie, when it better suits them?”

“It would not better suit me to lie or omit anything in this case.”

“That could be a lie and I would never know.”

“I told you. I do not lie.”

“And I believe…that that is what you want me to believe.”

His eyes narrow and I’m tempted to smile but manage to hold it back. “Are you always such a brat?”

“People who know me would likely say yes, I am.”

His stare bores deeper, giving no sign that he’ll relent. So I do.

“Fine.” I roll my eyes. “What is this particular outing you have oh-so kindly gifted me with about?”

“I want Gorgio’s heir to understand what belongs to me so he stops trying to negotiate a deal that will never be made,” he answers instantly.

A frown builds across my forehead at the mention of the man from the eastern district combined with Enzo’s half-ass explanation, but Enzo pulls his phone from his pocket and begins reading over something, so I look out the window, watching the orchards go by for what seems like miles.

Ten minutes or so into the car ride, Enzo’s arm finds its way up, now draped over the back of my seat. I force myself not to move, taking practiced breaths and hoping with each roll of the tires something comes into view to indicate we’re at least getting closer to our destination.

Another two miles or so, and a touch so light I could imagine it was a rogue hair tickling along my skin if it weren’t for the rough pads of well-used fingertips grazes over my bare shoulders. I press my lips firmly together for something to focus on, anything to pretend the textured tips of his fingers aren’t driving me mad…not to mention completely bewildering.

He doesn’t stop there, and I have to clench my teeth to keep from reacting when his large grip closes around my ribs. Slowly, his palm skates up and down, his face still locked on his screen. When his touch treads lower, the length of his arm allowing his strong fingers to curve over my bare thigh, I freeze.

“Fail.”

My head whips his way, and it takes me a second to speak. “Come again?”

“I said fail.” Slowly, as if annoyed he can’t finish reading whatever the hell is so important, he looks up.

“Would my fiancée tense when I touch her thigh?” He adjusts in his seat, his phone dropped to the floorboard as he brings his other hand up to graze along my collarbone. He carries my long blonde hair with him, easing it over my shoulder until it falls loose across my chest. “Would she frown like that when I toyed with her hair?”

He scoots closer and my lungs forget how to work, need pulsing between my legs at his nearness. Not that I would ever admit such a thing to a viper like him.

“Would she turn away when I leaned in to kiss her…” He brings his lips a breath away from mine, dark eyes zeroed in on the bottom one as he sinks his teeth into his own. “Or would she meet me halfway?”

“I get it,” I rush, heart hammering in my chest as I glare. “Fake faces on, but you have to know, no one in our world is going to believe this is real. No one has ever even seen us together.”

“Oh, they’ve seen.” He sits back in his seat, his hands falling to his lap. “What do you think I’ve been doing these last few days?”

“Your girlfriend.”

His brows crash instantly, and he opens his mouth, but the car rolls to a stop and he looks over to see we’ve arrived at the restaurant. When they come back to me, they’re harder this time. “You’re not wrong.”

I know I said the words myself, yet shock still jolts through me. I swallow thickly, hating this man is getting the better of me right now.

The door is opened, and Enzo wastes no time climbing out.

I don’t even care when it swings shut behind him, locking me inside by myself. I take the moment to close my eyes and drag in a deep breath. “Do not murder your fake husband, Boston. It will not end well for you,” I remind myself.

I could probably end the girlfriend and live, though…

The door is yanked open once more, and I turn to climb out, but gasp when Enzo’s handsome face is right there, half his body leaning in the vehicle, arms locked against the hood.

“About one thing anyway,” he says, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s continuing his statement as if he’d just spoken.

I’m not wrong…about one thing anyway.

“They won’t believe you’re my fiancée when you wear no ring.”

“Well then, I guess I’m just the girl you brought along for⁠—”

I cut off abruptly when he pulls a small black box from his jacket pocket. He holds it up and I look from it to him.

“Close your eyes,” he orders, but there’s no real malice or mocking in his tone.

I continue to stare, a strange nervousness stirring in my stomach.

This is crazy, even if maybe it shouldn’t be. This man is the man I asked to marry me and technically, he did. He is my husband on paper. I’ve seen said paper myself, read the legal document several times now, but again, that’s a piece of paper.

This is the weight of a ring, a game tag that marks me as his for all the other hunters to see.

Why is that so terrifying?

I asked for this. I was excited to have a man like him to call mine. Marriage of convenience or not, I went after and got the man I wanted, so what sense does it make that fear roots me in place now?

Because you let go of the idea of him altogether, too afraid he’d pick your sister over you when your father offered him the trade.

My lips press together firmly. He probably would have taken Rocklin in exchange if Bastian wasn’t in the picture.

“Boston.”

I blink, refocusing on Enzo. He raises a brow expectantly, so I close my eyes, breath lodging in my throat when he takes my hand with his. A moment later, the chill of the band runs up my finger, sending a second down my spine. My fingers flex, my muscles bunching.

Lips meet my ear and I clench my eyes tighter.

“Remember, Little Bride.” His words are a rough rasp. “This is real. No one is to question us, do you understand?”

I swallow, a hoarse “Yes” pushing past my lips.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, burning my cheek with the heat of his lips when he slides them along my skin with his retreat.

Slowly, my eyes open, locking on to his. He holds a hand out, and I lift my left one, placing it in his.

His gaze holds mine as if waiting for something, but after a moment, a hint of frustration crosses his face and he moves back, helping me from the vehicle.

I break our stare first, my attention lasered on the front of the private restaurant, counting steps in my head to have something to focus on. It works fine until we step inside the cocktail room, and Enzo removes my light overcoat, passing it to the gentleman who appears.

I push a foot ahead, but Enzo needs no effort to keep up, his form looming inches behind me every step of the way. I step up to the bar, curling my fingers around the thick golden trim.

This being an establishment that didn’t so much as ask for our names as we walked in yet greeted Enzo with a bow of respect tells me my age is a non-issue. This place is without a doubt owned and operated by someone from the underground, likely ran as a cover for something else, so when the woman behind the counter offers a smile, I order a shot of Macallan 1824.

She lifts two glasses, pouring and passing them over.

I frown, but then Enzo reaches beyond me, claiming one for his own. I half expect him to take them both and pour them out into the abandoned glass beside us, but he doesn’t.

“To the first of many nights with you,” he whispers against my ear.

His words and the passion behind them are unexpected and momentarily freeze me in place, but then his glass comes down, slamming onto the bar and yanking me out of it.

Rather than throw mine back as he did, as I originally intended to do, I take my time, spinning the shot once, twice, and then slowly pour it into my mouth, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat.

The bartender pushes two glasses of white wine toward us then, but before I can wrap my fingers around the stem, Enzo’s find their way to my shoulders. His palms dance their way down my arms, and I fight the wave of goosebumps threatening to appear in their path. He bends, dragging his five-o’clock shadow across my jaw and then neck. I shiver, despite myself, and I swear his lips curve against my skin.

“Are you ready?” he rasps, arms wrapping tight around my middle from behind, tucking me into his large frame like I’m precious and he can’t get close enough. Hugging me to him and burying me in the warmth of his embrace.

Or if this were real, that’s what it would feel like.

“Ready?” It’s all I can manage to say.

His fingers lace with mine, and he shifts me slightly, so my right shoulder is pressed to his right pec. His dark eyes snap to mine, and he lifts our linked hands to his lips.

My gaze snaps to the contact, and I suck in a sharp breath.

The ring on my ring finger isn’t the big-ass, bougie diamond I pretended to want. In fact, I can say for certain it’s not a diamond that was in those cases at all.

The band is rose gold with a single, square diamond in the middle. It’s princess cut and almost dainty. It’s so…me.

It’s exactly what I would have chosen.

“This was the closest I could get in your color.”

My eyes slice to his, my lips parting, but he gives the slightest shake of his head. Enzo lowers his chin, his lips coming down on the diamond, his tongue sneaking across my knuckle at the same time.

“You’re early,” a deep voice reaches my ears.

I attempt to look toward the familiar voice, but Enzo’s hold on me tightens, keeping me still a moment longer. Slowly, he frees my hand, but the arm wrapped around my body doesn’t move, even when he shifts so he’s more at my side than my back.

Gorgio Mitchell, member of the eastern district, stands there, half-empty glass of whiskey at his lips.

“Gorgio.” Enzo reaches out, shaking the hand of the man I’ve met several times, as one of my father’s associates…the kind of associate you trust nothing about but are forced to play nice with when necessary. “You know Miss Revenaw.”

The man pins his big blue eyes on me. To a stranger, they’d be mesmerizing, but I know what kind of man lurks beneath them. There is a reason my father kept him on a leash he held the handle to in Salvador’s absence.

“Oh, yes.” Gorgio smiles, and it’s as calculating as ever. “Like my son, I could never forget the little ballerina. How are you this evening?”

“Boston Revenaw.”

My name comes from the left before my response and Enzo’s fingertips flex against me.

Philip Mitchell, the very son Gorgio just mentioned, saunters up with confidence, his solid black suit perfectly fitted, not a blond hair out of place. He slides his hands in his pockets and tips his head, a smirk pulled across his lips.

“Philip.” I say his name like a tease and a playful warning. The guy was born a flirt, and he is definitely laying his charm on thick, even without a word. “Back from your summer abroad so soon?”

“Hopped on the red-eye the minute I heard you’d be here.” He doubles down on the flirting, his grin growing mischievous, but before mine can take shape, Enzo steps in front of me.

Like, completely in front of me. It’s probably for the best. I wouldn’t put it past Philip to lean in and kiss my cheek or something else far more personal, and something tells me my secret husband wouldn’t like that very much.

“Philip.” Enzo’s tone is blank, but my old classmate is smarter than I’d have given him credit for.

He takes it for what it is, a solid warning, and moves a few spaces away.

“Should we head over to our table?” Gorgio suggests rather than asks.

Enzo dips his chin in agreement, blindly reaching for and pressing the wineglass into my hand. My left hand.

He knows what he’s doing, and he gets exactly what he wants. Or at least partially, as Philip chooses that moment to turn and head in the direction our table must be located, but his father remains before us.

Gorgio Mitchell’s eyes lock on the jewelry, gaze narrowing as if assessing the strength of the claim, and most definitely judging the size of it. Or lack thereof.

Instinctively, my right hand comes up to cover it, my fingers overlaying the others.

Enzo’s fingertips dig into my side as a clipped “Lead the way” leaves his lips.

We follow behind, but after a few steps, his free palm presses at my stomach, halting me, and his lips find my ear.

“Do not hide what makes you mine or I will mark you in a way you could never conceal, no matter how hard you tried.”

“What are you going to do, Enzo, tattoo my face?”

Those dark eyes find mine, the hazel within them a little more present under the low lights above us. “If that’s what it takes, then yes.”

My mouth gapes because I think I believe him. “And what about you?” I spit back. “You get to walk around like the bachelor you are?”

“I am no bachelor.”

“Sorry, like the bachelor you pretend you are.”

He faces me fully then, taking my hips in his hands and tugging me close.

“What would you like, hmm? Name it and it’s done. A ring on my finger? Your prints on my skin?” He tips his head, exposing his neck as he gazes down at me through his lower lashes. “Go on then,” he invites. “Mark me. Show everyone in this room what’s yours.”

I’m not sure if he’s goading me or calling my bluff, but what I do know is, whether he truly wants me to do as he’s asking or not, he doesn’t expect me to accept his offer right here in the center of the cocktail room when more than a few eyes pretend they’re not staring this way. But Enzo doesn’t know me, and I never did like the prim and proper way I was expected to behave in the public eye—be a badass no one will fuck with but smile and wave, and gag me. My father’s rules were at odds with themselves. It’s no wonder I had a hard time listening.

So, I shove my wine glass into his chest, forcing him to remove one of his hands from my body to take it, and lift my hands. I press one to the right side of his neck, the other gripping his shoulder as I haul myself onto the very tips of my toes, pointe shoes be damned. I give his head a little tug, and his eyes flash, but he obliges, dipping the slightest bit so I can reach.

My tongue wets the spot I’ve zeroed in on, right beneath the shell of his ear, and I let my warm breath beat across his skin a moment before shifting and pressing my lips against his neck.

His groan has my nipples sharpening in my top, but it’s nothing a good bra can’t hide.

I don’t suck like he insinuated, but I do leave a mark. A perfectly-shaped, full-lipped kiss mark the color of red velvet.

When I lower back to my feet, Enzo’s eyes snag mine with such intensity my skin heats, and only when I feel the flush spreading up my neck do they leave mine, but they don’t leave me. No, they lower in favor of witnessing the reaction this moment together has caused—an unmistakable flush sweeping up my chest.

Someone laughs loudly, and the spell is broken. My hands fly from him in a flash, retaking my wineglass, and Enzo grips my free one, all but dragging me through the room.

We head down a dimly lit hall, making our way toward a set of double doors, sealed shut and blocked off by two guards. One man with a familiar, black bandana hiding the lower half of his face, the other with his identity exposed.

“One of ours and one of theirs,” Enzo confirms the obvious once they’ve moved aside, but it’s the easy way he said ours I seem to latch onto.

He’s even trying to sell this whole we’re a unit thing when we’re alone. Must be a head game he has to play with himself.

To my surprise, I’m the only female in the room, outside of the girl currently pouring water from a crystal vase, a fact that does not go unnoticed as we approach.

Gorgio is careful not to glare, but I can spot a fought frown from a mile away. He’s not happy I’m here, and when Enzo pulls a chair out, directing me to sit, he makes it known.

His eyes find mine and a snakelike smile pulls at his lips. “Why don’t you join the girls in the music room, sweetheart? Play a key or two.”

“If you dare to speak to her, you will use her name and her name only.” Enzo doesn’t bother looking at the man as he says this, focused solely on my face as I lower into the seat.

Gorgio attempts a friendlier smile and fails. “All I’m suggesting is she may have a better time if she goes where she can be more comfortable, and maybe even get a little practice in.”

Because all women in our world typically are trained on an instrument.

Just another one of the ways I’m not typical and don’t fit.

I can feel Enzo’s temper rising, his fingers flexing where they lie.

I wait for him to tell me to go, but instead he says, “If it’s her comfort you’re after, then she’s in the right place. My fiancée dislikes classical music and the only instrument she plays is one I’d prefer not to mention.”

If I were less practiced in the art of self-control, I would gape at the man beside me. Gape and laugh because that was pretty smooth.

How does he know I hate classical music?

Philip scowls from me to Enzo, before swinging his eyes toward his father.

“That may very well be,” Gorgio begins, speaking slower now. “But need I remind you business is only spoken in front of family?”

“And she is mine.”

“Not yet she’s not,” is muttered very, very lowly from the left.

So much happens and all at once, I don’t even have time to process the unexpected warmth in my chest before all thoughts cut off and my awareness sharpens.

Philip flies to his feet, his eyes wide as he realizes his words were heard across the room, his trigger hand disappearing into the jacket of his suit.

Gorgio shoves to his full height, steak knife in one hand, cell in the other, his thumb hovering over the call button.

The two guards stationed on the right corners of the room jerk forward, drawing their weapons.

But none of that matters, because in the time it took them to stand and reach for their form of protection, Enzo has already reached down, gripped my hand, and spun me until I’m but a shadow behind his back. His gun is out, cocked and pointed at Philip’s head, his guards wielding a pair each, double-pointed at Gorgio and the other at their apposing guard.

Everyone in this room would be dead if Enzo wanted them to be, and in this moment, the Mitchells are realizing just that.

Silence passes in one beat and then a second.

No other choice, Gorgio concedes, a nearly unnoticeable dip of his chin one would miss if not intently watching and waiting to see what came next.

It’s quite entertaining, being all the men know he couldn’t exactly just kill them right here and now. I mean he could, but then Enzo would be hunted.

You can’t take out a notable family without reason, and pretending to be a possessive psycho when someone makes a comment about your new toy isn’t a good enough one.

It’s hot, but not justifiable for murder.

Even if Enzo is on the top tier of the cake and the Mitchells are but the icing you add around the bottom base—a nice addition but not a necessary one. At the end of the day, anyone can push pounds of pills if they know where to go, so to say the Mitchells are irreplaceable would be a lie.

Everyone returns to their seats and for the next two hours, the conversation carries on as if they didn’t point guns at each other’s heads or, you know, wish they were fast enough to be able to. It’s honestly super fucking weird.

It’s not until we’re back at the estate and stepping into the foyer of the mansion that Enzo spins and pins me with a hard look.

“What?”

“You didn’t speak up tonight,” he accuses.

My brows must disappear into my hairline because that is not a line I expected to hear. “I’m going to need a little more than that.”

“And I need a wife who doesn’t sit back like a voiceless doll.”

“Is that not an assumed law in this world?”

“Not in mine. You are no damsel so don’t act like one.”

“You have no idea what I am,” I throw back. “You know nothing about me.”

“Wrong.” He gets in my space. “I know everything about you.”

I laugh, loudly, and the anger lining his expression doubles in intensity at the bitter, incredulous sound. “Whatever.” I shake my head, my expression clearly relaying how full of shit his statement is. “Look, if you want me to act a certain way, then you’re going to have to find time in your busy schedule to actually speak to me to make those expectations known. Or if that’s too blue-collar for you, then at least tell Grandma so she can relay the message.”

He scowls, but he pushes forward, washing it away. The look on his handsome face is fierce as he crowds my space, delivering each word slower than necessary as if speaking to a child. “What I want is the girl I paid for, not this watered-down version of her.”

His words are like a slap to the face, even if I’m not sure how to take them or why they matter, but they do.

Of course, he gives no explanation, only an order. “Go up to your fucking room and stay there.”

“Go fuck yourself and pretend to hate it.”

That glare of his doubles, but something flashes in his eyes. His mouth opens but closes just as fast on an annoyed growl. He turns around, walks back to the still idling Hummer, and climbs inside.

He’s gone in an instant.

The guard presses the button on the elevator, so I turn in the opposite direction and take the glass stairwell. When he doesn’t follow right away, I glance down, and a smirk pulls at my lips.

“Did I just discover the secret to not being followed with every step?” I tease loudly, staring at the crystal-clear reflection of my bare ass beneath my skirt in the see-through, yet mirrored glass beneath me. “Tell me, what would happen if you dared to follow?”

The man doesn’t even look my way, deciding to watch my every move from what must be considered a safe distance.

I reach the top of the stairwell, and a satisfied breath escapes me.

The sensation lasts all of two seconds as a guard appears from both the right and left, leaving me no option but to walk straight…right into my room’s waiting open doors.

I slam the door shut, tossing my purse to the floor and groan up at the ceiling.

“Damn, took you long enough.”

I nearly jump out of my skin, barely managing to keep in a scream, but I’ve got her feet swiped from beneath her, sending her falling to the floor, a small squeak escaping when I realize she’s taking me with her, her feet having accidently tangled with mine on her way down.

I’m millimeters away from wrapping my hand around her throat, fully intending to choke her ass out, when she starts laughing. My hand freezes.

“Okay, that was unexpected…but fun.” She shoves at my shoulders, but I drive my knee into her thigh, making her wince before moving of my own accord.

I glare at her. “Who the hell are you and why are you in my room?”

“I’m Katana.” She smiles, holding her hand out. “I’m Enzo’s other wife.”