Kayla stepped out of the room, smoothing the folds of her dress. She felt a shiver of nerves. This wasn't just any visit—it was her first time at Enzo's father's house, and though she didn't question the convenience of their arrangement, the weight of it pressed on her.
Enzo's gaze flicked toward her once, assessing. There was no warmth in his eyes, no smile, just the cold, measured look he always carried. She kept her head straight, hands folded, refusing to meet his eyes.
"Shall we go?" she asked softly.
"Mm," he replied, voice flat, clipped. That was all the reassurance she got. Kayla settled into the car silently.
The drive was quiet, but not uncomfortable. She had long ago learned not to try to provoke conversation with him; Enzo spoke only when necessary, and every word carried weight. She stared out the window, trying to steady her nerves, letting the city lights blur past.
Then it happened. A sharp bang! rocked the car.
"Down," Enzo barked. Instinctively, Kayla ducked, pressing herself against the seat.
"What—?" she whispered, heart pounding.
"Stay down. Don't move," he said, eyes scanning the street with cold precision. A biker gang had flanked them, revving their engines. Kayla's stomach churned, but she didn't flinch beyond lowering her head. She trusted him to handle this; she had to.
Enzo's jaw tightened. "Bulletproof car. Doesn't mean we're untouchable," he said flatly. There was no comfort in his tone, no attempt to soothe her. Only facts, control, and precision.
The bikers tried to flank them, engines roaring. Enzo accelerated with deliberate speed, weaving expertly through traffic. Kayla pressed her hands to her lap and kept silent, her pulse thundering in her ears. She didn't ask questions. She didn't protest. She only held on, trusting him.
"Marco. Now," Enzo said into his phone, never glancing at her.
Kayla stayed quiet. She had learned early on that questions were useless. He didn't explain, he didn't justify, he simply acted. And when he acted, people—her included—survived.
Minutes later, they pulled up to a secluded warehouse. Enzo killed the engine. "Stay," he said, nodding toward the car.
Kayla nodded, hands still folded in her lap. She didn't move, didn't argue. She watched as Enzo stepped out, gun drawn, his posture taut and commanding. His men appeared silently from the shadows, ready.
The bikers hesitated. Enzo fired a warning shot. One biker attempted to flee, and a precise bullet struck his leg. He collapsed, screaming, clutching it.
Kayla held her breath, peeking through the tinted window. She said nothing. She didn't ask if he was dead or alive. She already knew that in Enzo's world, "enough" was the only answer she needed.
"Not dead. Incapacitated. Enough," Enzo said coldly, voice even, without emotion.
Another biker tried to circle around. Enzo fired another warning shot. The second biker fled into the night, revving his engine.
Kayla exhaled softly, still not moving. She didn't speak, didn't question. She didn't need to. She understood that Enzo's silence wasn't indifference—it was control. He handled threats before they became problems. That was all that mattered.
Enzo returned to the car. "We leave," he said. His voice was flat, detached, but there was a weight to it that made her obey without hesitation.
The car moved through the darkened streets, Kayla sitting rigidly, hands folded in her lap. Her mind raced, replaying every detail of the warehouse incident—the guns, the precision, the men. She realized then, with a jolt that made her stomach twist, that Enzo was no ordinary man.
A mafia boss. That explained the bulletproof car, the silent men, the calculated violence. Her father's debts, the convenience marriage—it all clicked into place.
She glanced at Enzo. He didn't look at her. His eyes stayed fixed on the road, jaw set, every muscle taut and controlled. His silence now felt heavier, darker, and she felt a flicker of disgust.
How could she have been so naïve? He wasn't a businessman, not in any conventional sense. The money for her father… the protection… it was all tied to a world she didn't want to touch.
She pressed her lips together, her fingers tightening in her lap. She despised him—coldly, quietly—but she didn't question him aloud. That would be foolish. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of fear or anger. Instead, she stared at the city passing by, forcing her emotions down.
The mansion gates appeared ahead. The sprawling estate, guards stationed at every corner, the sheer wealth—it was overwhelming, imposing. She realized she had stepped into a world that was both beautiful and dangerous, a world she had no right to challenge.
Enzo killed the engine. "Stay," he said, stepping out. No warmth, no invitation—just command.
She obeyed silently, standing as straight as she could, keeping her hands folded, as he led the way inside.
Dinner was served in a long, formal dining room. Enzo's father, a tall man with sharp features and eyes that weighed every word, sat at the head of the table. He spoke little, his voice measured, almost detached. Enzo remained close to Kayla, quiet, expression unreadable.
Kayla picked at her food, barely tasting it. Her mind was elsewhere, turning over the implications of what she had seen. Guns, violence, mafia. The money her father had borrowed. Every polite smile and careful word at this table now felt like a mask over danger.
She kept her eyes low, nodding politely when addressed, but she noticed every detail. The silverware, the rich fabrics, the subtle power radiating from the men in the room. It was opulent and threatening all at once.
After dinner, she excused herself and moved through the house, wandering slowly. Her eyes widened at the sight of rare antiques, ornate furnishings, and priceless artifacts. Each piece told a story of power, wealth, and careful control. She realized the house was a reflection of Enzo himself—precise, cold, and untouchable.
And yet, despite the beauty, she felt nothing but unease. The world she had stepped into was no fairytale. It was dangerous, structured around violence and control. Her quiet resentment of Enzo deepened, though she said nothing aloud. Words would have been pointless. This was his life. His rules.
Kayla's gaze fell on a delicate porcelain vase, a centuries-old piece resting in a display case. She traced its curves with her eyes, thinking about how fragile beauty could exist amidst danger and brutality. She shivered, realizing that in this house, everything was controlled, calculated… just like him.