Page 45 of Broken Princess

I found myself wide awake in Aurora’s bed, surrounded by her scent and rock-hard all night. It’s now five in the morning and I’m fucking glad she refused to give us back the coffee machine because I feel like I need to hook it up intravenously if I’m going to make it through today. It’s not like we have anything that strenuous planned, but I’m finding more and more that the weight of what we’re up against is proving to be a lot to carry.

We made progress last night. We know who’s pulling who’s strings and confirmed how far up it goes. But now we have a dead body to dispose of and a prisoner we’ve established is about as useful as the male nipple. If he’s worthless to Salvatore, he’s less than useless to us. The only potential angle we could work is the fact Salvatore is fucking his wife, but that only makes her valuable, not him.

Tony’s back in the interrogation room, chained to the wall. After we finished the clean-up, we brought him back into the house. I wanted to sleep, and it’s the most secure room we have.

Boy, did Nico complain about it, though. “My space is not a holding cell. Guests are not welcome for extended stays.” I told him it was this, or he could sit in the van all night and babysit. He caved in… eventually. Benny helped placate him.

As I sip my espresso, realising that I’ll need another one before I feel human again, I try to focus on the positives. It’s looking likely that Mateo’s number two and consigliere—Manny Ferella & Stefano Tiero—aren’t dirty, so we might bring one or both of them in on this. We’ve been monitoring them since we found Aurora, trying to figure out why they were keeping Mateo’s murder under wraps and covering for their don’s absence. Either they’re involved or they—like us—are trying to figure out what the fuck is going on within The Syndicate.

What I can’t figure out is why the De Lucas aren’t outing the information yet and claiming responsibility. This is a weird-ass coup. It makes no fucking sense and we’re missing several pieces of the puzzle. What else are the De Lucas up to?

I run my hand over my face, rubbing against the scruff I keep forgetting to trim, attempting to wake myself up enough to figure this crap out.

Fuck, it’s too early for this shit.

We’re missing so much information, I feel like we are the extras on a movie set who haven’t seen the script, yet somehow the director is expecting us to save the fucking day in the third act. And I don’t have the first fucking clue where to start.

I grab a shower using the basement bathroom since I don’t want to wake everyone, but again it turns out to be a mistake since the only toiletries down here are the ones we got for Aurora and now I’m going to smell like her all day. The fragrance is light and floral, but I can’t place it. I don’t have the first fucking clue what neroli is, but according to the label on the bottle, that’s the scent that follows her everywhere and has my dick hard right now.

Fuck’s sake.

I find no satisfaction in rubbing one out in a dank shower stall, but since I have to face the guys soon, I’d rather not spend the whole meeting with a hard-on. It’s perfunctory and in keeping with the status quo. It’s been a long time since I’ve given much thought to my sexual needs, let alone had any desire to fuck anyone. Until Aurora.

It’s not that I can’t, it’s that I just… I have zero fucking desire to. I’m just… exhausted. My team is the most sought-after crew in The Syndicate, and we have to work twice as hard as anyone else for our position, thanks to our bastard status. Add to that the jobs we ran under the table for Mateo, and there’s no fucking time for a sex life. I guess I could have found a willing side-piece or paid someone, but what’s the fucking point?

Besides, I don’t fucking deserve the respite, given my failings.

My crew has been investigating Isabella Bianchi’s death for Mateo for the last fourteen years. When we started, we had tons of leads to follow, but they all went nowhere, and we’ve found fuck all in the last decade that would help us. It’s my greatest failure.

What’s worse is Sinclair has turned up a fresh lead for the first time in fuck-knows how long. The police have turned up two unidentified bodies in the last three weeks and one of the autopsy results threw up a red flag on one of the routine searches he runs.

They pulled one victim out of the river, making half the evidence useless. They found the other in a dumpster, protected from the elements. What triggered our interest was the markings that were found on the body. We’re working on getting hold of the full autopsy right now, but from the description, they sound similar to the markings found on Isabella’s torso.

Dividing my focus right now is the last thing I need, but even with Mateo dead, I won’t ever stop searching for Isabella’s killer. I feel a familiar ache in the pit of my stomach as I remember how her death destroyed my brother. He never recovered. He lost the love of his life, and when he took his life, I lost everything.

If I can’t find her killer, I don’t deserve happiness.

Stepping out of the shower, I sling a towel around my waist. I left my fresh clothes in the med-room so I head back there, dripping on the floor as I go. I head to the coffee machine first to get that started and then drop my towel. A small gasp behind me has me jerking around, only to be met with a pair of startled green eyes.

“I’m sor—” she starts before covering her eyes and turning on a dime, ready to bolt out of the room. With her limited visibility, she slips on the water trail I’ve left behind me and goes down hard, crying out in pain.

Running to her side, I bend and pick her up and bring her back to the bed. She pulls down her hands and gasps, immediately covering her eyes again.

“Er… Enzo. You’re still naked.”

“You saw quite a lot of me the other day, Aurora.”

“I did not.” She peaks through her fingers and then closes the gap, pretending she didn’t peek. “I saw your thighs when you spilled the coffee. I did not see… all of… do you live in the fucking gym?” She’s blushing and looks mortified, but she’s smiling—and that takes my breath away.

She carries on babbling about not meaning to barge in and apologising for invading my privacy while I extend her arm and check for any fresh injuries. She winces as I turn over her hand. It looks like her wrist took the brunt of it when she fell.

“Can’t you be more careful? We only just got you back into one piece, woman,” I chastise with a friendly tone. “Did you injure your ankle again? Why aren’t you wearing your boot? Where are your crutches?”

“I’m fine, Zo. I came down to grab another compression bandage. I was fine without the boot last night and I’m taking the painkillers like I’m supposed to. I’m done with the damn crutches.” Taking her hand back, she stares back at me and opens her mouth to continue but shakes her head and thinks better of it. She smiles contritely and says, “I’ll be more careful.”

I reach around her to grab my clothes from the bed, and she leans back as I do. She may avoid my closeness, but I don’t miss the subtle dilation of her eyes at my invading her space. She closes her eyes as I get dressed, but the smile remains on her lips, and it’s hard not to be warmed by it.

“I’m decent,” I call out as I head back to the coffee machine and grab my espresso. “Want one?”

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