Page 4 of His Savage Obsession

"Her body, ya know?" Enzo remarks, offering a casual shrug that belies the gravity of the situation. "Politics," he trails off, his voice hinting at an understanding of the underlying complexities.

It’s a gray area for many of us, a murky situation that often leaves us unsure of how to proceed. It’s easy to speculatefrom the outside, but when it happens to you, everything shifts. "Isabella is a wild card," I continue, mulling over her unpredictable nature. "She often doesn’t know when to stop drinking. So if you hadn't shown up tonight, who knows how it might have ended between her and Liam? It could have spiraled into something even messier."

As Enzo begins to unstrap the heel on my other foot, his touch is both gentle and firm, placing it carefully beside its partner. His fingers work their way into the skin, massaging with a practiced ease as he seamlessly transitions between my feet. "Why are you friends with someone like that?" he asks, a genuine curiosity lacing his tone, as if he’s trying to comprehend the chaotic threads that weave through our lives.

Normally, that would be a tough question to answer, but in Isabella's case, it comes with an easy resolution. "Usually, I wouldn't share this story with just anyone," I begin, my voice steady but laced with a hint of vulnerability. "But I feel safe with you, Enzo. I don't know why that is." Perhaps it's the liquor coursing through my veins, or perhaps it’s the way his presence envelops me, making everything feel a little warmer, a little lighter. "Some friends and I snuck into a club for my sixteenth birthday. We were dancing and laughing, lost in our carefree world, until the owners caught us red-handed. They dragged us into the back room, and there were five of us—just a bunch of naive girls—and two of them, towering giants standing at 6'5". The sight was intimidating, their bulk casting a shadow over our youthful exuberance. They threatened to call the cops, and two of my friends started crying, panic taking hold of them. Then one of the owners stepped forward and said he’d let us go this time since it was our first offense, but only if we, you know, if we blew them."

The memory ignites a fire in my veins, boiling with the intensity of what feels like yesterday. I can still picture the two girls, their faces streaked with tears, the fear palpable in the air. A chill races down my spine as the recollection unfolds. "It was my idea to go there in the first place because I was convinced we wouldn’t get caught, so I stepped up. I said I'd do it. I insisted we shouldn't make them pay for my reckless decision. It sounds a lot braver than it was in reality because I didn’t even realize I was crying until I felt those hot, wet tears soaking through my shirt."

Las Vegas has a way of making you believe you can conquer anything, that the impossible is within reach. That particular night, however, it ensnared me, and I became a victim of my own bravado. "The owners exchanged glances, bumping elbows, and began pulling out their dicks, ready to turn our nightmare into something worse. But Isabella, fierce and unyielding, stepped forward and said, ‘Fuck that!’ She pulled a taser out of her bag with a defiance that shocked everyone in the room and demanded to know who wanted to take it up the ass. With her courage, she managed to get us out of there without anyone having to compromise their dignity."

Isabella is a wild card, and I wasn't kidding when I said that. "On one of the scariest nights of my life, she was there to save my ass without a second thought. She's never asked for a thank you, never expected me to pay her back, and she's never even brought it up again, as if it were just another Tuesday for her. Isabella is the kind of girl who gets shit done, no matter the odds stacked against her. Maybe she goes a little crazy from time to time, but I think it's because she's seen some crazy stuff in her life. It's her way of coping with the madness that surrounds her. Sure, she should probably go to therapy, but for now, this is what she can handle, and she does it with a kind of fierce grace that I admire."

Enzo's fingers never stop their gentle massage of my foot, a soothing rhythm that contrasts the tension in the air. His eyes, deep and expressive, are locked onto mine, drawing me in with an intensity that makes my heart race. The concern etched on his face deepens as I navigate through the darker parts of my story, but he remains silent, allowing me the space to share my truth. It isn't until I've finished recounting the tale that he pulls out from under my legs, working his way around the booth with a purposeful grace. His arm brushes against mine, a fleeting spark of connection, and he looks me directly in the eye. "You're a good friend, Autumn, and so is Isabella," he says, his voice steady yet laced with warmth.

He smells like cedar and mandarin, a heady combination that envelops me as he leans in closer. Up close, I can see the stubble of his five o'clock shadow, dark and inviting, growing back in after a long day. I can't resist the urge; I reach up to scrape my fingers against it, a compulsion that feels both thrilling and reckless.

Enzo's hand reaches up to grasp mine, his touch igniting a fire within me. He closes his eyes in a moment of restrained passion, holding my fingers against his face as if they were a fragile treasure. "Autumn, you're a beautiful woman, and you make me feel things that I shouldn't. I want to touch you so badly. I want you," he breathes, his voice a husky whisper that sends shivers down my spine.

All of the fantasies I've had about this man come rushing to the forefront of my mind, overwhelming me with desire. I want him to strip me bare right here in the dark booth of Cloak & Dagger, where the intimate shadows wrap around us like a velvet cloak. I want him to fuck me on this table, the wood beneath us a witness to our wild abandon. But lurking in the back of my mindis the disapproving glare of my father, a stern reminder of the values I was raised with. I can hear my mother's words echoing in my thoughts, like a haunting melody from my childhood. I remember the warmth of my good Catholic upbringing, the lessons drilled into me about love and commitment. "Enzo, I can't," I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of my turmoil. "I—I have to wait for marriage." The words tumble from my lips, nearly breaking me, as if each syllable is a chain binding my heart.

I thought that it wouldn't matter. I thought that if the right man came along, I could easily forget the silly traditions my parents tried to foist upon me, that I could embrace my own desires without guilt. But the reality is that parental and religious guilt cut me to the core, festering like an open wound that refuses to heal.

"Then marry me, Autumn Gallagher," Enzo leans forward, his breath warm against my skin as he presses his forehead to mine, creating a spark that ignites the air between us. "Not just for tonight, but forever." His words hang in the air, heavy with promise, and for a fleeting moment, I dare to imagine a life where I could embrace my desires without fear.

Every dispassionate conversation regarding my future betrothal swims through my memories like shadows in a dimly lit room. I can vividly picture my father discussing my impending marriage to an O’Reilly, his tone solemn and authoritative, as if it were a decree rather than a choice. My brother, ever the pragmatist, merely shrugs off the significant age difference, as if it were an insignificant detail in the grand scheme of life. Meanwhile, my mother, with a soft smile on her face, happily knits delicate doilies adorned with our names, envisioning a future that feels more like a cage than a sanctuary. Autumn O’Reilly or AutumnBianchi—two paths laid out before me, each with its own set of expectations and limitations.

"Say yes, Autumn," Enzo groans, his voice laced with urgency and longing, "please. You don't know how long I've wanted this." His eyes, filled with a mix of desperation and hope, seem to plead with me to step into a different reality.

For years, my family has insisted that I would learn to love my betrothed in time. First comes marriage, they say, and then, eventually, affection will blossom like flowers in spring, even if the roots are planted in rocky soil. But deep within me, a fire ignites—a primal lust for Enzo that I can no longer ignore. While marriage would still come first, I sense that love and affection would bloom far sooner with him than they ever would with an O’Reilly.

"Yes," I decide in the heat of the moment, the word bursting forth like a dam breaking under pressure. It's the only answer; it's the right answer. "I'll marry you, Enzo."

His lips brush against mine, soft and tentative, and in that fleeting moment, I swear I see heaven itself reflected in his gaze. "You've made me the happiest man alive," he murmurs, his voice a whisper laced with disbelief and joy, as if he can hardly fathom the reality of my acceptance.

5

ENZO

When Antonio was married, the family spent thousands of dollars on his extravagant wedding. This lavish expenditure was not only a reflection of his status as the next head of the family but also a testament to the vibrant and grand traditions surrounding Italian weddings. We revel in the joy of our own tying the knot; it's a time for celebration, a festival of love and unity.

Tonight, however, is an entirely different affair.

Autumn wears a borrowed veil from the chapel, the delicate lace draping over her face, though it doesn't quite match her striking red slip. Still, she radiates beauty and grace, a vision of love in the dim candlelight. Earlier, she had called Isabella to share her concerns, and despite her friend's initial upset at being ditched, Isabella arrives at the chapel, determined to fulfill her role as a witness with a fierce loyalty that only true friendship can forge.

"You think you're ready to marry my best friend?" Isabella fires at me, her eyes glinting with mischief before the ceremony begins. "You’re going to have a pack of rabid dogs on your hands,my friend. Irish rabid dogs," she insists, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "Ginger Irish rabid dogs, no less."

I glance past her, my gaze settling on Autumn, the only redhead who truly matters amidst the swirling emotions of the evening. She stands there, animatedly engaging with Costantino, one of my cousins and another Bianchi. He was the witness I called, the one person I could trust to stand by me today. Autumn laughs at something he says, her nervous jitters visibly easing under his warm presence. "I'll walk through fire for that girl, Isabella," I declare with earnest conviction, feeling the weight of my commitment settle in my chest.

At midnight, the neon-lit streets of Vegas come alive, with plenty of wedding chapels keeping their doors wide open. Getting married in Vegas has become something of a punchline among those who know better. The thought of getting an annulment from a Vegas wedding is almost a rite of passage, a quirky anecdote to share over cocktails. But tonight, none of that matters to me; I’m just getting married, period. No jokes, no frivolities.

"Her brother is going to kill you," Isabella reminds me, her tone half-serious and half-teasing. "And it will be a pleasure to watch him get mad at someone who isn't me for once." I can’t help but feel a chill run down my spine at the thought of Autumn's protective sibling, but I also find a strange comfort in Isabella's playful commentary.

I'm beginning to rethink this friendship with Isabella. "You're very reassuring, thank you," I say dryly, the sarcasm hanging in the air between us.

With a casual shrug and a playful pop of her blonde locks, she flashes me a bland smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "I'malways here to help. Anyway, did you get a ring?" Her question pierces through the nervous haze that surrounds me.

It is uniquely hard to find a jewelry store open this late at night in this city of excess, but I managed it. While Autumn was coaxing Isabella into leaving the club and heading to the chapel, I was busy convincing Costantino to unlock his dad's shop for me. One three-stone princess diamond engagement ring and a French pavé wedding band later—and after handing over $5,000—we were set. "Yes. It's a wedding, Isabella," I reply, trying to inject some seriousness into the moment.

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