Page 3 of His Ruthless Vow

Enzo doesn't move back, doesn't surrender an inch of the space he's claimed near me. Instead, he extends his hand to Griffin with calculated politeness.

"Enzo Rossi."

Griffin shifts both waters to one hand and returns the handshake. "Griffin Taylor. Friend of Kendra's."

The word "friend" hangs in the air, and I watch Enzo's expression shift microscopically as he processes this information.

"Come on," Griffin says to me, oblivious to the tension. "They're playing our song."

It's not our song—we don't have a song—but I recognize the lifeline he's throwing me. Even Griffin, who knows nothing about these families, can sense the dangerous current flowing between Enzo and me.

"Right," I say, taking the water and downing half of it. "Nice chatting, Enzo."

Enzo's eyes don't leave mine as he steps back, a predator willing to pause the hunt but not abandon it. "We'll continue this conversation later, Kendra."

The way he says my name—like he's tasting it—sends an unwanted rush of something through me. Something I choose to ignore.

Griffin leads me to the dance floor, his hand light on my back. "So, do I need to ask what that was about?" he says once we're safely swaying among other couples.

I glance over his shoulder. Enzo hasn't moved, his gaze still locked on me from across the reception.

"Absolutely nothing," I say firmly, even as my body hums with awareness. "Nothing at all."

2

ENZO

The reception spills across the sprawling garden like expensive champagne—calculated extravagance beneath the Chicago twilight. White silk tents glow with warm light, and flower arrangements worth more than most people's monthly rent perfume the air. Jazz and Nerio spared no expense celebrating their unholy matrimony, bringing together Chicago's criminal elite under the guise of class and sophistication.

I stand at the edge of the crowd, nursing a glass of whiskey while scanning the perimeter. Old habits. Even at a wedding, I'm counting exits, identifying threats, keeping mental notes of who talks to whom. Mingling between the families has everyone on edge, shifting alliances like tectonic plates.

"You're going to wear a hole through that woman if you keep staring," Luca says, materializing beside me with his characteristic silence.

I don't turn to look at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Luca lets out a low, humorless laugh. "Sure you don't." He adjusts his cufflinks—platinum, understated wealth that matches the ice in his eyes. "Kendra. You've been watching her all night."

My jaw tightens. Across the garden, Kendra stands in a navy blue dress that hugs every curve like it was created specifically to torment me. But it's not the dress that has my blood running cold. It's the man beside her—tall, perfectly styled brown hair, expensive watch, leaning in too close as he whispers something that makes her laugh.

"Who's that?" I ask, keeping my voice deliberately casual. I know he told me his name, but I want to know more about him.

Luca follows my gaze, the corner of his mouth lifting in that knowing smirk that makes most men nervous. "Griffin something. They went to school together. Marketing, I think."

I take another sip of whiskey, letting the burn distract me from the urge to cross the garden and introduce Griffin's face to my fist.

"Seems friendly."

"Does he now?" Luca sounds amused. "Interesting you'd notice."

"Just making conversation," I say, eyes still fixed on Kendra and the way she touches Griffin's arm when she laughs again.

"I could tell you something else about him that might interest you," Luca offers, swirling the champagne in his glass with practiced indifference.

"I don't care either way."

"No? Then you wouldn't care that he's up to his neck in debt to Armando. Last I heard it’s nearly eighty grand. Been avoiding him for weeks."

My eyebrow rises at this, attention finally shifting from Kendra to Luca. "Is that right?"

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