Page 49 of His Ruthless Vow

My lips twitch before I can catch them—a momentary slip in control. I begin typing back, thumbs moving with more haste than I care to admit.

And yet you're responding just as quickly.

I'm supposed to be here checking in on Maria, making sure everything's running smoothly in this part of our territory. It's what I told Luca, anyway. The truth is more complicated, and I'm not willing to examine it too closely.

"That face doesn't look like business," Maria's voice cuts through my thoughts.

I glance up to find her watching me, arms folded across her chest, brown curls cascading over her shoulders as she leans against a rack of dresses worth more than most people make in a month. Next to her, Skye's lips curve into a knowing smile that immediately sets my teeth on edge.

"What face?" I slide my phone into the inner pocket of my tailored jacket, expression smoothing into practiced neutrality.

"The one where you almost smiled," Maria pushes off from the rack, moving closer. "Since when does Enzo Rossi smile at his phone?"

I straighten to my full height, steel gaze sweeping over both women. "I was confirming details for a shipment."

Skye snorts delicately, amber eyes gleaming with amusement. "A shipment named Kendra, perhaps?"

The muscles in my jaw tighten, but I keep my expression blank. Years of practice make it second nature to hide reactions—whether I'm facing down a rival or nosy friends who think they know too much.

"No one important." The lie falls flat even to my own ears.

Maria hums, clearly unconvinced. She circles the counter until she's standing directly across from me, perfectly manicured nails tapping against the polished surface.

"Right. So, are you and Kendra still in that stupid contract?" she asks, voice casual but eyes sharp.

I give her a look that would make most men take an involuntary step back. Maria merely raises an eyebrow, waiting. The tattoos on my forearms seem to burn beneath my shirt sleeves—reminders of all I've survived, all I've had to become. This conversation shouldn't make me feel cornered.

"That's between me and her," I say, voice dropping to that quiet register that usually ends discussions.

Maria leans on the counter, watching me carefully. "You're texting her like this is real, Enzo."

Skye moves to stand beside her, head tilting thoughtfully. "Maybe it is."

The simple statement hangs in the air between us. I should have a sharp response ready, should cut this conversation off at the knees. But for once, no words come. I stand there, a man who's built his reputation on calculating every move, suddenly unable to formulate a response.

Because a part of me knows they're right.

I've been treating this like more than just a deal. The texts. The dinners. The way I find myself thinking about her when she's not around. The earth shattering sex and the way I’m letting her in. None of that was in our agreement.

Maria crosses her arms, expression turning serious. "You need to cut her loose. Give her a chance to choose you."

I exhale slowly, running a hand down my face, feeling the faint roughness of stubble against my palm. The thought of ending our arrangement sits like lead in my stomach. Not because I fear losing leverage—I have plenty of that elsewhere.

No, the possibility of her choosing to walk away is the only thing more dangerous than keeping her tied to me.

But Maria's words are still haunting me hours later as I place two wine glasses on the kitchen table, feeling an unsettling rhythm in my chest that I'm not accustomed to. My dogs have already warmed to Kendra—Paige sprawled across her feet within minutes of her arrival, while Penny, ever cautious, watches from a respectful distance with those nervous shepherd eyes.

This feels too domestic. Too normal.

"Your kitchen is cleaner than mine will ever be," Kendra says, running her fingertips along the edge of my marble countertop.

She's dressed in something casual tonight—dark jeans that hug every curve and a simple top that somehow makes her look more striking than if she'd arrived in designer wear. Her thick curls are gathered loosely at her neck, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Even now, even here in my space where I control everything, she looks untouchable.

"I like order," I respond, pouring a rich cabernet into her glass.

"So I've noticed." Her full lips curve into that knowing smile that gets under my skin, the one that suggests she sees more than I want her to.

We move to the table with an ease that should concern me. There's a familiarity in our movements now—how she knows which drawer holds the silverware, how I automatically pull out her chair before taking my own. We've developed rituals that weren't part of our arrangement.

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