Page 56 of His Ruthless Vow

When I finish, he exhales slowly, deliberately, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the Chicago skyline. "Zenon broke the rules."

Four simple words, heavy with meaning. The truce between the families was sacred—even to someone like Luca, who respects very little. The silence stretches between us, but I don't fill it. I don't need to.

"Their Don has been informed," Luca continues, his gaze returning to mine. "This matter is... outside family concerns now."

Translation: I have permission to handle this my way. No blowback. No consequences. Zenon and Ercole have been marked—not by the Mantiones, not by the Cappallettis, but by me personally.

Luca rises, buttoning his jacket with graceful precision. "Take care of it," he says, and I nod once. No further instructions needed. We understand each other perfectly.

As he passes Kendra on his way out, he pauses. "You chose well," he tells her, cryptic as ever, before disappearing through the door.

33

KENDRA

The heat of the coffee shop wraps around me as I step inside, the familiar scent of roasted beans a welcome comfort after everything. I spot them immediately—three pairs of eyes zeroing in on me before I'm even through the door. Skye's amber gaze narrows to slits, her manicured fingers freezing mid-gesture. Jazz's expression shifts from animated storytelling to concern in an instant. Even sweet Mikayla, usually lost in her own world, looks up from her phone with widening eyes.

My heart sinks. I'd thought the bruising wasn't that noticeable. The foundation I'd carefully applied this morning—layer after meticulous layer—apparently isn't doing its job.

"Hey," I offer casually, sliding into the empty chair. My voice sounds normal to my own ears, but the table stays silent, the weight of their stares making my skin itch.

I reach for the water glass already waiting at my place, a move that sends a sharp pain through my ribs. I mask the wince with a smile that feels like plastic stretched over my face.

Skye leans forward, her sleek black hair falling in a perfect curtain as she studies me. Even in casual clothes, she's immaculate—designer jeans and a simple top that probably costs more than my rent. Her boutique is doing well, and she dresses the part. But it's the razor-sharp intelligence behind those eyes that makes me squirm.

"What the hell happened?" she demands, voice low but intense.

I open my mouth, ready with the excuse I'd rehearsed in the car—a clumsy fall, nothing to worry about—but Jazz cuts in before I can speak.

"You look like you've been through hell." Her full lips press into a tight line, dark eyes flashing with a knowing that comes from years of working in Chicago's rougher side. Her curls are piled high today, gold hoops dangling as she tilts her head. "And since you're tangled up with Enzo, I'm guessing you actually have."

Mikayla fidgets with her napkin, uncomfortable with confrontation as always. Her sweetness is refreshing in our circle—she hasn't been hardened by the city yet. "We're just worried," she adds softly, the Midwestern accent still clinging to her words after months in Chicago.

I exhale sharply, rubbing my temples where a headache threatens. The movement pulls at the bruising along my collarbone, hidden beneath my high-necked blouse.

"I'm fine," I say, the lie sour on my tongue. My fingers tap against the table, a nervous tic I can't seem to control. "Just busy with work. The Bellingham campaign is kicking my ass."

Skye doesn't blink. "Cut the bullshit, Kendra. Your face looks like you went ten rounds with someone's fist."

"It's not as bad as it looks," I counter, knowing damn well it's exactly as bad as it looks—probably worse where they can't see.

Jazz snorts, leaning back in her chair. "Sure, and I'm next in line for the British throne." She gestures to her own face. "That split in your lip isn't from biting it too hard during a conference call."

The weight of keeping secrets suddenly feels suffocating. These women know me—really know me. The flimsy excuses I'd planned crumble under their collective gaze.

"Look," I start, voice lower, "I appreciate the concern, but some things are better left alone."

Mikayla's eyes widen further. "That sounds... ominous." Her delicate fingers stretch across the table, wrapping around mine with surprising strength. Her touch is warm, comforting—and it makes my throat close up. "You can tell us if you're not, you know," she says, her eyes wide and sincere. Genuine concern radiates from her in waves. No ulterior motives, no angle to work—just pure, unfiltered worry.

And that, more than anything, makes my chest tighten. These women sitting around me, they're looking at the aftermath without knowing the cause. They see the bruises, the split lip, the careful way I hold myself to minimize the pain in my ribs. But they don't know about the warehouse. About Ercole's meaty fists or Zenon's calculated cruelty. They don't know how it felt to be used as bait, a pawn in a game between brothers with decades of hatred between them.

But the worst part? I don't even know how to explain it. How does one casually mention being kidnapped by mafia men? How do I tell them that when Ercole dragged me into that van, I should have been terrified, but all I could think about was saving Enzo? That when Zenon pointed that gun at my head, I was more afraid of losing Enzo than dying myself?

The truth sounds insane even in my own head. I'm a marketing executive, for god's sake. Two months ago, my biggest concern was landing the Westbridge account. Now I'm tangled in a deadly family feud between men who kill as easily as they breathe.

Instead, I force a smirk, taking a sip of my drink to hide the tremor in my hands. The coffee scalds my split lip, but I welcome the pain—it's grounding, present, unlike the chaos in my head.

"You guys worry too much," I say, settling the mug down with deliberate casualness.

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