Page 10 of His Ruthless Vow

"I've made up my mind," I say, cutting a piece of my untouched waffle with unnecessary precision. "I'm not involving Luca."

Jazz studies me from across the table, her dark eyes narrowed. "So what's the alternative plan then? Because I'm not seeing one."

Mikayla reaches over and squeezes my hand. "Whatever you need, we're here for you."

I smile at her, grateful for the simple kindness, even as I know there's nothing any of them can do. This is my mess to clean up—or rather, Griffin's mess that I've somehow inherited.

"I appreciate that," I say, "but I'll figure it out. I always do."

The conversation shifts to safer topics—Mikayla's art show, Jazz's latest club drama, Maria's charity gala planning. But I catch Skye watching me with that penetrating stare of hers, like she's trying to read between the lines of what I'm not saying.

By the time I get home that night, my apartment feels too quiet, too empty. I kick off my heels, pour a glass of cabernet, and sink onto my couch, staring at the Chicago skyline through my windows. The city lights blur as I let my mind wander to all my options.

There aren't many.

Griffin can't pay. I don't have that kind of liquid cash. Asking Luca is off the table. Which leaves...

Enzo. His offer hanging in the air between us. The memory of him standing too close in that alley, his cologne mixing with the night air, his voice low and confident because he knew—he fucking knew—I had no real choice.

I hate him for that. I hate how he cornered me, how he saw through my defenses like they were made of glass. I hate how he weaponized Griffin's stupidity against me.

But most of all, I hate that when I close my eyes, trying to find a way out of this mess, all I hear is his voice, smooth as whiskey and twice as intoxicating: "Think about it."

And I am. God help me, I am.

6

KENDRA

Ipull up to Enzo's house, surprised by the quiet, upscale neighborhood. Somehow, I'd imagined him living in some gothic mansion on the edge of town, or perhaps a penthouse overlooking the city—not this sleek modern structure nestled between mature oak trees on a peaceful street. It's unsettling how normal it looks from the outside. Like a wolf wearing sheep's clothing.

I sit in my car, drumming my perfectly manicured nails against the steering wheel, giving myself one last pep talk. "This is your choice," I whisper to my reflection in the rearview mirror. "You're making this decision. You're in control."

The words sound hollow even to my own ears, but I cling to them anyway. Pride is sometimes all we have, and I refuse to walk into this arrangement feeling like a victim.

Skye's knowing look when she gave me the address still haunts me. The careful neutrality in her voice when she said, "You know what you're doing, right?" As if she could already see exactly how this would play out even though I wouldn't really explain why I wanted it.

"I know exactly what I'm doing," I'd told her with more confidence than I felt. "Just give me the damn address."

Now here I am, parked outside the devil's doorstep, about to sell my soul on my behalf of a friend so close he's practically my brother. Griffin has no idea what I'm doing for him. He never will—at least the full truth.

The path to Enzo's front door is lined with neat landscaping—minimalist but expensive-looking, just like the man himself. Each step I take in my stilettos feels like a deliberate choice. My heartbeat quickens, but I keep my chin high, shoulders back. My burgundy wrap dress hugs every curve, a subtle armor of confidence.

I press the doorbell before I can second-guess myself.

The door swings open, and there he stands—Enzo Rossi in dark jeans and a charcoal henley that clings to his broad shoulders and chest in a way that should be illegal. His steel-gray eyes take me in, and I feel exposed despite being fully clothed. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, as if he's been running his fingers through it.

"You came," he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through me. Not a question. A statement. Like he never doubted I would. He doesn’t even seem surprised that I’ve shown up at his house unannounced, though I imagine Skye would have warned him.

"I did." I meet his gaze directly, refusing to show weakness.

He steps aside to let me in, and I move past him, catching the scent of sandalwood and something darker, more primal. His home surprises me immediately—open concept, clean lines, but unexpectedly warm. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline, while a perfectly arranged bookshelf spans one wall, filled with actual books that look read, not just displayed. The kitchen gleams with high-end appliances, and a cabinet full of expensive liquors.

Before I can comment, chaos erupts. A yellow blur comes barreling around the corner, paws skidding on the hardwood floors, followed by a second, more cautious shadow.

"What the—" I barely have time to brace myself before seventy pounds of enthusiastic dog crashes into my legs, nearly knocking me off my heels. Wet nose, wagging tail, excited whines—the yellow lab looks up at me with pure joy, as if I'm the most exciting thing to happen all day.

Behind her, a black and brown Australian shepherd hangs back, watching me with intelligent, wary eyes, pressed against Enzo's leg as if for protection.

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