Page 35 of His Ruthless Vow

Luca sets his glass down, the crystal meeting the mahogany with precise control—everything about him is controlled, from his breathing to his violence. "Since when did you get so antagonistic with Romano?" His voice carries that familiar emptiness, like someone trying to mimic human curiosity without understanding the emotion.

I stand, straightening my jacket with a practiced hand. "I wasn't aware I needed your approval for how I speak to our associates."

Luca's face remains impassive. "You don't. I'm simply noting the change. You used to be more... diplomatic."

"Yeah, well." I drain the last of my drink. "Things change."

I move toward the door, mind already on my next move—how to use the information on Alfonso that Elliott provided, how to shore up my defenses against my brother's inevitable next attempt, how to expand my territory without stepping on too many Cappalletti toes.

"Enzo." Luca's voice stops me, hand on the doorknob. "Family issues aside, your position here is secure. Remember that."

Something in my chest tightens at his words—not gratitude, I don't do gratitude. Maybe recognition. Luca Mantione doesn't offer reassurance often. It's as close to loyalty as men like us get.

I give him a short nod and leave without another word.

The corridor feels cooler now, or maybe it's the weight of everything settling on my shoulders. My phone vibrates in my pocket as I make my way toward the exit. I pull it out, expecting one of my men with an update.

Kendra's name flashes on the screen.

My steps slow, then stop entirely. Kendra Washington doesn't call me—ever. Our arrangement has been strictly text-based, her pride too stubborn to give me the satisfaction of hearing her voice unless absolutely necessary. She's been ducking my calls since our deal was struck, keeping me at arm's length despite the invisible chain I've wrapped around her wrist.

I stare at the screen, something like interest stirring in my blood. Kendra calling means something's changed—and change usually means opportunity.

Whatever has driven her to break her own rule must be significant. The thought of her on the other end, probably pacing, probably cursing my name with those full lips—it brings a smile to my face that has nothing to do with business and everything to do with the game we've been playing.

21

KENDRA

Istare at my phone for a full five minutes, my thumb hovering over the call button like it might bite me. The phone's screen dims from inactivity, and I tap it impatiently to brighten it again. Enzo's name and number glow up at me, taunting me.

This isn't me. I don't reach out first. I don't put myself in positions where I'm waiting for someone—especially not a man—to pick up, to answer, to decide whether I'm worth their time. But this work event has me backed into a corner, and the thought of showing up alone makes my skin crawl. Not because I need a man, but because the vultures from the Westlake account will be circling, waiting to introduce me to their "very eligible" nephews and cousins like I'm some charity case.

I need someone who can silence a room with his presence. Someone who won't embarrass me with small talk about sports teams or cryptocurrency investments. Someone who understands power plays without explanation.

I need Enzo.

My finger finally makes contact with the screen, and I bring the phone to my ear, standing straighter even though no one's watching. Each ring stretches like taffy, making my jaw clench tighter.

He answers after two rings. "Kendra." My name in his mouth sounds different—smoother, edged with that quiet curiosity that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Not a question, not a greeting. Just an acknowledgment that carries weight.

I square my shoulders, refusing to let this feel like surrender. "I need a date. A business thing. Interested?" My voice comes out clipped and professional, like I'm offering him a business proposition rather than asking for a favor.

There's a beat of silence before he hums, considering. I can almost see him—leaning back in whatever sleek, expensive chair he's in, those steel-gray eyes calculating what this means, what advantage it gives him. The image makes me want to hang up, but I wait, my foot tapping an impatient rhythm against my hardwood floor.

"And you want me?" It's not a question, not really. The subtle emphasis on "want" makes my teeth grind. He's enjoying this, the bastard. Making me say it. Making me ask.

I exhale sharply, my free hand curling into a fist. "Forget it." The words come out harsh, defensive—a reflex when I feel cornered.

But before I can pull the phone away from my ear, his low chuckle stops me. The sound slides down my spine like warm honey, and I hate my body's instant reaction to it.

"I'll pick you up at seven," he says, and there's that quiet command in his voice that reminds me exactly who he is—not just some suit I can drag to a corporate function, but a man who's used to being obeyed. A man who's probably killed people who didn't listen.

My Hades, coming to collect.

I hang up and stare at my phone, despising the flutter in my chest. Seven o'clock. Four hours to get ready for a man who shouldn't matter but somehow does. A man who holds my brother's debt over my head like Damocles' sword.

And yet here I am, standing in front of my closet an hour later, pushing hangers back and forth with increasing frustration. Nothing feels right. Too casual, too stuffy, too obvious, too safe.

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