Page 57 of His Ruthless Vow

Skye scoffs, amber eyes flashing. She leans forward, expensive perfume wafting across the table. "You mean we care too much," she corrects, perfectly manicured nail tapping against the table. It's a nervous habit she's never managed to break, despite her otherwise flawless composure. "There's a difference."

I swallow hard, forcing myself to keep smiling even as I feel it cracking at the edges. My friends see through me—they always have—but they don't push further. There's an unspoken rule between us: we support without demanding. We offer shelter without requiring explanations.

Because the truth is, I'm scared. Not of Enzo, with his steel-gray eyes and controlled power. Never him. I trust him in ways that should terrify me, given what he is, what he does.

No, I'm scared of what I'm starting to feel for him. This isn't just attraction anymore, or even the twisted fascination that first drew me to him. It's something deeper, something that made me choose him over self-preservation. Something that makes my heart stutter painfully when I think about where he is right now—gone to confront his brother, to end this thing between them once and for all.

34

ENZO

It doesn’t take long to track my brother down. And his arrogance means that it’s not hard for me to confront him either.

I stare Zenon down, the weight of everything leading to this moment pressing against my spine like a blade. My body still aches from the gunshot wound, a constant throb beneath the bandages that reminds me of my own mortality. The blood has stopped, but the memory remains fresh—his smug face as he pulled the trigger, the shock in Kendra's eyes as they dragged her away.

Pain is secondary—revenge is the only thing that matters now.

The warehouse smells of rust and neglect, concrete floors stained with decades of industrial fluids and God knows what else. Dim light filters through grimy windows high above, casting long shadows across the space where Zenon sits like some discount king on his makeshift throne—a weathered office chair that squeaks when he shifts his weight.

His remaining men flank him, five in total. Not the army he'd promised himself, just the desperate dregs willing to follow a sinking ship. They shuffle nervously as I approach, hands hovering near concealed weapons. They've heard the stories. They know what happens to those who cross me. Their eyes dart between us, calculating odds, wondering if their loyalty is about to get them killed. Smart money says yes.

They know what's coming. Retribution.

The Cappallettis and Mantiones were supposed to have a truce, an agreement written in blood and sealed with marriages and territorial concessions. Zenon broke those rules the moment he decided to use Kendra as leverage. He broke them when he put a bullet in my gut. He broke them when he decided his ambition mattered more than carefully negotiated peace.

But my older brother doesn't run—he smirks when he sees me, sipping amber liquid from a crystal glass like this is nothing more than a family dispute. His slicked-back hair catches the light, not a strand out of place even now. That controlled appearance, that facade of calm superiority—it's always been his tell.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," Zenon muses, tossing his glass aside. It shatters against the concrete, the sound echoing through the cavernous space. "Come to kneel before the king of criminals? To settle this matter before I truly end you?"

I don't answer. His arrogance was always meant to be his downfall anyway.

My steel-gray eyes hold his, two mirrors reflecting nothing back. The warehouse falls silent—no breathing, no shuffling feet, just the distant drip of water somewhere in the shadows and the pounding of my heart in my ears.

Let him talk. Let him posture. Men like Zenon need an audience, need to hear their own voice bouncing off walls to convince themselves of their own importance. I've never needed that. I've never needed anything but patience and the absolute certainty that when the moment comes, I won't hesitate.

And that moment is now.

I don't waste another second on words. Words are luxuries for men with time to spare, and Zenon has stolen enough of mine already.

I lunge forward, my body screaming in protest as the stitches pull at my abdomen. The pain is secondary to the surge of adrenaline pumping through my veins. Five against one—terrible odds for them.

The first man goes down with a broken windpipe before he can even draw his weapon. The second catches my elbow to his temple, crumpling like paper. Three remaining men scatter, trying to flank me. Amateurs. I've survived worse odds against better men.

"Is this supposed to impress me?" Zenon laughs, but there's a crack in his confidence now. A thin veneer of bravado over growing fear.

I grab the third man, using him as a shield as the fourth fires wildly. The bullet meant for me finds a home in his friend's chest instead. I let the body drop, sweeping low to take out the shooter's knees. Bone cracks under my boot. His scream cuts short when my fist connects with his jaw.

The fifth man runs. Smart choice.

Then it's just us. Brothers by blood, enemies by choice.

Zenon draws his knife, circling me with the practiced ease of someone who's spent decades perfecting violence. "You were always so righteous," he sneers. "So controlled. The perfect soldier. Did you really think you could escape what we are?"

His blade slices air where my throat had been a second before. I counter, landing a blow to his kidney that makes him stagger.

"I never wanted to escape," I growl, blocking his next strike. "I just wanted real loyalty. I’m not willing to be shoved aside and discarded like you might be."

The fight becomes a blur of movement—brutal, efficient, neither of us holding back. Zenon lands a slice across my shoulder, but I barely register the sting as I drive my knee into his stomach. He's good—experienced and ruthless—but there's something desperate in his movements now.

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