Page 59 of His Ruthless Vow

I catch Enzo's eye for just a fraction of a second. Something passes between us—understanding, trust. I don't need words to know what he's telling me. Take the chance.

In one fluid motion, I twist my body sharply to the side, driving my heel down onto Ercole's foot with all my strength. The momentary shock loosens his grip just enough. I throw my elbow back, connecting with his ribs. The satisfying crack and his howl of pain give me the opening I need.

I spin around, my bound hands grabbing for his gun. The weight of it is cold and heavy in my fingers, but I don't hesitate. One pull of the trigger and the bullet tears through Ercole's shoulder. He drops to his knees, his scream echoing through the warehouse.

I turn to Enzo, my chest heaving, adrenaline coursing hot through my veins. Our eyes lock across the space between us, and everything else falls away. The zip ties cut into my wrists. Blood—Ercole's, not mine—spatters my clothes. But none of it matters.

I saved him. I saved myself.

The realization hits us both at the same time, and I see something shift in Enzo's expression—pride, relief, and something deeper I'm not ready to name.

I stand frozen in place, gun still warm in my trembling hands, as Enzo's eyes shift from me to Ercole's kneeling form. The warehouse air feels electric, charged with something primal. Something final.

Enzo doesn't hesitate. There's no moment of moral consideration, no weighing of options. He steps toward Ercole with deliberate, unhurried movements, like a predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run. Each step echoes against the concrete, the sound amplifying the inevitable. His presence swallows the room, dark and commanding, making everything else fade to background noise.

"You think this is over?" Ercole spits through gritted teeth, one hand still clutching his bleeding shoulder. Blood seeps between his fingers, staining his shirt a deep crimson. "You think you've won?"

Enzo doesn't answer. Doesn't need to. His silence speaks volumes as he continues his approach, gun hanging loosely at his side. The steel-gray of his eyes has gone flat, emotionless, like the surface of a frozen lake. His jaw is set, his movements fluid despite the blood still spreading across his own shirt.

For the first time, true fear flickers across Ercole's face. The bravado crumbles, replaced by a dawning realization of his own mortality. His eyes dart wildly, looking for an escape that doesn't exist.

"Enzo, listen," Ercole's voice cracks. "We're family?—"

"You never should have touched her," Enzo says calmly. The quietness of his voice somehow makes it more terrifying, like the silence before lightning strikes.

No rage. No shouting. Just cold certainty.

I watch as Enzo raises his gun, the movement smooth and practiced. Ercole's eyes widen, pupils dilating with fear. Time seems to stretch between them—uncle and nephew, blood turned against blood.

"Wait—" Ercole begins.

The gunshot cuts through his plea. A single clean shot to the head. The sound reverberates through the warehouse, bouncing off metal walls and concrete floors, somehow both deafening and final.

Ercole's body slumps forward, a marionette with its strings cut. His eyes remain open, but the light behind them is gone. Just empty windows now, staring at nothing.

I exhale, a shuddering breath that seems to come from somewhere deep inside me. My shoulders shake with the force of it, the adrenaline crash hitting me all at once. But I don't look away. Can't look away. This is my world now—I chose it the moment I made that deal with Enzo. The moment I chose him.

Enzo turns to me, his movements softer now. The hardness melts from his face as his eyes find mine, replaced by something that looks almost like concern. He crosses the distance between us, careful not to crowd me, and brushes his fingers against my bound wrists—just a touch, just enough to remind himself that I'm real, that I'm safe. The gentleness of it stands in stark contrast to the violence I just witnessed, and somehow that makes it all the more powerful.

"Are you hurt?" His voice is low, intimate in the vast space.

I shake my head, unable to find words yet. The zip ties dig into my skin, but it's distant, secondary to everything else happening in this moment.

Enzo pulls out his phone and dials, his eyes never leaving my face. When Luca answers, his words are simple, direct.

"It's done." No explanation needed, no details given.

Luca doesn't ask questions. There's a brief pause before his voice comes through, equally concise. "I'll handle the bodies."

And just like that, it's over. Two men dead on a warehouse floor, blood pooling beneath them, and a phone call that erases it all like it never happened.

36

ENZO

My body functions on muscle memory as I drive us away from what should've been our death. One hand on the wheel, the other clasping Kendra's—warm, solid, real. Blood still flecks my clothes. I can taste copper and gunpowder in the air between us.

Zenon. My brother. His body cooling on concrete.

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