Page 22 of Dangerous King
"How did you get this? That's him! That's the man who took me."
Enrico's expression turns deadly, sending shivers down my spine. For the first time, he looks like the dangerous mob boss he is. For some reason, it's not scaring me, though. It should. Everything about him should scare me, but it doesn't. On the contrary, seeing him like this only reiterates his protectiveness. He's ready to go to war for his sister. And that is a trait I can only admire.
"Who is he?" Izzy hands the phone back to Enrico, like she can't stand to look at the image any longer. I'm curious and want to see, but over the years, I've conditioned myself to stay under the radar, and it's hard to let go of that.
"I don't know yet. But I will." His voice is hard. His words are a promise.
With that, he once again turns to leave, and I stare at his retreating back. I can't help but notice how his thigh muscles stretch his silky pants; the view creates a fluttering sensation in my stomach that makes me feel funny, a strange mix of excitement and nervousness.
"Alright, let's finish eating and then we'll go shopping," Izzy announces with fake enthusiasm.
I stop her. "We don't have to do this now. Or even today. I know seeing that man, even if it was just an image, rattled you."
Izzy stares at me for a long moment with glossy but defiant eyes. "No one's ever said that to me before," she says softly. "That we don'thaveto do something. That I can take a minute."
The words echo deep in my chest, not because, from what I've observed, she's usually all sass and storm, but because it sounds so similar to my experience. It makes me want to wrap her in a blanket and guard her with knives.
"I'm serious," I say gently. "If you're not up for it?—"
"No," she cuts in, in a steadier voice. "I want to go. Actually… Ineedto go."
She exhales, wrestling with her own demons. "When he grabbed me, I wasn't even scared at first. Isn't that stupid? I thought—this kind of thing doesn't really happen. But then he slammed the door shut and locked it. He never said a word. He just drove off, and I realized... I was completely alone. With a stranger. And no one knew where I was." She laughs mockingly, "I've been protected my entire life. They warned me—my dad, my mom, my brothers, but… I didn't believe them because I never saw that part of our world." She looks down at her plate and pokes at a bite she doesn't eat.
"He tied my hands behind my back, tied my legs, like I wasn't even human. Like I was an object. That's what haunts me the most. Howeasyit was for him."
My throat tightens. I slip my hand across the table and cover hers.
"So yeah," she adds after a beat, forcing a small smile, "retail therapy sounds kind of perfect right now. Plus..." She leans in, her voice dropping into that mischievous, trademark Izzy tone. "Enrico feelssoguilty right now. I figure if I max out a few cards and buy something wildly unnecessary and stupidly expensive, it'll actually helphimsleep better."
A surprised laugh slips out of me, warm and grateful. When was the last time I laughed? Izzy is just so… Izzy. Endearing, full of life, even when she's gloomy. "I love that you just turned shopping into an act of emotional generosity."
She grins. "It's a gift."
And suddenly, I'm glad we're doing this. Not just for her. But for me, too.
She rises, already buzzing with excitement. "I love going shopping. We're going to have so much fun."
I smile politely back at her. I'm used to going shopping with Camilla, but it's never been fun. Her tastes are vastly different from mine in the first place, and she delighted in humiliating me. I internally shuddered whenever she would pick something absolutely atrocious up with a gleam in her eyes. Something she would never wear, but it would be in her next box of hand-me-downs. The worse it made me look, the more she loved it. I remember how she once toldRoberto to look at the pretty little princess now.
At least Izzy seems to have good taste; she showed me her closet earlier this morning and told me to pickwhatever I liked. It feels so good wearing her clothes. They are still a bit big on me, but that's not intentional, and at least they are what I would have chosen if given a choice.
"Go talk to Enrico, and then we'll go." Izzy decides, pushing her chair back up to the table. "I hope he makes it quick," she furrows her brows, "maybe we should just make a run for it." She winks.
She notices my discomfort and laughs, "Fine, go talk to him."
My stomach feels all kinds of funny when I rise. It must show on my face, because Izzy laughs, "You've got this. He won't bite."
"Haha," I reply dryly. It's easy to converse with her as if we'd known each other for years. Her brother, however, intimidates me. Not that he's done anything to warrant my feelings, but he's so much of an unknown to me that it confuses me. At leastwith the Giordanos, I knew where I stood. Enrico is giving me something I haven't had in a long time: Hope. I know all about hope. I had it for many years. I hoped Papà would get the Carabinieri to rescue me, or Interpol, or anybody, but that never happened. I hoped he wouldn't get reelected and I could return to Sicily, which did happen, but it didn't let me go home; instead, it cost me a finger. In the end, Giovanni pumped so much money into it that the new mayor was merely a puppet—a puppet controlled by another puppet: Papà. And I feared that Giovanni might end up liking the new mayor better, because where would that leave us? But Papà only sat that one term out, according to the Italian laws, and then he ran again. That was when all hope inside me died. Those four years, while Papà was nothing but a behind-the-curtain advisor to the new mayor, were the darkest of my life with the Giordano's. That was when Giovanni's cruelty fully shone through. He forced me to clean the cells and feed his prisoners.
I know how dangerous that hope is, and yet, I can't help but form it in my head. Will I really, finally, see my family again? Do I darehope?
My throat develops a pulse of its own and goes completely dry with each step that takes me closer to Enrico's office. Gathering my courage, I lift my hand to knock on the door.
"Enter," his voice calls from inside.
His office looked inviting last night, but in the daylight, with the curtains open, giving a view of a sprawling backyard, I like it even more. It definitely doesn't have the look of a mafia office.
Enrico is seated at his desk; his posture relaxed, with one leg angled over the other, his knee leaning against the mahoganywood. His hands are folded on his lap, and his eyes are expectantly trained on me when I enter.
