Page 6 of Enzo
ENZO, 33 YEARS OLD
“You know, your future bride might not be too thrilled about your stalking habits,” my brother, Amadeo, said dryly, materializing out of thin air.
He had a talent for appearing stealthily like that, as if he were a shadow slipping through cracks in the world. Even our father and uncle, men not easily impressed, said he was the best tracker they’d ever seen.
Amadeo had set his sights on becoming the most lethal hitman alive, and he’d started early. He’d been treating childish games like hide-and-seek as though they were phases of training. For him, maybe it was still a game.
It didn’t help that I was completely fixated on the woman promised to me, barely blinking as I watched her from the shadows of the hospital hallway.
“You clearly haven’t seen the books she and her friends read,” I muttered, shooting him an irritated glance. “Their Kindle libraries are full of stalker romances and Olympic-level BDSM. Zero chill.”
Amadeo let out a low whistle, his eyebrows practically launching off his face. “Even filthier than our aunt’s books?”
“Yes.”
“Damn, sounds to me like I need to meet her friends.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sì, that’s exactly what the world needs,youcorrupting an already deranged book club.”
Not to mention the last thing he needed was more names on his overpopulated list.
He grinned shamelessly. “Just trying to educate myself and give back to the community.”
I sighed. “What are you doing here?”
He leaned casually against the wall, like he hadn’t just popped up uninvited. “Watching your back. You’re not supposed to be on DiMauro’s territory, remember?”
“Right.” I snorted. “And sneaking up on me like a serial killer is your idea of support?”
“You’re welcome, bro.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “It will be my family’s territory soon.”
“But it isn’t yet.” He studied me before he said, “What is it with you and Penelope DiMauro?”
The hallway smelled faintly of antiseptic and old coffee, its pale walls washed in the sterile glow of overhead lights. I pressed myself into the shadowed alcove near the vending machine. The linoleum floor stretched ahead in a corridor of murmurs and distant beeping monitors.
My eyes flicked to the far end, where a young woman in a plain white uniform stood flipping through a medical chart. She moved with practiced ease—efficient, composed, the kind of calm that only comes from routine. Her gaze swept over the patients with professional detachment, but lingered just a second longer on one room.
Her sister.
She flitted in and out of Amara’s room the most, doting over her and making sure she was comfortable. She would adjust herpillows, bringing warm tea she never drank, brushing hair from her clammy forehead just to feel useful.
No one outside the family knew how sick Amara DiMauro really was. Her father had made sure of that. Luca wasn’t driven by pride, he was driven by fear. Fear of what people might do if they found out his youngest daughter was vulnerable. Fear of the predators who lurked in the shadows of our world—people who traded in blood, power, and organs.
So he kept Amara’s condition hidden—locked away from allies, rivals, even longtime friends. Only those bound by his absolute trust were permitted beyond that door, and fewer still were entrusted with the truth.
And yet… I knew.
I hadn’t uncovered the secret by chance. I’d gone digging for it—methodically, deliberately—because when it came to Luca DiMauro, the man who had spent the last two decades fighting tooth and nail to dissolve the arranged marriage he and my father worked out, I needed every card in my hand. Every weakness. Every secret.
Even if that secret had a heartbeat and the fragile face of a young girl fighting an illness that had no business touching someone so innocent.
“What is it about her you’re so obsessed with?” He continued to annoy me with his questions.
“She’ll be my wife, so it’s completely natural for me to want to know her.”
The excuse was inadequate, and since he knew me so well, he called me out on it. “You’re always claiming that women are too much of a headache to get to know them.”
