Page 20 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
He simply observed, his eyes sweeping across the estate with the same methodical attention he might've used to assess a target.
Dressed in black, with a sharp jaw and a presence carved from some older, colder world, he stood apart from the Salvatore entourage.
Even Marco, whose reputation for brutality extended across both coasts, seemed to give him space.
Enzo wasn't decorative muscle.
He was there for a reason, the unspoken deterrent that reminded Papa what would happen if diplomacy failed.
And yet there was nothing loud about him.
He didn't posture or sneer, but was coiled and unreadable, a man built for final acts.
I remember the way the light fell across his face as he stood beside the arched windows, the late afternoon sun casting long streaks across the room, making the scar that cuts across his brow more pronounced.
I hadn't meant to stare.
But when my fork slipped from my fingers and struck the floor, the clatter drawing every eye for a split second,
I looked up and found his gaze already on me.
He didn't look away, not even when my cheeks flushed.
He just sat there, gaze dropping to my mouth, then lower, like he was already imagining me on my knees, lips parted, thighs spread.
The corner of his mouth lifted knowingly, as if he could see the ache building between my legs and was already counting the ways he'd ruin me for anyone else.
I'd always been an obedient girl to my parents, tolerating most of their whims because, for all their conservative tyranny, they gave me a life most would be grateful for.
And yet… after Enzo, I realized obedience had never been the same as loyalty.
He touched me once—truly touched me—and suddenly I couldn't stand the taste of being controlled, not in the kitchen, not in the dining hall, not in the bed they'd one day try to barter me into.
After Enzo, I didn't just want freedom.
Iachedfor it.
Luciana had been serving drinks that evening, dressed in her plain black uniform, invisible to most.
But not to Enzo.
I remember her telling me later, when the Salvatores had gone, that he had scanned the room like a man memorizing blueprints.
That she'd caught him watching not just the exits, but the rhythm of the servers, the places we kept weapons, the way Papa gestured with his ringed hand when he was lying.
She noticed the way his posture stiffened every time Marco leaned too close to one of the younger waitstaff.
The way he always positioned himself between Luca and the nearest threat.
Even among wolves, Enzo moved differently.
Luciana never said it aloud, but I think she respected that about him.
He wasn't like the other men who came to our estate, the ones who leered behind cigars and thought they owned the world because they could buy silence.
Enzo didn't need to boast or flex his reach.
He didn't need anyone to fear him because they already did.
