Page 32 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
His indifference grates at me, makes me want to lash out. "Papa has chosen a suitor," I say at last.
That gets his attention.
He straightens, the glass forgotten in his hand.
"And?" he asks, his voice dropping to a silken whisper. "What does the jewel of the Lombardi dynasty think of her future husband?"
I force my voice to be steady.
"I think he's a practical choice. He has influence. Wealth. A connection to Eastern European arms routes. Papa believes he'll help rebuild what we lost."
Enzo steps forward once.
His eyes darken, a cold anger sparking in their depths. "And you?"
"I think…" I falter, breath catching. "I think I'm considering it."
The silence that follows is absolute.
Then, like a storm breaking free of its own sky, he is in front of me.
His hands come down on my arms, hard enough to hold, not hard enough to bruise, but I feel the heat of him everywhere, the way his breath saws through the distance between us.
"No," he snarls. His grip tightens. "No one touches you."
My heart skips a beat.
"No one puts their hands on what's mine." He pulls me to him, every inch of him rigid, trembling with a fury I've never seen in him before.
"I don't care who your Papa promises you to," he growls against my cheek. "I don't care what alliances he's trying to resurrect. If he marries you off to anyone else, I will burn the deal to the ground with the groom still in his tuxedo."
His lips crash into mine with a fury that knocks the breath from my chest, one hand locking around the back of my neck, the other gripping my waist with bruising force.
I gasp against him, and he swallows the sound, deepening the kiss until I can't think, can't breathe, can only feel.
Whiskey lingers on his tongue, dark and heady, burned into the edges of his mouth like a memory that will not leave.
He tastes like heat and fury, like something forbidden and final, and when his teeth scrape gently against my lower lip, I whimper into him.
That sound undoes something in him.
He growls low in his throat and presses me backward until my spine hits the paneled wall, his body pinning mine in a line of heat and strength.
I feel the hardness of his chest, the press of muscle against silk, the promise of power thrumming beneath his skin.
My hands find his lapels, fingers curling in the fabric like I need to anchor myself or be swept under completely.
He kisses like a man starved of gentleness, like this is the only language he's ever trusted.
I can taste the war in him.
He breaks the kiss only to return to it harder, angrier, dragging his mouth over mine with a desperate, almost punishing rhythm.
His hand fists in the back of my dress, pulling me closer, as though he's trying to erase any inch of air between us.
My head tilts back, and he takes my throat in his palm—not to hurt, just to hold, to claim, to remind me who he is and who I have always been in his presence.
"You told me you're going to marry," he breathes against my lips, voice low and wrecked. "You think I would let that happen?"
