Page 115 of Intense
I used to think it was the only thing tethering me to reality.
But maybe it’s not the place.
Maybe it’s the person.
My fucking wife.
"So what are you suggesting?"
"I delay the games. Just until we’re finished in London. The four rooms are ready. Once we’re back—I’ll set a date."
He scratches his chin.
"And let’s face it, we don’t want more of The Preacher’s men entering women until we figure them out."
He swears in Italian under his breath.
"You’re right."
I grin. I know.
"Don’t be so smug," he mutters.
The first time we’ve ever shared a joke.
"So, we have an agreement? We start fresh?" he asks, extending his tattooed hand.
"Yeah. I’ll stop imagining killing you in your sleep once a week."
His eyes widen.
I shake his hand firmly.
"Enzo, since we’re friends now—gotta say—you look like shit. You need to sleep. Bad for your heart, working like this. And that’s one organ you really want functioning."
He rubs his chest. "Doctor’s orders?"
"Exactly."
He pulls a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.
"And these? Do they help?"
He offers me one. I take it and light it.
"Yep. Keeps the stress down."
"Good. So I’m doing something right. My heart’s made of steel anyway," he mutters. Almost like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.
I frown. I thought mine was too.
But lately…
My heart of ice is starting to thaw.
"Enzo, if I have a heart—everyone fucking does."
He nods slowly, dragging on his smoke.
