Page 42 of The Bonventi Secret
I clench my fist, trying to push these thoughts away. This isn't me. I'm fucking Enzo Bonventi, Don of the most powerful Italian mafia family in Chicago. I don't get distracted by a woman, no matter how intriguing she might be.
And yet.
The car pulls up to the mansion, and I'm out before the driver can open my door. I nod to the guards as I stride inside, my steps quick.
I head straight for the library, my heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with the evening's negotiations. As I approach the door, I pause, taking a deep breath to compose myself.
What am I doing? What am I hoping for?
I push open the door, my eyes immediately scanning the room, and there she is. Livia, just as I'd imagined her, at her desk.
She looks up as I enter, her eyes widening slightly in surprise.
I stand there, drinking in the sight of her, feeling a tension I didn't even know I was carrying start to ease.
In that moment, for a brief second before I try to speak, I feel as if everything I ever wanted in this life is sitting right before me, and a quote from Brontë comes to mind — "My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance."
LIVIA - 15
Iblink my eyes open, the morning light filtering in through the curtains. I turn my head, expecting to see Enzo sleeping beside me, but his side of the bed is empty. A pang of disappointment hits me, followed immediately by irritation at myself for feeling it. I shouldn’t want him here.
I roll over, intending to bury my face in the pillow, when something catches my eye. It’s an old, small leather-bound book with a note sticking out, lying on the nightstand. I sit up, the sheets pooling around my waist. I reach over and grab the book, the worn leather feeling comforting in my hand. I pull out the note and open it.
Livia, I hope this one-of-a-kind poetry book brings you joy and inspiration, as you have done for me. - Enzo
I pause and look around. Stoic, can’t-really-read-him Enzo giving me a poetry book of all things? I feel a fluttering in my chest as I continue reading.
PS. 'If thou must love me, let it be for nought, Except for love's sake only.'
Of course, he quotes Elizabeth fucking Browning.
Dammit.
I blink back tears, overwhelmed by the sincerity of his words. I can’t analyze this action to fit my narrative. This is no mere gesture of control or manipulation. I hadn’t expected from the man I thought could be a heartless mobster.
I set the card aside and open the book. My hands turn clammy as I flip through the pages, taking in the beautiful words and images. This book must be priceless, a treasure beyond measure. And Enzo just gave it to me?
As I read a few lines from the first poem, I can’t help but have a huge grin on my face.
I close the book gently, holding it to my chest as I lean back against the headboard. It’s one of the most thoughtful gifts anyone’s ever given me, and I’m on the verge of tearing up again.
Okay, Livia—think freely. How do you feel?
Well, I admire his sharp intelligence, his unexpected moments of kindness. The way his eyes soften when he looks at me sometimes, thinking I don’t notice. The heat of his body next to mine in bed at night, a temptation I’ve been struggling to resist even if my pillow wall has just fallen.
And then there’s the fact that I can’t deny there’s a subtle flutter in my stomach when I think of him. The way my skin tingles when he’s near or how my body reacts to seeing him. I mean, if Ihad allowed myself, I would have jumped onto him the night he had me wet and heated.
I groan, burying my face in my hands. What’s happening to me? How can I be developing feelings for the man who’s holding me captive? Isn’t this fucking Stockholm syndrome or something?
Deep down, I know there’s a lot more to it. Enzo isn’t just my captor. He’s becoming something else. Something I’m not ready to name.
I look back at the book in my lap, at Enzo’s note. "If thou must love me, let it be for nought, Except for love’s sake only." Does he really want that? For me to love him freely, not out of obligation or fear?
I rub my face and let out another groan. The terrifying truth that I haven’t been able to admit is, I might have already started down that road, I’ve just been too stubborn to notice.
Suddenly, the bathroom door opens and Enzo steps out, dressed in a tailored black suit. Damn him for looking so good, so effortlessly powerful and attractive. I can’t help but let my eyes roam over his broad shoulders, the way his jacket clings to his muscular frame.
I stand up, the soft sheets falling away from my body. I instantly become acutely aware of how thin my camisole is and how my shorts barely come down to cover my thighs. I feel exposed and hold the book tightly against my chest.
