Chapter 4 - The Midnight Confession Over Stitched Wounds
The safehouse in Eze was not a simple cabin; it was a modern concrete fortress built directly into the cliffs overlooking the sea, surrounded by twenty-foot security fences and state-of-the-art surveillance.
By midnight, the estate was locked down. A private medical kit sat open on the granite kitchen island.
"Sit still," Elena ordered softly.
Enzo sat on a high barstool, his shirt removed, revealing a muscular torso mapped with old scars—a map of a violent life he had never shared with her in the corporate offices of New York. The bullet graze on his forearm was cleaned, but it required three stitches.
Elena held the curved needle and suture thread with steady fingers. Her father had been a country doctor; she knew how to close a wound.
"You're remarkably good at this," Enzo remarked, his voice low in the quiet kitchen. He watched her face—the way her lower lip was caught between her teeth in concentration.
"When you grow up helping a small-town doctor patch up farm injuries, you learn not to panic at blood," she replied softly, pulling the thread through his skin. "Though usually, my patients weren't billionaire cartel heirs pretending to be legitimate shipping magnates."
Enzo winced slightly as the knot was tied, but his eyes never left hers. "I am legitimate. Everything Moretti Global owns is clean. But the men I took the business from ten years ago... they don't operate by legal codes."
"Who was behind this morning?"
"Victor Volkov," Enzo said grimly. "The head of the Northern European Bratva. He wanted the port concessions in Rotterdam. I outbid him legally last month. He swore he would find my pressure point."
Elena clipped the thread. She stepped back, putting the scissors down. "And I'm your pressure point? Enzo, we've never even had dinner together outside of a business trip. We talk about quarterly margins."
Enzo stood up. At six-foot-two, he towered over her, closing the small distance between them until she was backed against the edge of the kitchen counter.
"Do you really believe that?" Enzo murmured. His hand rose, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. His touch was electric, burning away the chill of the night. "Do you think I kept you in the office until midnight last year because I needed contract edits? Do you think I memorized the way you drink your coffee because of professional courtesy?"
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Elena looked up into his dark eyes, her breath catching in her throat. "Enzo..."
"I spent two years pretending you were just my assistant because in my world, loving someone is a death sentence for them," Enzo whispered, his voice thick with raw emotion. "And today, when I saw Marco's hand on you, I realized I would rather tear this world apart with my bare hands than watch you belong to anyone else."
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