Page 123 of The Toy Collector

But today, it’s finally time to meet the infamous Russo family, which is why I’m fussing both with my clothes and makeup. Enzo’s no help, he keeps insisting I don’t need to get dressed at all.

“It’s bad enough I have to meet your family without panties,” I huff, when he makes the same suggestion for the thousandth time.

“We could just blow them off,” he smirks, puffing on his cigar.

Maybe it’s because we’ve spent most of our time at my—our—place, but I never knew he smoked this much. I don’t mind. Not at all. In fact, I’m starting to like the sweet smell, associating it both with him and the filthy things I know he’s capable of doing with a cigar.

“Hey,” I ask, pausing as a thought hits me. “Is your place in D.C. anything like this apartment?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, blowing out smoke and tipping back the whiskey in his crystal glass.

Shrugging, I wrap the sage green dress I’ve picked around my body. “I was just wondering if this is your style.”

I’ve never seen his D.C. residence, and until this trip, I haven’t given it any thought. But now I’m curious. God, my apartment must feel like a novelty home compared to what he’s used to. This place is a cathedral to taste—skyline like a painting, walls hung in art worth more than my degree.

He shrugs, as though he doesn’t know how to answer, which I find adorable and so unlike him it’s almost funny. “I don’t dislike it,” he says thoughtfully. “But my place in D.C. wasn’t decorated or designed by me. I handpicked everything here.”

“Really?” I ask. When he nods, I reach for the black boots, opting to go bare-legged despite the freezing temperatures outside. “What was your inspiration for this place?”

A genuine smile tugs at the corners of his lips, his blue eyes crinkling. “You, Toy. I asked myself what you’d like.” He takes one last drag of his cigar before putting it out. “Plus, Lena helped me.”

“Lena?” I squeak, surprised.

He nods. “Yeah, I called her and asked her for help with what you’d like.”

“You really called my best friend?” I ask, stunned.

“I wanted to get it right,” he says simply. “You don’t hand someone a kingdom unless you build it for them first.”

The revelation melts something in me, warm, messy, a little dangerous. Enzo’s thoughtfulness really knows no bounds. Closing the distance between us, I wrap my arms around his neck. “Thank you,” I murmur.

I step away again, mumbling that I need to finish getting ready. Once I’m done, I take a last look in the bathroom mirror, puffing my hair. Okay, I think I’m ready to meet his family.

“We need to stop somewhere first,” I call out, running my finger across the seams of my lips to make sure none of my nude lipstick is smudging.

Enzo comes into view, adjusting his cufflinks, the movement so practiced it looks like a dance. He arches a brow. “We’re on a schedule, Toy.”

“I’m not showing up empty-handed to meet your mother,” I state, leaving no room for argument. “At a minimum, I’m buying her some flowers.”

Something softens in his expression. “Whatever you say,” he murmurs, stepping closer to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my skin.

The detour takes fifteen minutes. I select an arrangement that walks the line between impressive and not trying too hard—elegant white lilies with sprays of something blue I don’t recognize.

When Enzo tries to pay, I put my foot down. “They’re not from me if you’re paying,” I argue, and eventually, he gives in.

Back in the car, darkness has settled over the city. The driver weaves through traffic like it’s personally obligated to part for him.

“So, where are we going?” I ask, curious to know more.

“The Russo family estate,” Enzo answers, running his thumb across the back of my hand.

“And your mom lives there?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “None of us live on the estate. We just meet there.”

The car turns onto a private road, then slows as we approach a massive gate—wrought iron twisted into patterns that seem almost violent in their beauty. A guard steps forward, light scanning over our vehicle. No ID requested. They know exactly who’s in this car.

The gates swing open, and I feel the first real shift in the air. It’s not danger, but something equally old and merciless. The kind of power I grew up around but never understood. The kind that lived behind manicured hedges and dinner-party smiles. I didn’t know what it was then. But I do now.

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