Page 125 of The Toy Collector

Something passes between us, a current of understanding that transcends words. She sees something in me that she recognizes—not a threat to her son, but a match.

Her eyes soften almost imperceptibly as she looks at Enzo. “Even as a child. He was always watching, always three steps ahead of everyone else.” She shifts her gaze back to me. “It’s rare that he lets anyone close enough to see the real him.”

I feel the weight of her words; the test hidden within them. I hold her gaze. “I don’t take the privilege lightly.” Not because I’m brave. Because he’s here. Because if I stumble, he’ll catch me before I hit the ground.

Her lips curve into something more genuine than her earlier smiles. “No,” she says quietly. “I don’t believe you do.”

The grandfather clock in the corner chimes softly, and she rises in one fluid motion. “I think it’s time for dinner,” she announces, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her dress. “Though I’m afraid I won’t be joining you as I have a previous engagement.”

I blink, surprise momentarily breaking through my composed façade. We came all this way for dinner, and she’s ditching us?

Enzo doesn’t seem surprised. “Give my regards to the host,” he says, standing and helping me to my feet.

“Of course,” she replies, then turns to me. “It was enlightening to meet you, Piper. I do hope we’ll see more of each other.”

With that, she glides from the room, leaving behind only the lingering scent of her perfume and the distinct impression that I’ve passed some crucial test.

“Come,” Enzo murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. “The others are waiting.”

The evening is only beginning, and I’ve already navigated my first trial by fire.

We move deeper into the estate until we reach another massive room, this one dominated by a long table of dark wood so polished I can see my reflection on its surface. Three men are already seated, their conversation cutting off abruptly as we enter.

The silence feels like a blade drawn across exposed skin—not painful yet, but the threat is there. The man at the head of the table rises first. He’s younger than Enzo but cut from the same cloth—expensive suit, calculated movements, eyes that miss nothing.

“Lorenzo.”

“Remus,” Enzo replies, pulling me closer to his side.

Remus’ gaze cuts to me; cold, calculating. Like he’s weighing my value on a scale that could tip either way. It’s as though he’s calculating my value in a complex equation. “You must be Piper,” he says. “I’m Remus.” The way he offers no last name tells me it’s the same as Enzo’s.

“A pleasure,” I say, meeting his eyes directly. I feel Enzo’s approval in the slight pressure of his fingers against my spine.

“Sit,” Remus says, and it’s more of a decree than an invitation. Authority runs thick in Russo blood.

As we move toward our seats, the man on Remus’s right smiles at me. “Nice to see you again, Piper.”

I pause, searching his face. I’ve never met him before.

“Rafe,” he supplies, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Though we weren’t formally introduced last time.”

Before I can ask what he means, the third man sprawls in his chair with the lazy menace of someone who knowsexactlyhow dangerous he is. He barks a short laugh. “Fuck, I barely recognized you without Lorenzo’s cock in your mouth,” he says, grinning wolfishly. “The blindfold was a nice touch, though.”

Enzo goes rigid beside me, a current of lethal energy vibrating through him so strongly I can feel it against my skin. The temperature in the room seems to drop by ten degrees.

“Matteo,” he growls. “Shut the fuck up.”

Ahh… the penny drops; Rafe and Matteo, they were there at my interview. Yeah… not awkward at all. But I don’t shrink. I laugh—deep, unapologetic, and just loud enough to make Matteo blink.

I slide into my designated chair and reach for the wine already poured. “I’m not sure why you’re thinking about his cock when I was kneeling in only my underwear,” I say, taking a sip. “But I don’t judge.”

Matteo’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he bursts into laughter again. This time with real pleasure rather than mockery. “Fuck, Enzo, she’s a keeper.”

The tension bleeds from Enzo’s body as he takes his seat beside me, his thigh pressing against mine beneath the table. His hand finds my knee, squeezing once—approval, gratitude, desire, all compressed into a single touch.

He doesn’t need to speak to make his claim. The way he touches me—the way he lets them see he’ll burn the world down if I’m harmed—is enough.

Dinner unfolds like a chess match in candlelight. Casual moves hiding sharp edges. Staff appear and disappear with silent efficiency, serving courses that would make Michelin-starred restaurants envious.

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