Page 14 of Enzo's Vow
Willow narrowed her gaze and stomped her foot. “Probably best not to take your dog for walks without a leash!”
He blinked, and I could tell her response threw him. Willow might be ten years old, but everyone knew better than to mess with her. Speaking of responses, where was mine? Why wasn’tI able to mutter a word of reassurance to my friends? Both girls hooked my arm, forcing me to move.
“We’re taking you straight home, Gemma. Don’t you worry.”
Home? Home didn’t feel like home without Papa there. He moved to Italy a month ago now. I’d missed him, but right now, in this moment, I really missed him. A wet tickle trailed my cheek. If only my Papa had been here to protect me.
I shivered out of the memory. Enzo prowled toward me, not the slightest bit winded. Any other person would be panting, sweating, but he showed no sign of strain after chasing me through the yard. The dogs followed close behind him and he paused. His low, sharp voice cut through the air. Another Italian command. The Dobermans’ snarls softened into low rumbles. Psycho’s absolute control lessened their aggression.
A loud buzz rang in my ears—stress and anxiety catching up to me, no doubt. The animals dashed away, and fierce relief sank my already weak limbs to the plush lawn. Beyond the fence, through a bushy thicket, lay a dirt path. Freedom, a mere foot away. Tears leaked. I clenched the grass.So close. So close, yet I stood no chance.
A flicker crossed Psycho’s face, a softening around his eyes, a scrunching of his mouth that might have been regret. Then the cold mask snapped back. He shoved his hand toward me, palm up, a dark shadow looming over me. My fingers spasmed, longing to curl into a fist, to deny him this. Because to surrender meant he’d won. I wanted him to lose.
He jerked his hand, his jaw tightening.
Tears blurred my vision. “I hate you.” I slid my hand into his.
He stared a beat longer, smirked, and hauled me to my feet. “Crying changes nothing.” He sounded apathetic, devoid of any soul. “We’re getting married tomorrow.”
I yanked my hand out of his, swiping at my tears as I plodded to the very mansion I tried so hard to escape. “Why are youdoing this to me?” I swung around to face him, desperate to learn what motivated this man to ruin my life. “We’re strangers.”
“This will all make sense tomorrow.” His long fingers arrested my chin. As though unable to stop himself, he ran those same fingers through my hair, his gaze lowered to half-mast. “But try one more escape, and your father and loved ones pay.”
???
Months ago, Matthew and I highlighted today’s date in our calendars, anticipating the happiest day of our lives. The dress fittings, the invites, the flight, and venue hall had all centered on July eleventh. Now here I slouched at my dresser, puffy-eyed from fitful sleep, and waking to find this momentous day turned into a nightmare I dreaded.
Enzo waltzed into the room. His black suit hugged his wide chest and muscular legs. The white collar shone against his olive skin, like neon lights highlighting his handsome features. How wrong for a man so evil to appear so attractive.
He paused, studying my reflection in the mirror, his glower sweeping over my navy silk pajamas. “Tra un’ora festeggiamo il nostro matrimonio, preparatevi.”
I blinked, deciphering his words, but only recognized one.Matrimonio. “Come again?”
He puckered his lips, his brows bouncing. “What? You don’t speak Italian?”
Born and raised in Australia, no one spoke the language around me, not even my own mother. My father taught me a few words and phrases, but always spoke to me in English. “Nope.”
Humor stretched those firm lips. “And yet you chose to marry in Italy… I said we have a wedding in an hour.” He folded his arms, his biceps straining against the fitted jacket. “I expected you in your dress by now.”
In no way superstitious, however, I hoped seeing me before the ceremony jinxed this entire charade. “If you think I’ll put on my bridal dress, you’re insane.”
He smirked and rummaged through my items. “Of course, you’d say so.” He retrieved the paper bag Willow gifted me at my bachelorette dinner. “Refuse to wear your dress, and I’ll carry you down the aisle inthis.” Wicked amusement masked his features as the lingerie spaghetti straps draped his two fingers.
I lunged off the settee, and within two strides, snatched the garment from him. “Pig!” I tossed the lingerie, wishing I’d strangled him with it instead. “I’d rather die than let you see me inthat.”
He pinched my chin and dragged me against him. Our lips lingered inches apart. Hints of mint and espresso feathered my face. Breathing him in bloomed tingles inside my chest, foreign but explosive. The thrill scared me. I craved such a rush with Matthew, hoping for white-hot chemistry to surge between us. Now a magnetic force drew me… to this man, but this man was the last person I wanted.
“Don’t forget, Gemma, tonight’s our wedding night. And I expect to see you in much less than some flimsy lace.” He studied my quivering lips, those black pupils dilating and swallowing the green.
His boldness struck me into rigidness. No. No way he perceived this as a real marriage ending in a real wedding night. Seconds stretched into minutes, and his expression altered into solemness.
He released me as if burned. “I won’t tell you again.” He retreated a step and averted his gaze. “Get dressed. I’ll be back in half an hour.” With those last words, he departed the room.
Swinging my fists at the empty spot he’d occupied, I raged in silence. Escape depended on this facade ceremony being away from here. Resigned for now, I unzipped the bag and donnedthe satin A-line dress from that cute little bridal boutique in Sydney—the gown I’d tried on countless times, smiling at the elegant pearls detailed into its laced-scoop neckline. Not now. Now I stared at my reflection, shoulders hunched, embodying a lamenter ready to attend a funeral. I neatened my dark locks into a tight bun and, skipping the makeup, settled for dabbing moisturizer onto my dry face. Forget bridal heels; I substituted pumps for sneakers. They weren’t noticeable beneath the dress anyway, and I was determined to find an escape.
Once dressed, I knocked on the locked door.
“Yes, Signorina Gallo?” Scar’s voice boomed, muffled by the solid wood. Then he addressed Tapper in Italian. “Non aprirla ancora.”
