Page 32 of Ruined By Blood
"Not yet," Alessio says. "But word travels fast in our circles. It's only a matter of time."
I run a hand through my still-damp hair. "Keep me updated. Anything happens—anything—I need to know immediately."
"Will do." There's a pause, and I can practically feel Alessio choosing his next words carefully. "Enzo... why are you so invested in this girl?"
The question hangs between us. I think about Lucrezia, about my failure to protect her. About the broken look in Sienna's eyes that speaks of suffering. About the small spark I saw when she almost smiled.
"Just keep me informed," I say instead of answering.
"You got it." He lets it go, but I know the question remains. "Stay safe out there."
I end the call and toss the phone onto the bed. Outside, the wind has picked up, rustling through the pines that surround the cabin. Something about the sound reminds me of whispers—of secrets and warnings.
I need to get Sienna to talk. To trust me. Whatever Sterling has done to her, whatever Cortez plans to do—I can't protect her from whatI don't understand.
Ican't sleep.
The cabin stands silent except for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant hooting of an owl. Moonlight filters through the blinds, casting silver bars across the unfamiliar bed where I lie wide awake, staring at the ceiling.
My body aches from the bruises, but it's not physical pain keeping me from sleep. It's the swirling storm inside my head. The image of Enzo standing there in nothing but a towel, water droplets trailing down the intricate tattoos covering his chest, keeps replaying in my mind. I press my palms against my eyes until stars burst behind my eyelids, trying to erase the memory.
What is wrong with me? Men have always meant one thing in my life: danger. My father. His associates. They take and take and take, leaving bruises both visible and invisible.
Yet here I am, lying in the dark, thinking about the way Enzo's eyes soften when he looks at me. How he doesn't touch me unless absolutely necessary. The way he warned me about the woods instead of threatening to hunt me down if I ran.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket tighter around me.
I've never had a friend. Not a real one. My father made sure of that, keeping me isolated, "homeschooled" by rotating tutors who never stayed long enough to form attachments. No sleepovers. No prom. No whispered secrets or shared dreams. Even the house staff were warned against getting friendly with me.
A boyfriend? The thought almost makes me laugh out loud. The closest thing I've had to romance was beingparaded in front of men three times my age, wearing dresses not of my choosing, smiling when I wanted to scream.
So why does my heart race when Enzo is near? This strange, unfamiliar feeling can't be attraction. It must be fear. It has to be.
Yet fear has never made me notice the exact shade of someone's eyes. Fear has never made me want to step closer instead of backing away.
I sit up, pressing my back against the headboard. Outside, the forest stretches endless and dark, much like my future. Twenty-one years old and I've never made a single real choice about my life. Running from the Feretti mansion was the first decision that was truly mine—and even that was driven by terror, not desire.
What would it be like to choose something because I wanted it, not because I was escaping something worse?
The sound of glass clinking pulls me from my thoughts. I freeze, listening intently. There it is again—the faint noise of movement from somewhere downstairs.
My heart rate speeds up. Is it Enzo? Or has my father's men found me already?
I slip out of bed, my bare feet silent against the cool wooden floor. The oversized t-shirt I'm wearing falls to mid-thigh, and I tug it down self-consciously. I should find pants, but curiosity and restlessness drive me forward.
The hallway is dark except for a sliver of light escaping from downstairs. I follow it like a moth to flame, each step measured and careful on the creaking stairs. My right hand trails along the wall, steadying me as I descend.
At the bottom of the staircase, I pause, listening. The sounds are coming from the kitchen—the soft clink ofglass, the faint rush of liquid being poured, a barely audible sigh.
I peek around the corner and find Enzo sitting at the kitchen island, fully dressed in black jeans and a dark gray t-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. The tattoos I glimpsed earlier are mostly hidden now, except for the ones creeping up his neck and covering his hands as they wrap around a glass of amber liquid.
He's staring out the window into the darkness, his profile sharp in the dim light from the single pendant lamp hanging above the island. He looks... tired. Not physically, but bone-deep weary in a way I recognize from my own reflection.
I must make some small noise because his head snaps toward me, his entire body tensing before recognition softens his features.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asks, voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the quiet kitchen.
I linger in the doorway, suddenly aware of my bare legs and messy hair. "I heard noises."
