Page 36 of Enzo
“But, sir, I’m supposed to?—”
“If you want to live, you’ll step aside,” Enzo barked. The poor man obliged and took off running while my husband expertly got the carriage moving forward.
“I sure as hell hope you’re not kidnapping me,” I hissed.
He didn’t even spare me a glance. “No need for that. You’re mine now.”
His Italian macho mentality was getting on my last nerve.
“Say it one more time, why don’t you?” I sighed, shaking my head. “Just in case I missed the first hundred.”
“Three.” I shot him a confused look, and he explained with a drawl: “I’ve only said it three times.”
I huffed out an exasperated breath. “Three too many.”
His eyes traveled the length of me before they returned to the road. “Nice dress.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll be needing the name of the man you gave your virginity to.”
I threw my head back and laughed.
“No chance in hell.” Not that I even knew it, but I’d keep that tidbit to myself. “Besides, it’s hypocritical of you to demand his name without offering the name ofyourfirst.”
“Do you want it?”
“Want what?”
“The name of my first.”
“No, not really.”
He chuckled, and something about it struck a familiar chord, but he was speaking again before I could ponder it. “Good, because I honestly don’t remember it.”
I sneered. “So typical.”
“Do you remember the name of yours?”
I opened my mouth and immediately slammed it shut, pinning him with a hard stare. “Nice try.”
“You know he’s a dead man, right?”
I tensed, taking a deep breath in before exhaling slowly. “You hurt that man, and I’ll kill you.”
He didn’t so much as glance at me, but a faint, unreadable smile tugged at the corner of his lips and lingered for the rest of our tense, silent carriage ride.
The interior was dim, upholstered in deep burgundy velvet worn smooth with age, the scent of leather and old wood curling in the still air. Outside, the wheels clattered steadily over cobblestones, but inside, the hush was almost oppressive—like the carriage itself was holding its breath along with us.
Two strangers, sitting an arm’s length apart yet separated by a gulf wider than the road beneath us. We couldn’t have been more different.
Different ages. Different lifestyles. Different interests.
The only thing connecting us was an arrangement made between our parents before I even took my first breath.
This was bound to end badly.
When the carriage came to a stop in front of my parents’ home, I didn’t wait for Enzo to help me out; instead, I rushed inside without a backward glance.
