Page 157 of Hexed
Laughing, I cover my mouth, and Enzo quirks a brow. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, this is just…our thing, I guess. Touristy outings followed by a round of torture.”
He chuckles, brushing the back of his hand down my cheek. “A perfect night, in my opinion.”
He grabs my hand again.
“He’shere?” I ask.
Enzo gives me a half grin. “In the basement of Max’s Meats.”
FORTY-THREE
VENESA
I never knewFrankie Bianchi existed, but I know I want him dead the moment I see him.
He looksjustlike my aunt Antonella, and I’ve always hated her.
She was the Wicked Witch to my Dorothy, the evil stepmother to my Cinderella. She truly embodied everything that I despised about spoiled, rich, entitled people, and frankly, I blame her for the way her daughter turned out. I see a lot of her in Aria, and now that the puzzle pieces of my life are all coming together instead of having someone there obstructing the view, it makes perfect sense why I’ve never truly felt like part of the Kingston Family.
It’s because they neverletme be.
We’re in an actual meat locker, and I’m quickly realizing that moving through hanging body parts of different animals is not my idea of a good time. There are even pigs’ heads lined up against the wall.
I’m not normally one who gets the ick easily, but being in here definitely does it for me.
Scotty stayed outside with the car. He’s not a made man, so Enzo said he wasn’t allowed to come inside, but he did let Gio tag along, and Bastien—mainly because I pushed for him to be in here—and the two of them waltz in silently behind us like bodyguards.
I guess, in a way, they are.
In the middle of the room, Frankie’s strung up just like the animals that surround us.
The only difference is he’s still alive.
A shiver races through me because it’scoldin here, and Enzo notices immediately, undoing his suit jacket and placing it over my shoulders.
I’ve never been in a relationship before, and to be honest, I’m not entirely sure that’s what we are now, but I like how he cares for me in a way nobody else ever has.
I stand back to let Enzo work, gripping the lapels of his jacket and bringing them up to my nose so I can be surrounded by his scent. My stomach flutters, a cozy feeling lighting me up from the inside out.
Enzo doesn’t speak, and neither does anyone else. Between the silence and the cold of the room, the tension is palpable, a foreboding tingle firing like synapses against my skin. Enzo sighs heavily, tilting his head and watching the way Frankie hangs limply by his wrists, tied together by a chain and hooked to the ceiling. Blood drips from cuts on his face onto the linoleum floor, down a drain that’s directly beneath him.
That’s smart. Why didn’t I ever think of doing that?
I look behind me at Bastien and raise my brows as if to say,Can you believe this room?and notice how tensely he’s holding his body.
Bastien loves his torture. I bet it’s painful for him that he’s forced to be a spectator and isn’t able to take part.
Enzo rolls up one sleeve of the black button-down beneath his suit vest, slowly revealing sinewy forearms and tattooed muscle. First the left and then the right, taking his time with each. Like there’s no need to rush. And I guess there isn’t.
It’s not like Frankie’s going anywhere.
It’s almost erotic watching him prepare himself for this, and I squeeze my thighs together to stem the ache. Now that I know what it’s like to have him inside me, it’s like my body is on overdrive, telling me I need to stop being such a prude and allow him to make up for lost time.
Orgasms and torture. They really go hand in hand.
Also, kissing him is…different from what I imagined kissing would be, and I don’t know if it’s because it’s kissing withhimor if I’ve been missing out this whole time.
