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My breathing comes in shallow, panicked gasps, my lungs straining against the pressure on my chest. I can feel the hard lines of his body beneath me, all coiled strength and leashed violence. He's dressed in a suit that probably costs more than my rent, the fabric smooth and cool against my fevered skin.
"Please," I whisper, hating the way my voice shakes. "Please, let me go. I won't tell anyone, I swear to God. Just let me go."
His eyes narrow, a muscle ticking in his jaw. For a long moment, he just stares at me, his gaze boring into mine like he's trying to read my thoughts. I feel flayed open, exposed, like he can see all the way down to the marrow of my bones.
"I can't do that," he says finally, his voice flat and emotionless. "You're a liability now."
Liability. The word echoes in my head, bouncing around my skull like a ricocheting bullet. I've seen enough crime dramas to know what happens to liabilities in the mafia world. They end up in shallow graves or at the bottom of the river, weighed down with cement shoes.
"W-what are you going to do to me?" I hate how weak I sound, how pathetic. But I can't help it. I'm terrified, more scared than I've ever been in my life. This man, with his cold eyes and his killer's hands, holds my fate in his grasp. And something tells me he's not the type to grant mercy.
He looks away, his gaze cutting to the window. The city blurs past outside, a smear of neon and shadow. I catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the glass, pale and wide-eyed and smudged with blood. I look like a ghost, a specter haunting the leather seats.
"I haven't decided yet." His voice is distant, almost thoughtful. Like he's mulling over what wine to pair with dinner, not contemplating how to dispose of my body. "But you don't need to worry about that right now."
I bark out a laugh, high and hysterical. "Don't need to worry? You're fucking kidding me, right? You killed a man in front of me, and now you've got me trapped in your murder car. How the hell am I not supposed to worry?"
His eyes snap back to mine, narrowing to slits. "Watch your mouth," he growls, his fingers digging into my shoulder. "You're not in a position to be making demands."
I flinch away from his touch, my heart slamming against my ribs. But beneath the fear, there's a flicker of something else. Something hot and reckless, like the first lick of flame on dry kindling.
"Fuck you," I spit, the words tasting like copper on my tongue. "If you're going to kill me, just get it over with. I'm not going to beg for my life."
He blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. It's gone in an instant, replaced by that cold, impassive mask. But for a moment, I swear I saw a crack in his armor.
"I told you," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "I haven't decided what I'm going to do with you yet. But keep running your mouth, and I might just change my mind."
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. There's a warning in his words, a promise of violence that makes my blood run cold. But there's something else there too, buried beneath the layers of ice and steel. Something that almost sounds like...
Curiosity.
I stare up at him, searching his face for some hint of humanity. Some sign that there's more to him than just the ruthless killer I saw in the alley. But his features are carved from stone, inscrutable and unreadable.
"At least tell me your name," I say to him, wondering if I can win him over by reminding him of my humanity, as well as his own. "I'm Luca, I'm a baker at that little cupcake shop..." The one you splattered with brain matter. "You are?"
His dark eyes flick to me. "Enzo. Enzo Vitale." He says it like I should recognize it, but I don't.
"Enzo." I roll the name on my tongue, trying it on for size. "It's nice to meet you."
He snorts, because he knows it isn't. But I've got to try something. The only other trick I have up my sleeve is my brown butter apple pie, and I'm not exactly in the position to bake one of those right now.
The car slows to a stop, the engine cutting off with a soft purr. Enzo glances out the window, his jaw clenching. "We're here," he says, his voice clipped and businesslike. "Get up."
I blink, disoriented by the sudden change in scenery. "Where's here?" I ask, my voice rough with fear. "Where are you taking me?"
He doesn't answer, just reaches over me to open the door. I flinch away from him, my heart slamming against my ribs. But he doesn't touch me, just gestures for me to get out of the car.
On shaky legs, I clamber out of the backseat, blinking in the sudden brightness. We're parked in front of a nondescript brownstone, the kind of place that blends seamlessly into the surrounding neighborhood. The street is quiet and empty, the windows dark and shuttered.
Enzo climbs out after me, his movements fluid and graceful. He towers over me, his broad shoulders blocking out the light. "Inside," he says, jerking his head towards the door. "Now."
I hesitate, my feet rooted to the pavement. Every instinct is screaming at me to run, to get as far away from this man as possible. But I know it's useless. Even if I could outrun him, there's nowhere for me to go.
With a resigned sigh, I climb the steps to the brownstone, my legs leaden and heavy. Enzo follows close behind, his presence a tangible weight against my back. He unlocks the door with a key from his pocket, the tumblers clicking into place with a sound that echoes like a gunshot in the silence.
The house is dark and still, the air heavy with the scent of dust and disuse. Enzo flips on a light switch, illuminating a sparsely furnished living room. There's a couch, a coffee table, a few nondescript paintings on the walls. It looks like a stage set, a cardboard cutout of a home.
"Sit," Enzo orders, pointing to the couch. I obey wordlessly, perching on the edge of the cushions. My hands are shaking, my palms slick with sweat. I clench them into fists, trying to hide the tremors.
