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Chapter Eight
KENNEDY
I swear, this man is a goddamn nightmare.
Sure, he’s a beautiful nightmare, all power and control with golden eyes that pierce you like daggers and a body chiseled from stone, but a nightmare nonetheless.
And I’m the idiot who kisses him. Slid my ass right onto that colossal cock of his and imagines he’s...what? A knight in shining armor? A guy plucked from the pages of a romance novel ready to rescue me?
Ha! Prince Charming my ass. More like Duke of the Dick’s.
Frustrated, I start packing. It doesn’t matter that I’m in a foreign country and have no idea where I’ll go or what I’ll do. I’m not staying here another second. Not when he’s treating me like a book borrowed from Andre D’Angelo’s sleazy porn library.
Ugh!
I snatch my duffel and hastily cram it with clothes. Mostly brand new clothes with very expensive price tags on them, but who knows where my own clothes are in this fashionista closet. And since I’m fleeing with little more than a thimble of dignity, I need something to wear.
When I spot my vibrator, you bet I’m taking it. One, it’s mine. And two, I need something to cool down all this pent-up heat melting off my panties. Because when an Italian God makes his moves, my traitorous body responds, damnit.
Snatching my old denim jacket from the hanger, a card flutters out of the pocket—Agent Caleb Knox’s card. As much as I’m tempted to dial him up now, it’s past midnight, and I doubt the man’s sitting around, waiting for confidential informants to blow up his phone.
But wait. That’s local time. What time is it in Chicago?
Out of nowhere, a booming voice echoes from the hall. “Let. Me. In.”
I clutch the card in my hand, bolstered by the courage from that and the bottle of wine I downed, and retort boldly, loudly, “No!”
What does Enzo expect me to say? When I pressed him about returning me to Andre after this trip, all he bothered to say was, “Debts will be honored.”
What a total fucking asshole.
I tuck the card in my bag and refocus on packing. I’ll spend one final day with Riley and strategize my next steps afterward. But one thing is absolutely certain: I won’t be sacrificed to his uncle for the greater D’Angelo good.
Just as my false sense of confidence is making me feel all zen in my decision, I hear three gorilla knocks and his stupid voice sounding through. “Open. The. Door.”
I swear, this man makes me thermonuclear. I shout back, “The only way you’re getting through that door is if you break it down.” Which, considering it looks like it’s from the 17th century and made of solid oak, I doubt he will.
Though, and I hate to admit this, that does sound hot.
The mere thought of Enzo Ares D’Angelo, the living, breathing God of War, smashing through that ancient door, pinning me up against the nearest wall, and ravaging my body mercilessly sound so insanely hot, in fact, I actually give my vibrator a second glance.
I shake my head. What’s wrong with me?
In an instant, the door flies open with a violent slam. I jolt—there’s Enzo, demolishing the massive door as if it’s cardboard.
He strides in, his expression brutal and dark, his overpowering presence instantly filling the space.
I stagger back—dizzy and transfixed. The room tilts, spinning in a heady mix of fine wine and raw Alpha male dominance.
My heart hammers against my ribs as he glides through the room, each movement a deliberate, predatory prowl of a panther zeroing in on his prey.
It’s at this point I realize I’m too intoxicated to fully grasp the situation. Enzo is dangerous. Ruthless. And right now, all that formidable wrath is laser-focused on me.
If I had a shred of common sense, I’d be scared. Terrified, even. In any sane scenario, I’d turn and run. But that’s the problem. The closer he gets, the more my brain cells dissolve into dust.
With his next step, I’m pressed against the wall. A solid wall of muscles and tension, impossibly hot against mine.
And as a raging river of alcohol surges through my veins, too swiftly to stop, I blurt out, “What do you think you’re doing?”
