Chapter 2 - The Enforcer at My Door
My blood ran cold.
Nobody knew where I lived except for Marco, my landlord, and HR. Well, HR and the security detail that quietly monitored my commute every single day—a precaution Enzo had insisted upon from my very first week on the job, claiming it was standard protocol for anyone handling high-value corporate ledgers.
I walked slowly toward the heavy oak door, my bare feet padding softly against the hardwood floor. I didn't turn on the hallway light. I reached up, pressed my eye to the brass peephole, and stifled a gasp.
Enzo Lombardi stood in the dim hallway.
He had discarded his suit jacket; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms to reveal the lean, powerful muscle beneath. His dark hair was slightly tousled by the night wind, and his jawline was set in a hard, uncompromising line that radiated lethal energy. He looked less like a corporate executive and more like the ruthless mafia kingpin the Italian tabloids whispered about in hushed, terrified tones.
The doorbell rang again—shorter, sharper this time.
"Mia. Open the door."
His voice carried through the solid wood, deep and resonant, vibrating straight through to my bones. He knew I was standing right behind it. He always knew.
With trembling fingers, I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.
Enzo didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped past me into the entryway, his imposing frame instantly making the spacious hallway feel claustrophobic. The subtle scent of cedar, expensive cologne, and dark espresso washed over me, mingling with the crisp night air clinging to his clothes.
He turned around slowly, locking the front door behind him with a heavy, deliberate click that sounded entirely too final.
"Are you out of your mind?"
His voice was a low, controlled growl, far more terrifying than if he had screamed. He closed the distance between us until he was standing mere inches away, towering over me, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that made it difficult to draw breath.
"Excuse me?" I managed to whisper, lifting my chin defiantly even as my knees threatened to buckle. "You show up at my apartment past midnight because of a social media post, and I'm the one out of my mind?"
"You defied me," Enzo said, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped closer, trapping me between his chest and the front door. "You left the photograph up. You sent a message challenging me. Do you have any idea what happens to people who push me, Mia?"
"I'm not 'people,' Mr. Lombardi," I shot back, summoning every ounce of courage I possessed. "I'm your assistant. And my personal life, my social media, and my friends are none of your business. You don't get to dictate what I post just because it makes you uncomfortable!"
"Uncomfortable?"
A dark, humorless laugh escaped his lips. He raised his right hand, his long, warm fingers gently brushing against my jawline. The sudden, intimate touch sent an electric shock racing through my entire body, making me gasp softly. His thumb traced my lower lip, his gaze dropping to my mouth before snapping back up to lock onto my eyes.
"Uncomfortable doesn't even begin to describe it, piccola," he murmured, his thumb resting softly against my skin. "For eight months, I have sat across a mahogany desk from you every single day, watching you, listening to you, forcing myself to maintain a professional distance that has slowly been driving me insane. I have watched every man in Milan look at you with hunger in their eyes, and I have kept my hands to myself because I gave my word that I would protect you from the ugliness of my world."
My breath hitched. "Enzo..."
"And then tonight," he continued, his voice dropping to a harsh, ragged whisper, "I open my phone, and I see you pressed against another man, smiling like he holds your entire world in his hands. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"
"He's my cousin, you idiot!" the words burst out of me before I could stop them.
Enzo froze.
The fierce, predatory tension in his shoulders suddenly snapped. His hand lingered on my cheek, his dark eyes widening slightly in genuine shock.
"Your... what?"
"Marco," I huffed, crossing my arms defensively to mask the frantic pounding of my heart. "Marco is my cousin! He's gay, he's an interior designer, and he was taking me to dinner after the auction! We were laughing because he was teasing me about having a crush on my terrifying, overbearing boss!"
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Silence descended upon the hallway—thick, heavy, and utterly stunned.
For three full seconds, the great Enzo Lombardi, master of Milan's underworld and corporate titan, looked like he had been struck by lightning.
