Chapter 2 (Enzo)

I lean back in the van, watching the city blur past. Another job done, another family wiped off the map. The Pietro clan's screams fade into memory, replaced by the thrum of the engine and the satisfaction of a clean execution.

Bloodbath. That's what some might call it. I call it business. The Pietros were no saints. In our world, you either fuck or get fucked. They had it coming.

My mind drifts to celebration plans. A stiff drink, maybe two. Something to take the edge off, not that I need it. Killing doesn't phase me anymore. It's just another day at the office.

A soft whimper draws my attention. Next to me, a woman sits bound and hooded. Her chest rises and falls in quick, panicked breaths. Even through the sack, I can tell she's a looker. Curves in all the right places and damn her breasts are nice.

I remember Ettore's meaty fist connecting with her skull. For a moment, I thought he'd killed her. Glad he didn't. It would've been a waste.

This wasn't part of the plan. We were supposed to leave no survivors. But something about her... I couldn't let Ettore finish the job. Call it a moment of weakness or misplaced chivalry.

Don't get me wrong. I'm no saint. But I've got my code. Hurting women? That's Ettore's thing, not mine. Never saw the appeal in beating on someone weaker. Doesn't make you a man. Just makes you a fucking coward.

"Nice work back there, Enzo." Giacomo's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Clean and efficient."

I grunt in response. No need for flowery words. The job speaks for itself.

I lean back, feeling the van's vibrations as we cruise through the city. Giacomo's beside me, a smug grin plastered on his face. The girl's still whimpering, but I tune it out. Just another day in this fucked-up business.

Giacomo breaks the silence. "So, Enzo, what do you think about our little guest?"

I shrug, keeping my face neutral. "Don't think anything about her."

He snorts. "Fucking lawyer answer. Come on, give me a real opinion."

I clench my jaw, considering my words carefully. Giacomo's not just my boss; he runs this whole crew. I've worked with different outfits before, but his offer of steady work was too good to pass up. Still, I know better than to let my guard down.

"All right, you want my honest take?" I lean in, lowering my voice. "She's a liability. That's the daughter of O'Malley, for Christ's sake. The Irish are gonna be out for blood."

Giacomo's grin widens. "Exactly. I'm counting on it. Think about it, Enzo. We've got leverage now."

"And if they come looking?"

"That's what I'm hoping for." His eyes glint with a wicked light that makes my skin crawl. "Let 'em come."

I shift uncomfortably, not liking where this is headed. Giacomo notices, chuckling. "Speaking of coming, Ettore's still pissed about you cockblocking him with those Fifth Street whores."

My hands ball into fists. "Tell that piece of shit to watch his fucking mouth."

Giacomo laughs it off, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. "Easy there, tiger. We're all friends here, right?"

The van rumbles on for another fifteen minutes before we hit familiar streets. It's been a long day, and I'm itching to get home and wash the blood off my hands. We'd hit the Pietro place in broad daylight, a ballsy move that's got us all on edge.

As we approach the deli, our usual hideout, Giacomo suddenly taps the driver's shoulder. "Pull over here."

I raise an eyebrow as we stop in front of my apartment building. What the fuck is this about?

"Get out."

I stare at Giacomo, my jaw clenched. "Get out? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Plans changed. You're taking the girl with you."

My stomach drops. "You can't be serious."

Giacomo's eyes narrow. "Is there gonna be a fucking problem, Enzo?"

I glance at my building. It's a normal place, sure, but it's still in our territory. Nobody here talks to cops. But keeping an Irish princess captive? That's a whole other ballgame.

"I'm not equipped for this shit, Giacomo. What am I supposed to do with her?"

"Keep her alive. That's all you need to worry about."

The look in his eyes tells me I don't have a choice.

Fuck.

I climb out, slamming the door harder than necessary. Circling the van, I yank open the side door. The girl's still out cold. I hoist her over my shoulder, grunting at the dead weight.

As I trudge up the stoop, Giacomo calls out, "Keep her safe, Enzo."

I grunt in response, not trusting myself to speak. The van peels away, leaving me alone with my unwanted guest.

Inside, I dump her on the couch. She doesn't stir. Part of me hopes she stays that way, at least for a while. Gives me time to figure out what the hell I'm gonna do.

I run a hand through my hair, pacing the small living room. "Damn it. What the fucking hell  am I supposed to do with you?"

The unconscious girl offers no answers. I shake my head, still reeling from how quickly everything's gone sideways.

I stride into the kitchen, yanking open the fridge door. The bottles clink as I grab a beer, twisting off the cap with more force than necessary. The first swig does little to calm my nerves. Fuck.

Back in the living room, I slump into the armchair across from the couch where she's sprawled out. My eyes dart between her still form and the door, half-expecting Giacomo or one of his goons to burst in at any moment.

What the hell am I supposed to do with her? This isn't my usual gig. I'm good at making problems disappear, not babysitting them in my own goddamn apartment.

The spare bedroom crosses my mind. It's got a decent bed, at least. But shit, there's that window facing the street. Anyone could see her, or worse, she could try to signal for help. It's too comfortable anyway. This isn't a fucking bed and breakfast.

I take another long pull from the bottle, a wave of queasiness washes over me. This is way above my pay grade. The Irish connection makes it even worse. I've steered clear of that hornet's nest for a reason. Now I've got their princess passed out on my couch, and a target painted on my back to boot.

Christ, I was happy with how things were. Go in, do the job, get paid. No complications, no attachments. Just me, my gun, and the occasional piece of ass when the mood struck.

Simple.

Clean.

Now I've got this fucking problem dumped in my lap. Babysitting some Irish princess wasn't part of the deal. My apartment isn't set up for this shit. What am I supposed to do, chain her to the radiator?

I glare at her unconscious form, resentment bubbling up. She's nothing but trouble. A complication I don't need or want.

But damn it all to hell, even passed out and rumpled, she's a looker. Those curves, that pale skin... No. Fuck. I can't think like that. She's a job, a problem to solve but fuckingly sexy one.

I glance at the woman on my couch, watching her chest rise and fall. She's still out cold. Good. Gives me time to think.

Standing up, I approach her slowly. My hand hesitates for a moment before I grab the bag covering her face. I yank it off in one swift motion, tossing it aside.

Fuck.

She's gorgeous. Thick dark hair frames a face that could stop traffic. Pale skin, full lips... and her body. Christ. I shake my head, stepping back. This is bad. Really bad.

A sudden knock at the door jolts me out of my thoughts. I freeze, every muscle tensing. Who the hell...?

Another knock, harder this time. "Open up, you fuck!"

Ettore. Shit.

Reluctantly, I open the door. Ettore's standing there, arms full of wooden planks and a toolbox at his feet.

"What the fuck is this?" I growl.

He shoulders past me, not waiting for an invitation. I shut the door, a sickening feeling takes hold.

"You got the girl?" Ettore grunts, eyes scanning the room.

I nod towards the couch. "Still out."

Ettore grins, all teeth and no warmth. "Good. We got work to do."

My brow furrows. "What are you talking about?"

He drops the planks with a clatter, reaching for his toolbox. "Gotta make sure our little guest stays put."

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut.

Planks.

Tools.

Jesus Chris.

This is getting more twisted by the second.