Chapter 5 - The Gala of Knives
The forty-eight hours leading up to Thursday night moved like a slow-burning fuse.
Enzo moved Khloe out of the Carlyle and into the penthouse fortress that occupied the top three floors of a steel-and-glass tower overlooking the Hudson. It was a palace of polished granite, dark leather, and bulletproof floor-to-ceiling windows. Armed men in dark suits occupied the lobby, the service elevators, and the stairwells.
Khloe spent those two days in a strange, liminal state. Her old life—the peeling wallpaper of her studio apartment, the greasy kitchen floor of the Onyx Room, the constant, grinding panic of unpaid bills—seemed like a dream she had woken up from years ago. A single phone call from Enzo’s lawyer had eradicated her father’s debt; an official letter of settlement had arrived via courier, stamped and sealed, legally releasing her from every penny.
She was free. Yet, she had never felt more bound.
She spent the afternoons in Enzo’s sprawling private library, reading history texts while Enzo took meetings in the adjoining glass-walled boardroom. Through the soundproof glass, she watched him maneuver his captains like chess pieces. He was cold, calculating, and terrifyingly efficient. Sal was there, nodding and laughing, completely unaware that his death warrant was already being signed.
On Thursday evening, the rain that had plagued the city turned into a driving, torrential downpour. Fog rolled off the Atlantic, blanketing the Manhattan harbor in a thick, gray shroud.
At ten o’clock, the elevator doors of the penthouse opened, and Enzo walked into the library.
He was no longer dressed in a bespoke tuxedo. He wore tactical dark clothing: a heavy black water-resistant jacket over a Kevlar vest, reinforced trousers, and combat boots. A sleek, matte-black Sig Sauer rested in a custom holster at his hip, and a tactical knife was strapped to his left forearm.
Khloe stood up from the leather armchair, closing her book. "It’s time?"
Enzo stopped three feet away from her. The aura of danger surrounding him was almost physical, sharp as a blade. "Frankie is staying here with six men. The building is locked down. Nobody enters without my direct retinal authorization."
Khloe looked at the gun at his hip, then up at his grim, shadowed face. "You’re going to the pier."
"Sal led forty of my men to the Newark rail yard an hour ago, believing I was right behind them," Enzo said, checking the magazine of a spare sidearm on his desk with a series of clean, metallic clicks. "Victor Vane and thirty of Marcone’s hitters are currently moving two flatbed trucks toward Pier Forty-Two, expecting an empty warehouse and an unmonitored customs gate."
"And what will they find?"
"Me," Enzo said flatly. "And sixty men who know how to shoot in the dark."
A cold knot formed in Khloe’s chest. She had wanted her debt cleared. She had wanted to survive. But looking at Enzo now, the thought of him lying on a concrete pier with a bullet in his chest made her lungs tighten painfully. Over the past three days, behind the ruthless exterior of the mafia don, she had caught glimpses of the man who read classical philosophy, the man who had paid for Tommy’s culinary school out of his own pocket, the man whose hands had trembled with pure rage when another man had dared to touch her shoulder.
"Don't get killed," she said, her voice barely louder than the hum of the air conditioning.
Enzo paused. He set the magazine down on the mahogany desk, walked over to where she stood, and looked down at her.
"Are you worried about me, Khloe?"
"I’m worried about my investment," she shot back, trying to use her old defense mechanism of biting sarcasm, but her voice betrayed her, soft and wavering. "You haven't signed the paperwork releasing my car from the impound lot yet."
A real, rare smile broke across Enzo’s face—not the mocking smirk he showed the world, but something warm, genuine, and disarmingly handsome.
He reached up, cupping the back of her head, his fingers threading through her thick chestnut hair. He pulled her forward, tilting her face up, and pressed his mouth to hers.
The kiss was sudden, fierce, and completely overwhelming. It tasted of danger, rain, and raw possession. Khloe gasped against his lips, her hands coming up automatically to grip the front of his tactical vest, feeling the hard ceramic plates beneath the fabric. Enzo deepened the kiss, his arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her flush against his body until she was entirely enveloped by him.
When he finally broke the kiss, both of them were breathing hard.
"If I don't come back by sunrise," Enzo whispered, his forehead resting against hers, his dark eyes burning into her soul, "Frankie has an envelope for you. A passport, five hundred thousand dollars in bearer bonds, and a deed to a villa in Taormina. You leave the country, Khloe. You never look back."
"Enzo—"
"Wait for me," he ordered softly, kissing her cheek one last time.
May you like
Then he turned and walked out the door. The elevator chimed, and he was gone.
***
