My Brother’s Best Friend Is A Mafia Enforcer

The voicemail came at 3:17 AM, and I knew before I even pressed play that everything was about to go to hell.

My phone vibrated against the nightstand Marco's name flashing in the darkness. I reached for it with clumsy, sleep-laden fingers, but by the time I swiped to answer, it had already gone to voicemail. I should have waited until morning. Should have rolled over and gone back to sleep.

I didn't.

Marco's voice came through the speaker, clear and ragged. "Isla…Cristo, Isla, if you're hearing this…”

 A crash. Then the sound of gunfire, quick snaps that made my blood freeze. "Stay away from the house. Do you hear me? Stay away, and trust no one but Enrico."

More shots. Closer.

"He'll know what to do. He'll keep you…”

Silence.

I was up and out of bed without thinking, grabbing jeans and jamming my feet into sneakers. My hands were shaking so hard I could hardly grasp my keys. Marco. My brother. The only family I had left after Mom and Dad disappeared.

The drive across the city was a blur of rain and red lights I didn’t stop for. Marco’s penthouse was in one of those glass towers that cost more per month than I made in six. I’d only been there three times, and each time had been more uncomfortable than the last, not because of Marco, but because of the world he’d fallen into. The expensive suits. The cold-eyed men in his living room. The way he’d changed from my goofy older brother into someone I barely recognised.

And Enrico.

I'd met Enrico three times. The first time, he'd been leaving as I'd been arriving, his dark eyes and darker suit making him almost invisible until he'd turned and passed by me in the hallway, giving me only the briefest of nods. The second time, he'd been in Marco's kitchen, cleaning a gun at the counter as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. He'd looked up when I'd entered, and there'd been a moment between us—a spark of recognition, of awareness that'd made my face heat with embarrassment. Marco had introduced us, and Enrico’s hand had been warm and rough when he'd shaken mine.

The third time, two months ago, I had caught him staring at me from across Marco's living room while my brother had taken a phone call. His gaze had been weighted, assessing, and when our eyes met, he hadn't looked away. Neither had I. Not until Marco had returned.

I knew three things about Enrico: he was dangerous, he was loyal to Marco, and some treacherous part of me was drawn to him despite every instinct screaming at me to stay away.

The parking garage was empty, the elevator was silent. My keycard chirped at Marco's door, and it swung open to darkness and the scent of copper.

Blood.

I located the light switch with shaking fingers.

The penthouse was a war zone. Furniture overturned, glass shattered on marble floors, papers scattered everywhere. And then, spreading across the white rug near the coffee table—a dark stain that made my stomach lurch.

"Marco?" My voice shook. I wandered through the apartment in a rush, searching each room, my fear escalating with each empty space. He wasn't there. But someone had been. Someone had bled.

I was in the living room, holding the phone and trying to decide who the hell to call, when I heard it.

The gentle click of the door.

I turned around, and my breath hitched.

Enrico stood in the doorway, and God help me, even as I was terrified, even as my world was imploding around me, my body responded to him. He was all hard muscle and contained fury in his all black outfit, a gun slung low in his hand. His dark hair was mussed, his jaw clenched, and those eyes, dark brown, were fixed on me with a ferocity that sent a warm flutter through my lower belly even as fear spiked through my chest.

A glimmer of recognition crossed his face. "Isla.”

The mention of my name on his lips was doing something to me. Something that I was not supposed to feel at this moment.

"Where's Marco?" The question slipped out of me in a steadier voice than I felt. "What the hell happened here?"

Something dark flickered across his face. The gun was swallowed up in a holster at the small of his back as he came towards me, his movements deliberate. "You shouldn't be here."

"I got his voicemail. He said…” My voice broke. "He told me to trust you."

Enrico cursed in Italian, low and mean. He closed the distance between us in three strides, and then he was there, right there, in my space, with the smell of gunpowder and rain and something else, something darker. His hand closed around my wrist, warm and strong, sending a jolt of electricity through me.

"You're coming with me. Now."

"What? No!" I struggled to pull away, but his grip was like iron. "I have to find Marco. I have to…”

“Your brother is gone, and the people who did this will come back.” His eyes drilled into mine, and I saw the truth there, the urgency. “They’ll be looking for leverage. That means you.”

The words are like a punch. "Gone? Is he…”

"I don't know." The truth was worse than a lie. "But I made him a promise, and I keep my promises."

He began to pull me towards the door. All of my instincts were screaming at me, this man was dangerous, possibly even more so than the person who had destroyed Marco's apartment. But Marco had trusted him. He had told me to trust him.

"I'm not leaving until you tell me what's going on," I said.

Enrico stopped. Turned. And the expression on his face made my breath catch, frustration and grim determination and something else, something that looked almost like concern.

"Your brother got involved with people he shouldn't have." He moved closer, and I had to tilt my head back to keep looking at him. My heart was pounding in my chest. "They want something he has, and they'll torture you to get it."

He was close enough now that I could feel the heat emanating from him, see the gold flecks in his eyes. Close enough that I noticed the cut on his jaw, the blood on his collar that wasn't likely his.

“I promised Marco I’d protect you.” His voice lowered, gruff and rough. “I didn’t promise to be gentle about it.”

Before I could even register the words, before I could argue or fight or demand answers, Enrico reacted. The world spun, and I was suddenly flipped over his shoulder, as if I weighed nothing.

"Put me down!" My fists pounded against his back, solid muscle that didn't even flinch. "This is kidnapping!"

"Protective custody." There was a hint of amusement in his voice that made me want to hit him harder.

"I'll scream."

"Soundproofed walls, cara." The term of endearment gave me a chill. "Save your energy."

The elevator ride was endless . Thirty-four floors of hanging over Enrico’s shoulder while my mind reeled. Marco was gone. Someone wanted me dead. And this man, this dangerous, infuriating man I'd been half-attracted to for months thought he could just toss me over his shoulder and carry me off to who-knows-where.

The worst of it? A backstabbing part of me felt safer than I had since hearing Marco's voicemail.

By the time we arrived at the garage, Enrico put me down beside a black SUV. His hands landed on my shoulders, holding me in place, and his face had changed to a softer look.

"I know you're scared." His thumb grazed my collarbone, and I hated how my breathing hitched. "But right now, we need to move. Once you're safe, I'll explain everything."

I looked up at him, at the sharp angles of his face and the surprising softness in his eyes, and let my defences fall. Not because I trusted him, not entirely, anyway. But because Marco had. And because being this close to him, feeling the warm strength of him, made me think maybe, just maybe, I’d make it through after all.

"Where are we going?” His jaw clenched. "Somewhere I can keep you safe."

He opened the passenger door, and I got in on trembling legs. Enrico settled into the driver's seat, and the engine came to life. As we emerged into the rainy night, I saw my reflection in the side mirror: white, frightened, alive.

We were two blocks away when Enrico’s phone buzzed. He looked at it, and I saw his face turn to stone.

"What?" I asked. "What is it?"

He didn't respond. Just pushed harder on the gas, and I looked back through the rear window to see three black cars pull out behind us, closing fast.

"Enrico.”

"Hold on." His voice was cold, controlled. He reached across me to open the glove compartment, and I saw the glint of another gun inside. "And Isla? Whatever happens next, don't let go."

The first bullet broke our back window.