You’re Not Helping
You’re Not Helping
Enzo
Morning didn’t so much arrive as crawl in lazy shafts of light cutting through the blinds, spilling across a battlefield of sheets and bruised skin.
It looked like a crime scene and felt like victory.
Lola was sprawled half on top of him, cheek pressed to his chest, one arm flung across his stomach like she’d claimed him in her sleep. Her hair, silver shot through with faint traces of blond caught the sunlight and glowed against his skin, soft as spilled moonlight. The sight hit him harder than it should have.
Christ, she’s beautiful. And completely wrecked.
Her mouth was half open, a faint snore escaping every few breaths, drool pooling against his ribs. The chaos queen, conqueror of men, currently drooling on his chest.
He bit back a laugh. If anyone else ever saw her like this, he’d have to kill them on principle.
He reached for his phone, angled it just right, and snapped one picture, silent, quick. Not for teasing. For him. Proof that this version of her existed. Proof that after everything, she could still sleep like the world wasn’t trying to burn them alive.
He set the phone down, brushed a thumb over her shoulder, tracing faint marks that looked a lot like fingerprints. There was a bruised scrape at her wrist where the leather had bitten. He kissed it, slow.
A small sound came from her throat half whine, half complaint and she stirred, burrowing deeper against him like she could hide from the morning.
“Everything hurts,” she mumbled, voice muffled by his skin.
He grinned, low and unrepentant. “Suck it up, gattina \[kitten\]. You asked for it.”
One eye cracked open, hazy and sleepy. “Ugh,” she groaned, then smiled faintly. “Worth it.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Good to know.”
She rolled onto her back, one arm flung over her eyes, the sheet sliding dangerously low. The sunlight traced the curve of her stomach, the line of her hip. He looked because he could.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, still not opening her eyes.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re already planning a sequel.”
He grinned, leaning closer, voice low. “Funny—you say that like the show isn’t about to start.”
Her arm dropped just enough for her to squint at him. “You’re incorrigible.”
He didn’t bother arguing. Instead, he slid down the bed, lips trailing a line that made her breath catch and her legs shift restlessly against the sheets.
By the time he finally pulled away, she was panting, smiling, hair a tangled halo across the pillow.
She exhaled, voice raw with sleep and satisfaction. “My legs already didn’t want to work… you’re not helping.”
He pressed a kiss to her knee, smug and soft all at once. “You’ll manage.”
She laughed quietly, the sound half-asleep but genuine. “God, you’re proud of yourself.”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“Maybe a little.” She peeked up at him through her lashes, mischief flickering to life. “You might’ve earned it.”
He bent, kissed the corner of her mouth. “Damn right I did.”
She sighed, smiling to herself as he stood, stretching, muscles pulling tight under his skin. “Sadist.”
He chuckled, heading toward the bathroom. “And you love it.”
“Unfortunately,” she muttered, sinking back into the sheets as he walked away, “I really, really do.”
He laughed under his breath as he left the room, her sleepy grumble trailing after him like smoke.
The smile was still there by the time the water started running.
Steam still clung to his skin when he stepped from the shower, towel hanging low on his hips. The air smelled faintly of sweetness, chemicals, and danger all at once.
Lola stood at the sink, toothbrush in one hand, hair piled up in a messy twist dripping with red. The color was wild—fire-engine bright, unapologetic. Streaks of crimson painted her neck and knuckles like she’d fought a bucket of paint and won.
He stopped dead in the doorway. “What the hell are you doing?”
She glanced at him in the mirror, toothpaste foam at the corner of her mouth. “Getting ready.”
“For what? War?”
She spat, rinsed, and grinned. “Maybe later. Right now I’m fixing my hair. I was going back to red before everything went sideways. The white was cute, but it made me look… retired.”
He leaned on the doorframe, taking in the crimson bleeding through the wrap. Bright red. Flash-bang dangerous. Perfect.
“You could’ve waited for Babs.”
“I’ll let her touch up the roots,” she said, pointing at the streaked mess with her toothbrush. “But this? This is the comeback tour.”
He chuckled. “You realize you’ve got half of it on your neck?”
“Battle scars,” she said easily. “Goes with the lifestyle.”
He stepped closer, letting his fingers graze the back of her shoulder. “You really think the world’s ready for this version of you again?”
She met his eyes in the mirror, smile sharp and sure. “They’d better be. I’m not toning it down this time.”
He grinned, low and dark. “That’s my girl.”
God help me—I’d rather be burned alive than see her dim.
She caught his reflection watching her, amusement glinting in her eyes. “You’re awfully quiet back there.”
“Trying not to make bad decisions.”
Her grin turned feral. “That ship sailed the day you said hello.”
His gaze slid over her reflection—red hair, red fingers, red smirk. “Yeah,” he murmured, lips curving. “And I haven’t wanted to come up for air since.”
Her laughter rippled through the steam. “Good answer, Marchesi.”
He watched her a moment longer, then nodded toward the sink. “You need help washing it out?”
That actually caught her off guard; her grin softened. “You’re dangerously cute when you pretend to be domestic.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Just offering to make sure you don’t stain the walls.”
“That’s adorable,” she said, laughing. “But I’ve got it. Wouldn’t want to ruin your mob-boss manicure.”
He smirked. “Suit yourself, gattina.”
She smiled up at him. “I'll try my best.”
He laughed under his breath as he disappeared down the hall, the sound of running water and her off-key rendition of Staying Alive following him; a sound that would ruin that song forever in the best way.
By the time Enzo made it to the kitchen, the penthouse had settled into that quiet, easy hum between storms. The espresso machine hissed to life, filling the air with the dark, rich scent of caffeine and calm, two things he relied on to stay civilized.
He was halfway through his first cup when he heard her.
She came down the hall smelling faintly of his soap, hair a shock of fire-red twisted into lazy space buns. A cropped hoodie, black leggings, sneakers; the kind of outfit that made him forget how to breathe for a second.
He set his coffee down, eyes dragging up and down her frame. “You’re not leaving dressed like that.”
Lola paused mid-step, one brow arched. “Like what? Comfortable and combat ready?”
“Like you’re trying to start a riot,” he said, stepping close enough that his breath ruffled the red wisps at her neck. “Half my men would walk into traffic if you passed them on the street.”
“Then maybe they should pay attention,” she shot back, grinning.
He shook his head, fighting a smile. “New dress code: my clothes only.”
“Oh, now you’re talkin’.” She turned, looking over her shoulder. “I love wearing your shirts with nothing underneath.”
He groaned, somewhere between amusement and genuine mortality. “Lola.”
“What? Did I say something you don’t like?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing to me. How am I supposed to stay focused at my meetings today?”
She laughed, light and infuriatingly sweet, and stole his mug off the counter, drinking without asking. “You’ll manage.”
He caught her wrist before she could walk off. “You make me insane, you know that?”
“Yeah,” she said, smiling up at him, all teeth and sin. “You love it.”
He kissed her quick—too quick—before she could weaponize that grin again. “Give him hell, diavoletta.”
Her smirk softened into something almost tender. “Always.”
And just like that, she was gone—the elevator doors closing on a flash of red hair and trouble.
Enzo stood there a moment longer, shaking his head, smiling into his coffee. He didn’t know if he’d ever figure out how to keep up with her but God, he’d never stop trying.