Chapter 14 Chapter 14
Enzo
The Academy does not look like a place that expects violence.
That is the first thing Enzo notices as the convoy crests the final rise and the grounds spread out below them, orderly and illuminated, carved into the mountainside with the quiet confidence of something that has never been challenged. Stone buildings tiered with intention, glass catching the last of the sun and walkways lit in soft progression as evening settles in.
It looks… peaceful.
Which means it’s lying.
The vehicles roll forward at a measured pace, engines low, headlights muted just enough to appear routine. Academy transponders pulse steadily, false signals stitched together by Jake’s hands and brilliance—broadcasting a narrative the system is eager to believe.
Recovered assets returning home.
Enzo sits in the second vehicle, weapon resting across his knees, posture relaxed in all the ways that matter and rigid in the ones that don’t. His gaze tracks everything: the slope of the road, the angle of the tree line, the way the gates ahead open not with scrutiny, but with bored inevitability. They don’t rush; rushing is how you get noticed.
The gates part without hesitation, metal sliding back with a quiet hydraulic sigh. There's no alarms, no challenge, no pause long enough to suggest doubt; the Academy lets them in.
As the gates seal behind them, something tightens in Enzo’s chest, not panic, not fear, but the heavy awareness of crossing a line you cannot uncross.
Inside.
Jake’s voice comes through the comms, calm and unhurried, threaded with concentration rather than tension. “They’re reading you as recovered units,” he says. “No deviations, outer perimeter security is bored and hungry.”
Enzo exhales through his nose.
“They think the ambush worked,” Rafael murmurs from the front vehicle.
They think we’re dead. The thought lands sharp and cold.
They think the threat is gone.
They think she is alone.
Enzo doesn’t let his jaw tighten but doesn’t let his breathing change. But the idea lodges itself behind his ribs, heavy and insistent, Lola.
The convoy moves deeper into the grounds, peeling into assigned lanes as though following a script written long ago; vehicles slow, doors open and then boots hit stone with controlled precision. No one rushes, no one speaks louder than necessary; this is how you take a place without announcing you’re taking it. The air up here smells clean; pine, cold stone, something faintly chemical beneath it all, control, aerosolized. Enzo hates it on principle.
They move on foot now, slipping into the arteries of the Academy with the ease of men who have spent their lives learning how systems think. Cameras sweep overhead, blind to the truth. Patrols divert themselves away from the corridors Enzo’s team occupies, nudged aside by Jake’s invisible hand.
“Internal patrol rerouted,” Jake says quietly. “They’re chasing a pressure fault that doesn’t exist.”
Enzo almost smiles.
The deeper they go, the architecture changes, less glass and more stone. The beauty gives way to restraint. Control becomes explicit instead of implied.
This is where she’s been.
Enzo’s fingers flex once around his weapon before he stills them. He catalogs everything automatically—the cameras, the blind corners, the way the corridors subtly funnel movement where it’s meant to go.
Did they touch you?
The thought flickers, unwanted and sharp but doesn't allow himself too follow it.
Not yet.
A pause ripples through the comms. “Hold,” Jake says.
Enzo lifts his hand. Every man freezes mid-step, breath held, bodies instantly still. “What is it?” Enzo asks, voice barely above a murmur.
“System audit,” Jake replies. “Not a lockdown. Just the building realizing something doesn’t quite line up.”
Enzo waits, pulse steady, senses stretched taut. “How long?”
“Seconds,” Jake says. “Three. Two… fixed.”
The silence eases.
“You’re clear. Move.”
They do, stairs give way to upper corridors, elevation climbing with each level. The Academy hums around them—contained, obedient, unaware that its spine is already compromised.
Jake’s voice returns, quieter now.
“Lucian’s office is on the upper tier. Balcony-facing. Minimal internal security.”
Of course it is.
Men like Lucian don’t believe violence reaches them, they believe power insulates. They believe submission climbs the stairs instead.
Enzo’s steps slow as they approach the final corridor. Two guards stand outside the director’s wing, posture loose, attention dulled by routine and arrogance. They glance up as Enzo approaches, “Evening,” one of them says.
“Evening,” Enzo replies, tone perfectly unremarkable.
Rafael moves a breath later, one arm, one blade; clean and silent. The second guard is down just as quickly, no more than a soft exhale marking the end of resistance. The bodies are moved out of sight.
“No alerts,” Jake confirms. “Lucian still thinks tonight is going exactly as planned.”
Enzo stares at the door ahead of him;
heavy wood, frosted glass, a warm light spilling faintly beneath it.
Behind that door—
Lucian.
And possibly—
His chest tightens.
For the first time since the convoy ambush, doubt presses in—not about the plan, not about the outcome, but about timing.
Please be alive.
He closes his eyes once, just for a second, then opens them.
His men take their positions without being told, weapons ready, breathing controlled. Everything poised on the edge of what comes next.
Enzo steps forward, his hand hovers over the handle.
And stops.
Enzo opens the door.
For half a second, his mind blanks.
Lucian’s office is intact, candlelight glows along the walls, the balcony doors stand open, evening air drifting in like nothing violent has ever touched this place.
And then—
Lola is sitting in Lucian’s chair; relaxed, casual with one leg hooked over the armrest, elbow resting against the desk, chin tilted into her palm like she’s been waiting for him.
She looks up.
Smiles.
“Well,” she says softly, eyes bright with something dangerously fond, “right on time.”
His chest caves in.
“Lola,” he breathes, her name tearing out of him before he can stop it.
She’s already standing.
They meet in the middle of the room without slowing, without thinking. Enzo’s arms are around her first, tight, desperate, lifting her clear off the floor like his body refuses to believe she’s really here unless he’s holding her. She laughs against his mouth and clings to him just as hard, fingers fisting in his jacket, legs wrapping around his hips.
They kiss.
Not careful.
Not gentle.
It’s hungry and relieved and a little wrecked, mouths colliding like they’re trying to make up for every second they were apart. Lola makes a soft, broken sound into his mouth that damn near unravels him, and Enzo groans low in his chest, pressing his forehead to hers when he finally forces himself to breathe.
“I’m sorry—for all of it,” she says quietly. “But I still had to do this.”
“You’re here,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against hers like he needs to check again. “You’re okay, that's all that matters.”
“I told you,” she whispers back, hands framing his face, thumbs stroking along his jaw like she’s grounding him. “I could handle it.”
He kisses her again, slower this time, lingering, like he’s memorizing the fact that she’s alive.
That she’s warm. That she’s real. Only then does she pull back just enough to look at him properly. Her eyes drop to his chest, his shoulders, to the blood drying along his collar. She reaches up, grips the front of his shirt. “I need your clothes,” she says.
He blinks. “What?”
“Your clothes,” she repeats calmly. “Right now.”
He laughs once, breathless, still half-drunk on her. “Baby, they’re covered in blood.”
She looks at him like that’s not even remotely the point. “Enzo,” she says evenly, “I am not wearing his clothes another second.”
That’s when he really notices.
The shirt on her is too big—obviously too big. The sleeves swallow her hands. The waistband of the sweatpants is cinched so tight it bites into her waist, fabric bunching where it doesn’t belong.
Lucian’s clothes.
Something sharp and possessive coils low in Enzo’s chest.
“Yeah,” she adds, following his gaze, voice going colder. “They don’t fit and I’m done pretending they ever did.”
Behind him, someone clears their throat; another man very pointedly looks at the ceiling.
Enzo doesn’t take his eyes off her.
“Either you give me your shirt,” Lola continues sweetly, “or I’m leaving this room naked. Your call.”
He exhales a laugh that’s half awe, half surrender. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I know.”
He’s already pulling the shirt over his head and she takes it from him immediately, like she’s been waiting, shrugging out of Lucian’s clothes without ceremony and pulling Enzo’s on in one smooth motion. The second the fabric settles over her shoulders, she exhales, long and satisfied, rolling her neck once like something tight has finally snapped loose. She looks up at him, eyes shining, “Okay,” she says. “Now we’re talking.”
Enzo watches her in his shirt, his, and something in his chest finally unclenches.
Enzo’s gaze flicks past her shoulder then—finally registering the shape on the floor, Lucian. He's bound, bloodied, reduced to something unrecognizable. Enzo’s jaw tightens, body instinctively shifting, old instincts flaring.
Lola follows his line of sight and smiles.
“Oh,” she says lightly, like she’s just remembered something mundane, “don’t worry about him.”
She tugs once at the hem of Enzo’s shirt, grounding herself. “He’s done.”
Not dramatic.
Not angry.
Final.
Something in Enzo’s chest settles,in front of him. In front of him, Lola smiles like she planned this all along. Enzo leans down, presses his forehead to hers again, voice low and reverent, “Never do that to me again.”
She exhales against him, the last of the tension finally bleeding out of her shoulders.
“I just needed it to be over,” she says quietly. "I needed it to end."
Not an apology, not an explanation—just a fact.
Enzo’s hands tighten at her back, grounding, steady, like he understands exactly what she means without needing it spelled out; the watching, the waiting, the constant edge of being tracked.
She tilts her head up, mouth curving into that familiar, dangerous smile.
“Next time,” she adds, softer now, certain, “we won’t let it get that far.”
She kisses him—slow, deliberate, promising and this time, when she pulls back, there’s no doubt in her eyes.
“Because next time,” she murmurs, forehead resting briefly against his, “we’ll end it together.”
Enzo lets out a soft, breathless laugh. “If you think I’m ever letting you out of our bedroom again,” he murmurs, forehead still touching hers, “you’re delusional, gattina.”