Chapter 16 Chapter 16
Enzo
The city slid past the windows in muted streaks of light. Vegas always looked different at night;less spectacle, more skeleton. Neon bled into asphalt, reflections warping across the glass like the city itself was tired of pretending. The car moved smoothly through it all, engine low, tires whispering over the road. Enzo sat beside Lola sat beside him in the back seat, close but not touching; the space deliberate, respected. She was quiet in a way that wasn’t empty, not shut down, just… contained. The kind of stillness that came after too much had already happened and there was no energy left to perform the aftermath.Her hands were folded in her lap, shoulders relaxed but not loose. Her breathing steady, controlled and heavier than it should ever have to be.
He kept his gaze forward, resisting the instinct to pull her in, to crowd her with reassurance; she’d had enough today, enough voices, enough weight.
The silence stretched; not uncomfortable, but dense.
The kind that said everything important was already sitting between them.
The car took a long curve, lights flaring briefly across her face. He caught the faintest shift in her expression—something dry, something sharp.
“Rafael’s off the list,” she said.
Enzo blinked, turning to her, “Off the list?”
She didn’t look at him. Just watched the city pass. “Games. Trust. Friendly reintegration into whatever the hell this is.” A corner of her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “He can't be trusted Enzo. We can't bring him in for anything.”
It wasn’t angry.
It was decisive.
Enzo studied her profile, the calm certainty, the absence of doubt. He realized, belatedly, that he’d assumed they’d been closer than that. Some type of allies, familiar ground; at the minimum a coach and disciple type relationship.
He saw now how wrong he’d been.
I thought I knew where the lines were. I’m realizing now she’s always known where they weren’t.
“Fair,” he said simply.
Her shoulders eased a fraction, like that answer mattered.
The car rolled on.
A few minutes later, she shifted slightly, her knee brushing his. This time he didn’t stop himself. His hand moved to hers, fingers threading through like they’d done it a thousand times before and she let him.
This is enough. Right now, this is everything.
The building came into view—steel and glass rising clean and quiet against the sky.
Home.
Or as close to it as anything could be now.
The car slowed to a stop, Enzo stepped out first, instinct automatic. He held the door for her, watching as she rose smoothly from the seat, no one looking at her now would guess what she’d survived, that alone made something twist in his chest. They took the back entrance, unmarked and familiar, security letting them through without comment. The elevator ride up was quiet, the hum of ascent filling the space where words didn’t belong.
When the doors opened, the suite lights were already on and Dottie was waiting. She sat near the window, cigarette between her fingers, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling like she had all the time in the world. She didn’t look up at first. Just took another drag, exhaled slow, then her eyes lifted and locked on Lola.
The air changed, Enzo felt it; not like danger, not like tension, like recognition snapping into place. Something ancient and immediate passing between them without a single word exchanged.
Dottie’s gaze dropped, just briefly, then rose again.
Her expression didn’t soften, didn’t harden, it simply shifted into something knowing, something quiet, something that made Enzo’s pulse tick up even though no one had said a goddamn thing. Lola stilled, not froze, stilled like stone. Her chin lifted a fraction, eyes meeting Dottie’s and there it was, a look so precise, so intimate, Enzo felt like he’d just walked into a conversation that had started long before he arrived and would continue long after he left.
No words.
No gestures.
Just understanding.
Whatever just passed between them wasn’t for me. And somehow, I know better than to ask.
Enzo cleared his throat softly, not to interrupt, but to acknowledge presence, “I’ll get the shower going,” he said, already moving. “and grab your night things.”
He leaned in, pressed a kiss to Lola’s temple, gentle and grounding. Then, without ceremony, kissed Dottie’s cheek as he passed.
She didn’t react.
Didn’t need to.
He left them there.
Together.
The bathroom came alive under his hands; water on, steam beginning to gather. He adjusted the temperature carefully, testing it, then again—warmer, not hot, comfortable, not shocking. He pulled a towel from the warmer, thick and heavy, folded it once, then set it within reach. Another went on the hook. He laid out Lola’s night clothes on the counter without thinking: soft cotton, familiar, nothing restrictive. Every movement was deliberate.
She’s been handled enough.
The shower glass fogged slowly, the sound of water filling the room, steady and constant. He leaned his palms against the counter for a moment, head bowed, breath controlled.
She’s back.
She’s here.
Don’t rush this.
He straightened, stripped down, and stepped into the shower alone. The water hit his shoulders and ran down his back, hot enough to ease the tension he hadn’t acknowledged yet. He closed his eyes, letting it work through muscle and bone, through the residue of violence still clinging to him:
Lucian.
The gunshot.
Dom.
His jaw tightened.
You don’t get to fall apart yet.
He scrubbed his hands, forearms, chest—methodical, and grounding. The scent of soap filled the space, clean and sharp. Steam curled around him, cocooning the moment, giving him a few stolen seconds to just exist without being watched or needed.
Then the door opened, not rushed, not hesitant.
Just… quiet.
He didn’t turn right away; he felt her before he saw her the shift in the air, the subtle change in pressure, the way the room seemed to reorient around her presence. When he finally glanced over his shoulder, Lola stood just inside the bathroom, already barefoot, robe loose around her frame.
Her eyes met his in the mirror.
Something softened in his chest.
She stepped closer, untying the robe slowly, like she wasn’t in a hurry to be anywhere else. It slid from her shoulders and pooled at her feet. She didn’t make a show of it, didn’t perform, just existed in her body like it belonged to her again.
That alone nearly broke him.
She stepped into the shower with him, water slicking over her skin, steam curling between them. She didn’t reach for him right away. Just stood there, letting the heat soak in, eyes closed, shoulders easing as if the water itself was permission to finally exhale. Enzo shifted slightly to give her space but she closed it; her hand found his forearm, not gripping, just there.
She came to me.
Thank fuck.
He turned fully then, slow, careful, giving her time to pull away if she needed to.
She didn’t.
Her gaze lifted to his, steady but quieter than usual, no spark of chaos, no teasing edge.
Something gentler.
His hands stayed at his sides, waiting.
He wanted her to decide the pace.
She moved first, not with urgency, not with hunger that demanded to be fed. Lola stepped closer like she was approaching something sacred—eyes steady, breath slow, intention clear. The steam softened the lines of her, water sliding down her shoulders, her collarbones, catching in places Enzo knew by heart.
Her hands lifted; they didn’t rush for him, they learned him. Her palms settled against his chest, fingers spreading, as if she were grounding herself there; feeling the solid truth of him,feeling his heartbeat under her hands. Her thumbs traced the faint scars she knew were there, memorized long before tonight.
Enzo inhaled sharply and forced himself to stay still.
She’s choosing this.
Her forehead pressed lightly to his sternum, just for a second, just long enough for him to feel the quiet reverence in it—the way she bowed into him without kneeling, the way her body language spoke devotion without submission.
Then she lifted her head, her mouth found his skin.
Not his lips.
His chest.
A soft kiss.
Then another.
Then the slow drag of her lips along his collarbone, the heat of her breath following, water sliding over both of them as if the world itself had narrowed to this space.Enzo’s hands twitched at his sides, he didn’t touch her yet.
He let her lead.
She kissed him like she was thanking him. Like every place her mouth lingered was a word she didn’t want to say out loud. Her lips brushed his shoulder, his throat, the strong line of his jaw—never rushed, never demanding.
He tilted his head back slightly, giving her room without realizing he was doing it.
God.
Her fingers curled lightly at his waist, not pulling him closer, just anchoring herself there.
She paused then, just long enough to meet his eyes, to make sure he was still with her before deciding to take more.
Her hands drifted lower, slow and deliberate, palms gliding over the ridges of his abdomen, tracing the V of muscle that disappeared beneath the water’s surface. She wrapped her fingers around him, gentle, reverent, as if rediscovering something she’d missed for weeks. A soft stroke, then another, unhurried, worshipful, her breath catching just slightly when he thickened in her hand. She pressed closer, her body molding to his, one arm sliding around his back while the other kept its tender rhythm.
God, the way she’s touching me—like I’m something holy and hers alone—I’m losing my fucking mind. Weeks without this, without her, and she’s barely started and I’m already fighting not to pin her to the tile and take back every second we lost.
There was intention in every movement, like she was holding something precious steady.
Her touch was careful. Measured. As if she were acutely aware of how easily this could tip into something else and she was choosing not to let it.
Not yet.
Her mouth found the corner of his lips at last. Not a kiss. Just a pause. A breath shared.
Then she kissed him.
Slow.
Soft.
Reverent.
No teeth, not claiming; just lips fitting to his like she was reminding herself he was still here, that he’d come back to her. That he was whole. Enzo groaned quietly before he could stop himself.
That did it.
His hands came up then, not to take, not to direct but to hold her face gently, thumbs brushing her cheeks like he was afraid she might disappear if he pressed too hard. She sighed into his mouth, the sound small and honest. When they broke apart, her forehead rested against his, eyes closed, lashes wet with steam or something else.
“You’re safe,” he murmured, voice rough. “I’ve got you.”
Her lips curved faintly, “I know,” she whispered.
And in that moment, standing under the water, her body warm and alive against his, Enzo felt it with terrifying clarity:
This wasn’t her losing control.
This was her giving it to him.
He lifted her then, slow, careful, palms sliding under her thighs like she was made of something fragile and priceless. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, arms looping his neck, and when he pressed her back against the warm tile she gasped, soft, surprised, but already arching into him. He entered her in one long, steady glide, both of them shuddering at the stretch and heat and rightness of it after so many empty nights. No rush. Just the slow rock of hips, the slick slide of skin on skin, her quiet moans swallowed by the steam and his mouth. She clung to him, nails grazing his shoulders, whispering his name like a prayer between kisses, and Enzo moved with her, deep and deliberate, every thrust a promise he was finally home. He felt her tighten around him, felt the way her body welcomed him like it had been waiting just as long, and when she came it was with a broken little cry against his throat, pulling him over the edge with her. He buried his face in her wet hair, groaning her name as he spilled inside her, holding her tight through the aftershocks until the water rinsed them both clean.
They didn’t speak as they moved from the bathroom.
Steam clung to them, the air still warm, the mirror fogged like it was reluctant to let the moment go. Enzo wrapped a towel around Lola first without thinking, tucking it securely at her chest, the motion gentle, habitual. She let him; didn’t joke, didn’t tease, just leaned into him while he dried her hair with slow, careful passes, like there was no rush left in the world.
That alone caught his attention.
Normally she would’ve taken the towel from him or kissed him mid-motion, or made some smart comment that turned into a distraction. Tonight, she stayed still, present, just letting herself be tended to.
He told himself it was exhaustion, shock; the weight of the day finally settling.
It made sense.
Still, he noticed.
They slipped into bed clean and warm, the sheets cool against their skin. Enzo pulled her in without thinking, her back fitting to his chest like muscle memory. She tucked herself there easily, one hand settling over his forearm, fingers lacing through his like she needed the contact to anchor something quiet inside her.
Her breathing evened out faster than he expected.
“You okay?” he murmured into her hair, voice low, careful not to disturb whatever calm she’d built.
She nodded once. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
He kissed her temple. Then her shoulder but didn’t push.
They lay like that for a while, the room dark and still, the city a distant hum beyond the glass. Enzo traced slow lines along her arm, thumb brushing over her knuckles, her wrist, the faint scar there he’d memorized a long time ago. She sighed softly each time his hand moved, not in anticipation, just appreciation.
That was different too.
Usually, touch like this was a prelude, a spark, a countdown.
Tonight it was enough on its own.
When she finally turned to face him, it was unhurried. Her leg draped over his, her forehead resting against his collarbone. She looked at him for a long second, eyes soft, searching, not hungry, not playful but there was something steadier. “I want you,” she said quietly.
No commands, no teasing, just unapologetic honesty.
Enzo felt it land low in his chest, heavy and warm, “Yeah?” he asked, just as quiet.
She nodded again. “But… like this.” She guided his hand to her waist, then let go. Didn’t take control after. Didn’t set the pace. Just stayed there, watching him, trusting him to understand.
He did.
He moved slowly, deliberately, like every touch mattered more than the last. Like he was relearning her instead of claiming her. Her hands stayed on him, but they didn’t direct, just held, grounded. When she kissed him, it was unhurried, deep but gentle, mouths fitting together like conversation instead of collision. He noticed how she stayed close. How she didn’t chase friction. How she kept her body aligned with his, forehead touching his, breath syncing.
It wasn’t reluctance.
It was intention.
He shifted them together gently, rolling so she lay beneath him, her thighs parting to cradle his hips like they’d never been apart. Enzo entered her slowly, inch by careful inch, watching her face the whole time, cataloging every flicker of her lashes, every quiet breath that caught and released. She didn’t arch or pull him deeper; she simply opened to him, hands resting light on his shoulders, eyes locked on his as if this joining was the only truth that mattered right now. He moved with the same unhurried rhythm, long, measured strokes that let them feel every slide, every pulse, every place their bodies still remembered each other perfectly her warmth enveloping him like forgiveness after weeks of cold absence. Her fingers tightened once, just once, on his back when he bottomed out, a soft sound escaping her that wasn’t quite a moan, more like relief made audible, her body yielding in that devotional way that made his chest ache. He kissed her through it, slow and lingering, swallowing the little sighs she gave him until her body began to tremble in quiet waves beneath his. When she came it was gentle, a shuddering bloom that drew him in deeper, her name on his lips like a vow as he followed, spilling into her with a low groan he muffled against her throat. They stayed joined after, breaths mingling, hearts thudding in tandem, neither willing to break the seal of skin on skin just yet and something in his chest tightened—not with alarm, but awareness.
After, they didn’t separate. She curled into him immediately, head on his chest, arm slung across his torso like she was staking quiet claim. Enzo wrapped himself around her, one hand splayed warm against her back, the other smoothing her hair until her breathing deepened again.
“You’re here,” she murmured, half asleep.
“I’m here,” he replied, kissing the crown of her head.
She smiled faintly, eyes closed.
Enzo stared up at the ceiling long after she drifted off, listening to the steady rhythm of her breath, the soft weight of her against him.
Different didn’t mean wrong.
But it meant something.
And he knew, without quite understanding why, that this was a version of Lola he needed to remember.