LXXX. Dismissed?

LXXX. Dismissed?
Enzo stops in the doorway with calm precision and crosses his arms. But not in a threatening or angry way, like you’d expect from someone so serious about his routine. In fact, he looks almost... curious.
Judging by how heavily his chest rises and falls, his blond hair is darker and damp with sweat, hanging down with a few strands stuck to his temple, and the veins standing out more than usual against his skin, it’s clear he just finished his workout.
The damp shine on the broad skin of his shoulders trails down over his defined abs, disappearing into the loose line of his sweatpants.
For a moment, my body simply forgets how to react without betraying itself, and my eyes instinctively search for the wound at his waist, closed with black stitches, perfect and surprisingly showing signs of healing quickly—so much so that that night in the alley, in the apartment, now feels much farther away.
A white towel rests on his shoulder as if it were an insignificant detail, even though everything about that man seems designed to take up too much space, too much air, and too much attention.
It doesn’t help that his icy eyes lock onto me, scanning every inch of my body with an almost reverent precision, as if checking whether I wear designer clothes instead of the usual uniform of those serving the family. Suddenly, the beige could turn bright red, and the fabric, draping comfortably, feels almost indecent.
It’s not the kind of hungry, uncomfortable look that leaves you naked, exposed, and disgusted. It’s not the sort that crawls over your skin and makes your stomach turn. But it is attentive. Lingering. Almost indecently patient, as if he had all the time in the world to figure me out and no hurry to hide that he’s planning to do so.
Then, Enzo slowly lifts his face to mine, meeting my gaze, which, I hate to admit, wandered more than it should have as well. I force it to hold those icy blue eyes, and in that moment, the world stops.
Time seems to pause, and my lungs forget how to breathe. Everything fades away again—our social status, the family rivalry, Cesare’s plan.
But even though it feels like a moment that lingers too long, it also doesn’t last long enough. Enzo tilts his head gently to the side and lets his eyes drift, slow and lazy, stopping on Stella, where they narrow a little.
She stiffens at that exact moment. The casualness and youthful confidence from before shift into a tension I can feel even without looking at her directly. She straightens her posture and parts her lips to say something, but Enzo is quicker:
“What’s she doing here?” he asks me, even though he’s looking at the girl who seems even smaller in Enzo’s space.
“Ah, Signore, I...”
Enzo turns his attention back to me, shutting her up with a single gesture. Clearly, he doesn’t want to hear her excuses.
“Stella is here to help me adjust,” I explain, my voice low, calm, and soft, keeping eye contact.
“Adjust?” he repeats, then glances back at Stella, finally speaking to her. “How kind of you.”
Despite what he says, there’s no warmth in his voice. Still, she appears unaware of it, as her face lights up once more.
“Oh, it’s my pleasure...”
“But it’s fine. You can leave.” Enzo’s lips curl into a gentle smile, but his eyes remain as cold as the winter outside. “I think Marina can handle it on her own.”
Stella blinks, caught off guard, and her smile dips for just a moment, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. She looks at me from the corner of her eye, uncertain, and presses her fingers together.
Usually, she would leave. Of course, she would—it’s a direct order from her employer. Still, she hesitates. And not only does she hesitate, but she also takes a deep breath and dares to speak up.
“But those were Signora Serra’s orders...”
“And I am saying there is no need for that,” Enzo repeats, and this time, even I feel a chill crawl up my spine. He tips his chin slightly, in a minimal gesture polite enough not to seem like a harsh order and cold enough not to be mistaken for a request.
Dismissed. Simply as that.
Stella swallows so hard I can almost hear it. For a moment, I think she’s going to insist again, out of pure desperation, not to disobey her mother. But then her shoulders sink slightly, remembering, too late, who’s standing in front of her—and who always wins when a Bianchi and anyone else pull the rope in opposite directions.
“Yes, Signore,” she murmurs, with almost painful care, then throws me a quick, small look that’s hard to read. It’s not exactly an apology or a goodbye... It’s more of a silent warning that certain lines should not be crossed in this house, even when someone seems kind enough to invite you to cross them.
Then Stella walks away with quick, quiet steps, and the sound fades into the hallway until only the heavy silence between Enzo and me remains.
Even though the hands on my wristwatch have moved forward even more, and my delay is now more than just five minutes, Enzo remains silent. He allows it to stretch out, like a thread getting thinner and about to snap.
I know this kind of pause.
It’s the kind of silence dangerous men use to make you condemn yourself.
But I don’t open my mouth. I don’t lower my head, I don’t apologize before the right time, and I don’t fill the emptiness with cheap excuses. I only hold his gaze.
Enzo’s chest still rises and falls from training.
Mine, simply because he’s looking at me like that.
…
…
Finally, Enzo tilts his head slightly, and breaks the silence with a voice a bit rougher than usual, as if he’s only using it properly now— “Do you usually arrive late?”
“No, not really. I’m usually punctual,” I say honestly. After all, punctuality is a virtue you learn under a Romano roof and something you pay dearly for missing. But I don’t want to blame others for my mistake. That opens cracks. Exposes vulnerabilities. Opens doubts.
And none of that can be noticed by Bianchi’s eyes.
Enzo nods thoughtfully and uncrosses his arms. The muscles in his abdomen flex, catching my eye for just a second, which is enough for him to notice, of course. He smiles softly and discreetly, then takes the towel resting on his shoulder to dry the back of his neck.
“I’ll prepare the bath—”
“There’s no need,” he cuts me off, but not with the same tone he used to dismiss Stella. There’s nothing cold in him, not in his voice, not in his eyes. “I’m just going to take a quick shower.”
I blink, surprised, before waves of indignation rise up my throat.
Once again, he’s stepping outside the routine they demand I memorize, follow, and revere something sacred, while Enzo himself acts as if bending it isn’t the exception. And maybe that indignation is all over my face, because his smile widens, knowingly.
“I need to take care of a few things this morning.” That’s all he says, vague enough to plant a seed of doubt, while he lowers the towel. “Can I have breakfast first?”
“Sì, Signore.” I adopt my most submissive tone, regaining my composure as if I had never lost it, and turn to follow the order like a good employee would.
But his voice stops me in my tracks, “And Marina?”
I turn just enough to look at him—at the way he tilts his head slightly, with that mischievous, amused expression, which reminds me more of the man who tested my limits last night than of the employer who made the girl leave with her head down...
“It’s the porcelain pot,” he adds, clearly enjoying the idea of making me squirm.