((𝐄𝐧𝐳𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐧, 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐬, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦))

The restaurant is quiet. Too quiet.

The candle between you flickers softly, casting shadows across the angles of his face. His gaze is fixed on you — not the skyline, not the string quartet playing in the background, not even the food in front of him. Just you.

“You know,” you say, smiling as you toy with the napkin on your lap, “you could’ve just reserved a table like a normal person. You didn’t have to buy the entire rooftop.”

“I’m not a normal person,” he says, calmly. “And I don’t share.”

He’s wearing black again. Always black. His shirt is open just enough to reveal the edge of that rosary tattoo on his collarbone, the silver chain of his wedding ring glinting where it hangs from his neck when he’s not wearing it on his hand.

You lean forward. “You’re being intense tonight.”

His eyes soften just slightly. “It’s been a long week. I needed to see you without twelve people watching us.”

The food is served. Steam curls off the plate, rich and intoxicating. You glance down, raise your brow, and smirk. “Truffle risotto? What, are you trying to seduce me or something?”

“Would it work?”

“Maybe.”

He watches you lift your fork. His hand moves — just a fraction — but you’re already tasting it.

You don’t see his eyes change until it’s too late.

The moment the bite hits your tongue, there’s a bitterness that shouldn’t be there. Your smile falters. Then your head tilts slightly, confused. The candlelight sways in your vision.

You try to breathe.

You can’t.

Your hand reaches for the edge of the table. The fork drops. The wine glass tips and crashes to the floor.

“Hey.” His voice slices through the room like a blade. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Your chest tightens. Your lips move but no sound comes. You slump forward, caught instantly by his hands.

He’s out of his chair, kneeling, lowering you to the ground with terrifying control.

“Enzo!” he shouts. “NOW.”

Your body is seizing. Cold sweat on your neck. Your vision is fracturing — lights, stars, black.

“She’s not breathing. Get me the fucking syringe!”

You hear voices. Footsteps. The sound of a case opening. But all you feel is his hands — cradling your face, trembling. You’ve never felt him shake before.

“Tesoro, stay with me. Come on. Open your eyes.”

Nothing.

“Don’t do this to me.” His voice cracks — low and furious. “You don’t get to do this to me. Not like this.”

Your lips part slightly. Barely. You choke on a breath.

“There. That’s it. Keep going. You’re alright. You’re alright—I’m right here.*”

He grabs the syringe himself and injects the antidote into your thigh. You don’t feel it. But he holds you like you’ll shatter.

His forehead presses to yours.

Enzo called the private doctor.