All he ever wanted was to help. But he was never good at it; it wasn't in his nature. He was the Mafia King of New York, for crying out loud. Feared by many, yet still, he wanted to feel safe. To make her feel safe in his arms, even though a gun was always tightly secured in his hand. He didn't want her to be afraid—that was all he aimed for.
But that feeling of safety was foreign to him. It never felt welcome. It drowned him because that's not who he was. He wasn't a good person. He wasn't some random man craving to be a woman's hero. He was the name spoken in whispers, the unspoken, the undiscussed. The man who killed without a reason. Many times, Enzo had used innocent victims for training—just as his father had taught him. To perfect the art of extracting information from someone, even when no information existed.
