Chapter 4

ENZO's POV

I have watched her for six months. Every step. Every gesture. Every fleeting expression that crosses her face when she thinks no one is looking.

It began with a photograph, sent to me with no sender, no signature. A simple note: Nina Nyx. Principal dancer. Daughter of Marco Santoro.

Marco Santoro. The man responsible for everything I lost. My mother. My father? Long gone. Burned out. Broken.

The information should have meant nothing to me at first. Just a lead, another intelligence thread. A potential trap. But I couldn’t look away.

I told myself it was reconnaissance. Watching a target. Studying an enemy. That was the story I clung to in the daylight. But at night, when I sat in the shadows of the theater, the truth was darker.

Watching her was like watching the sun. Too bright. Too hot. Too consuming. She moved like no one else I had ever seen, every line of her body deliberate, every gesture perfect. Ballet was her language, and I could read it all. The way her hands trembled before a leap. The subtle shift of her weight before she landed. The arch of her neck when she realized she had conquered a difficult movement.

I memorized it. I repeated it in my head until the image burned into my memory. I wanted to touch her. I wanted to destroy her. I wanted to punish her. I wanted to make her mine. I hated that I wanted both at the same time.

Bruno, my consigliere, watches too, in his quiet, patient way. He notices when I cancel meetings to attend her performances. He notices when I leave envelopes unopened and phones unanswered.

“You’ve been watching her for six months,” he said once, leaning against the doorway of my office. “You’re letting her become a distraction.”

“She’s not a distraction,” I said.

Bruno didn’t argue. He never argued when I was like this. He just nodded once, sharp, precise, like the motion itself could slice through my thoughts. “Not a distraction. Dangerous.”

I don’t disagree.

Every night, after the theater empties and the streets fall silent, I watch her on my monitors. The cameras in the alley where she walks. The ones outside her apartment. The one in her bedroom. Only she doesn’t know. She believes she’s alone. That her world is hers. I know better. I see everything.

I sent two men after her the night she saw them, during the execution. A simple arrangement. Two shadows moving ahead of the other gang, a precaution. She didn’t even notice them. They followed silently, making sure she returned home safely, unseen, untouched.

She ran through the streets like a phantom, ballet legs carrying her farther than anyone could keep pace. I watched every step. Every heartbeat. Every ragged breath. I could have reached her at that moment. I didn’t.

I wanted her to survive.

I wanted her alive.

And yet, I wanted to break her.

I sit in my office, the city of Milan laid out below me, lights twinkling like embers in the night, and I can’t move. My gaze is drawn back to the screens. There she is. Knees tucked to her chest. Hands trembling. The room was silent except for the soft whine of the air conditioning.

I should act. I should be rational. This is the moment I take control. But I don’t. Not yet.

Bruno watches from behind me, arms crossed. “She’s restless,” he says softly. “Shaking. Confused. You need to do something.”

I shake my head. “Not yet. Let her exist here, in this moment. Let her see that I am watching. Let her feel it.”

“She’s terrified,” he points out. “And rightly so. You could have her destroyed in an instant.”

I know. That’s the problem. I don’t want instant. I want every second of this. Every glance she throws over her shoulder when she thinks I am not there. Every tiny misstep that betrays her control. Every sigh. Every flinch. Every beat of her heart I can’t hear but know exists.

I switch camera feeds. The one in the hallway outside her door. The one showing the terrace she sometimes goes to when she needs air. The one in the kitchen where she drinks water, hands shaking. I watch her move from room to room, her movements slow, cautious, deliberate. Every action a dance of survival.

I know her routines. I know her habits. I know when she sleeps and when she wakes. When she goes for a walk, when she rehearses alone, when she eats. Every moment mapped, memorized. My obsession has become a map of her life.

And yet, it’s not enough. I want her to know I am here. I want her to feel it. To be aware that there is no corner, no shadow, no private moment where I am not watching.

Bruno clears his throat. “Boss… she’s becoming restless. You need to decide what you want from this.”

I turn, finally, and meet his gaze. “I want her to want me without knowing why. I want her to feel that pull she cannot explain. I want her terrified and enthralled in the same breath. I want her alive. I want her broken. I want her.”

He doesn’t blink. He nods. “Then you’ll have to act.”

I don’t respond. Instead, I return to the screens. There she is now, pacing the small confines of her apartment. Shoulders tight. Fingers curling and uncurling. Eyes darting toward the door. Toward the window. She doesn’t know what to do with herself. She doesn’t know who is after her, who is protecting her, who is deciding her fate from a thousand miles away.

The image freezes for a moment. She has stopped moving. Knees tucked to chest. Head bowed. I can almost feel her heartbeat from here. I can almost hear the whisper of fear in her lungs.

Bruno clears his throat again. “You’re losing yourself.”

“Not yet,” I murmur.

I can’t look away. I won’t. She is all I see. She is all I think about. She is the contradiction I cannot resolve. Fragile and strong. Innocent and deadly. The blood of my enemy running through her veins. Every time I look at her, I want to destroy her and protect her, both at once.

I lean back in my chair. The leather creaks beneath me. I glance at the clock. Another hour lost. Another hour of her existing, unaware that I am there, that I am orchestrating her every move. That every man who might touch her, every threat, every shadow in her path, is under my command.

I watch her drink water. Small movements. Small, precise. Perfect. I would never admit it, but I live for these moments.

Bruno finally breaks the silence. “Boss… you have to stop watching her like this. It will drive you mad.”

I smile faintly. “Madness is part of the plan. Patience is part of the plan. Obsession is part of the plan. You wouldn’t understand, Bruno. You’re too rational.”

He says nothing, but the tension in the room is palpable. He knows I am beyond reason. He has known it for months.

I switch the feed again. A different angle now. Her bedroom. She moves to the window. Hands pressed against the glass. Fingers splayed. Shoulders trembling. I see everything.

I lean forward. I touch the screen. My fingers hover just above her reflection. She looks like she could shatter at any moment. Like glass under pressure.

I don’t look away. I can’t.

This is what I wanted. All this time, even before I knew her name, before I knew her face, before I knew she existed.

I wanted to see her. Always. Every movement, every breath, every second of her life laid bare before me.

And now, I have her.