Page 8 of His Savage Obsession
In this rare quiet time that I have to myself, I decide to explore his home a little more. The layout strikes me as eerily familiar, almost like a mirror image of my own house, right down tothe meticulous placement of the counters by the bathroom sink. Though our styles diverge significantly—Enzo drapes everything in opulence—there's an undeniable comfort that envelops me here. With just a touch of my personality infused into the decor and a few changes to the artwork, I can genuinely envision transforming this place into my own sanctuary.
As I meander through his kitchen cupboards, I find myself intrigued by Enzo's mini grocery store. It's a treasure trove of culinary delights, meticulously organized. There's an entire section dedicated to organic foods, brimming with healthful options that seem almost too good to be true. Protein shakes, powdered supplements, and an array of shelf-stable fruits and vegetables are all carefully aligned, each item placed with precision. Yet, just a cabinet over, I stumble upon a stark contrast—a teenage boy's Friday night spread. Hot Cheetos stacked high, a colorful collection of snack cakes, and every conceivable type of dip beckon from the shelves, showcasing a playful side to his otherwise luxurious lifestyle.
Enzo has all the staples in the fridge. There’s a generous supply of milk, eggs, an assortment of meats, and freshly squeezed orange juice, among other essentials. But it's the discovery of a half-used box of hot chocolate and a large, inviting container of oatmeal that truly brightens my morning. These simple comforts evoke a sense of warmth and familiarity, reminding me of cozy winter mornings spent wrapped in blankets. There’s so much I still don’t know about this husband of mine, and the thrill of unraveling his layers fills me with anticipation.
I take the time to prepare myself a steaming cup of hot chocolate, letting the rich aroma envelop me, and I grab a slice of toast to soothe my slightly grumbling stomach. Somewhere upstairs lies my jacket, with my phone nestled securely in thepocket. I could easily make the trip to retrieve it, but I hesitate, knowing I would only be met with a barrage of text messages from my brother, undoubtedly furious about me ditching him last night. He might have pieced together that I left with Enzo, but I highly doubt he knows the full extent of how the night unfolded.
Just as I take a mid-bite of my toast, I catch sight of a flurry of activity across the street at my place. I had noticed a car in my driveway when I first began making breakfast, but I had thought little of it at the time. Yet, as I continue to munch on my toast, more and more cars begin to pull up, each one adding to the growing commotion.
Then my brother steps out of the driver's side of one of the cars, his demeanor fraught with anxiety as he runs a hand through his disheveled hair. I watch as he points an accusing finger at someone in the gathering crowd, his voice raised in a heated yell that carries across the distance, but the words remain indistinct to me. I think one of those cars might belong to my dad, but in the chaos, I never actually saw him arrive. The scene unfolds like a tense drama, leaving me both curious and apprehensive about what’s brewing just outside my door.
Cold prickles race down the back of my neck, compelling me to turn around. Although there's nobody behind me, an unsettling sense of discomfort lingers in the air, thick and suffocating. I set down my steaming hot chocolate, the warmth fading from the mug, and abandon the rest of my uneaten toast, its golden crust untouched. The unease gnaws at me, and I decide to retreat upstairs. As I ascend the stairs, the familiar creak of the wooden steps accompanies my thoughts, a soundtrack to my rising anxiety. Enzo is exactly where I left him, cocooned in the blankets.
I crawl across the bed, careful not to disturb him too much, hoping to wake him gently. He shifts slightly, a dull sound escaping his lips, almost a groan. "Enzo," I call his name quietly, my fingers brushing against his chest, seeking to bridge the gap between sleep and wakefulness.
He responds with a slight groan, his hand reaching up to grab my wrist with a sleepy grip. "Amore," he murmurs, the word a soft caress in the stillness of the room.
His touch feels like heaven, grounding me in the moment. "Enzo, love, I think you need to get up," I urge him, trying to inject a note of urgency into my voice.
Somewhere between the realms of slumber and consciousness, he catches a whiff of the fear threading through my tone. His dark eyes flutter open, sharp and alert, and in an instant, he shoots forward, his instincts kicking in. Enzo scans the room, his gaze sweeping the corners to ensure I'm not in any immediate danger, before he draws his hand up to cup my face, concern etched across his features. "What is it, Autumn? Are you okay?"
I can’t shake the image of my father sitting in my living room, listening to my brother’s version of last night’s chaotic events, the weight of it pressing down on me. "I think we should get dressed," I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. It's time we face the consequences of our choices, time to answer for our crimes.
Enzo hands me a shirt to wear over my slip, its fabric soft against my skin, a small comfort in the chill that lingers in the air this morning, much colder than it was last night. We step out together, our fingers entwined, a silent show of unity as we cross the street. I can’t help but notice the half dozen bodyguards stationed outside my house, their imposing figures a constant reminder of the chaos that has surrounded us. I recognize mostof them by name, and as I pass, the shame etched across their features feels like a heavy cloak draped over my shoulders.
As we enter, someone announces my arrival, and the murmur of conversation dies down, replaced by the sound of everyone rising to their feet. Liam's voice cuts through the tension like a knife when he spots the flash of my hair. "You whore." The venom in his words lingers in the air, thick and suffocating, and I’m grateful that I don’t have to bear the weight of the rest of his tirade.
"Talk to my wife like that again and you'll be spitting up teeth, Gallagher." Enzo’s threat hangs in the air, his free hand clenching so tightly that the knuckles pop ominously, a warning that radiates both anger and protectiveness.
Liam shifts his gaze between Enzo and me, the madness in his eyes swelling with each passing second. A deranged smile spreads across his lips, and he begins to clap mockingly, a twisted performance unfolding before us. "Bravo," he bows with exaggerated flair, "I thought I’d seen all the shows in Vegas. But this one?" He shakes his head, taking a step back as if to admire the spectacle. "I didn’t even have to buy tickets to see this farce."
The words catch in my throat, and I bite my tongue to suppress my response. Enzo raises an eyebrow at me, sensing my struggle, but he doesn’t take the bait, choosing instead to hold his ground.
"Let me guess," Liam continues, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "you thought you’d teach me a lesson by staying out all night with this clown. Well, the joke is over, Autumn. Your reputation is already in shambles. O’Reilly wants a virgin bride." His words hang in the air, a chilling reminder of the stakes involved, and I feel my heart race with a mix of fear and defiance.
Enzo tightens his grip on my hand, his fingers warm and reassuring, as he directs a confident smile toward Liam. "I already had the virgin bride, Gallagher. Tell O’Reilly he missed out. Next time, perhaps? A sister? A different virgin? A quicker wedding? I don't know, but this woman is mine." His tone is light, almost teasing, but the underlying intensity of his words sends a ripple of tension through the air.
The smile on Liam's face begins to falter, the corners twitching downwards as a dark shadow passes over his features. The madness in his eyes deepens, swirling with a mix of anger and disbelief. I glance toward our father, my heart pounding in my chest, silently pleading for him to step in before the situation escalates into something irreversible—something that could shatter our family’s fragile peace.
"That's enough, Liam," Sean Gallagher sighs, his voice heavy with authority. "Enzo Bianchi, right?"
Enzo stands imperceptibly taller, shoulders squared as he meets my father's gaze head-on. "Yes, sir. My sincerest apologies that I did not ask you first for your daughter's hand." His words are respectful, but there’s an undercurrent of defiance, a declaration that he will not be intimidated.
My father exhales again, this time in what feels like defeat, as though the weight of the world rests upon his shoulders. "Since this is not a betrothal, there will be no dowry. Our family owes you nothing, but we expect everything. You are our son-in-law now, Enzo." Each word is laden with unspoken expectations, a reminder of the intricate web of alliances and obligations that bind us.
To his credit, Enzo doesn’t flinch or shy away from my father's dramatic request. "Sir, I will take care of Autumn until the day Idie. If it’s before she dies, I'll make sure that she’s taken care of after my death. She is a Bianchi now. I will do what I can for your family, but my family comes first, and now that includes your daughter." His voice is steady and resolute, promising a fierce loyalty that sends a shiver of both comfort and unease through me.
I can see that, in some ways, he wants to argue; it’s written all over his face. If I had married an O’Reilly, he would have gained a son-in-law willing to do his bidding and a family he could manipulate to his advantage. Instead, with Enzo, he has someone who will live and die for his daughter, but that’s where the loyalty ends. He does not have the unstoppable force he had envisioned, the pawn in his game of power.
He looks at me with inscrutable eyes, dark and stormy, and asks, “Why do you want to be with this man?”
Questions like that are never simple. They don’t come with a black-and-white answer. I haven’t known Enzo all my life, and I can't claim that we share some deep, unbreakable bond forged over years. “Chemistry.” I guess that’s kind of a bond. “I look at Enzo and I see the next fifty years of my life.” I steal a glance up at the handsome, dark-featured man next to me, his intense gaze meeting mine, and I know that what I just said is true. “Laughter, tears, children, memories. I know that they’re all possible with him.”
That’s the cold, hard truth. You don’t always have to have the perfect meet-cute or a lifetime of shared experiences to build upon. Sometimes, all it takes is looking at someone and knowing in your bones that they’re the one—the undeniable certainty that this is where you belong.
“Fuck your memories,” Liam sneers, his voice dripping with disdain as he reaches for his gun. The world around me seems to slow down to an agonizing crawl. I feel my heart race, the air thick with tension as someone pushes my brother, the sudden movement causing chaos. The shot fired off doesn’t go quite as planned, and I brace myself for the fallout of what’s about to unfold.
A sharp pain lances through my stomach, and in an instant, I'm plummeting to the ground. My face collides with the cool, unforgiving marble tile, the chill biting into my skin. Distant shouts echo in my ears, their urgency a stark contrast to the surreal stillness settling around me. As I struggle to comprehend my surroundings, I notice for the first time the intricate gold flecks embedded in the tile, glimmering like tiny stars in the dim light. Is that blood pooling beneath me? Why is the ground stained crimson? Gloopy, drippy, red.