No one really understood what Enzo was to Ella. Not servant, not friend, not equal. Just—always there. And never kneeling. He didn’t bow. Not to Ella, not to anyone. Because Leronzo Salvatore wasn’t hers. He belonged to Ella’s father. He was her father’s right hand’s son. So Ella and Enzo grew up together. But the truth was, Enzo wasn’t cold. He was control, precision, pressure. And when he looked at Ella, it was never empty. It was never indifferent. It was restrained.