Chapter Seven: The Charmer

If Jace was fire and Kai was ice, then Enzo Bianchi was velvet-covered poison.

He didn’t stalk or corner me like the others. He didn’t issue orders or drop cryptic threats. No—Enzo smiled. He flirted. He charmed.

And that made him, by far, the most dangerous.

Because cruelty disguised as kindness was something I’d never quite learned how to fight.

After watching the video Jace gave me—after seeing a version of myself that felt foreign and terrifying—I hadn’t slept. I’d replayed that clip over and over until it was seared into my mind, like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from. But no matter how many times I watched it, it still didn’t feel real.

Could it be real?

Could I have done that?

Could I have forgotten?

I hadn’t told anyone about the video yet. Not even the part where Nikolai’s face seemed to flicker in the shadows of the hallway. I didn’t trust what I saw—or what it meant. Not yet.

So when Veronica told me I had a visitor this morning, I wasn’t surprised. They were passing me around like I was a deck of cards in a game I didn’t understand.

But I wasn’t expecting Enzo.

He was waiting in the solarium when I arrived, lounging like a spoiled prince on the sunlit couch, black button-down rolled at the sleeves, espresso in one hand, an open book in the other.

“Ah, my favorite little storm cloud,” he said without looking up. “Come. Sit. Glare.”

“I don’t glare,” I said, walking in cautiously.

He glanced up, dark eyes dancing. “Darling, you glare like it’s a sport. And I must say, you’re winning.”

I hovered near the door. “What do you want?”

“You wound me,” he said, placing his hand over his heart. “Can’t I simply want your company?”

“No.”

He smiled wider. “You’re right, of course. I don’t do anything without reason. Come sit. I’ll even be nice.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I muttered.

But I sat.

The couch was soft, sun-warmed, and smelled faintly of lavender. The kind of thing that made you lower your guard without realizing it. Which was probably the point.

Enzo set his book aside and studied me like he was memorizing my edges.

“You’re not sleeping,” he said.

I blinked. “How do you—”

“Your eyes. The tension in your jaw. The way you flinch every time someone enters a room.” He tilted his head. “You saw something you weren’t ready for.”

I said nothing.

“Let me guess,” he mused. “A video? A memory? Or… was it just the truth finally cracking through that pretty little wall you built?”

“I don’t want to play games today, Enzo.”

“But games are how I get to know people,” he said, voice low and smooth. “You should be flattered. I only play with the interesting ones.”

“You mean the broken ones,” I said before I could stop myself.

He laughed. A quiet, dark sound. “Touché.”

He sipped his espresso, eyes not leaving mine. “Did you know my father used to say that people are most honest when they think they’re safe?”

I raised an eyebrow. “And this is you… making me feel safe?”

He gave me a lazy grin. “I’m trying.”

I stood. “Then try harder.”

He didn’t stop me as I walked toward the door. But his next words did.

“She loved you, you know.”

I turned slowly. “Who?”

“The woman in the photograph.”

My chest clenched. “You saw it?”

He nodded. “We all have. Your father wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“Do you know who she is?”

Enzo rose from the couch and crossed the room in a few quiet strides. He moved like he danced—even his footsteps were seductive.

“I think you know,” he said softly. “Somewhere in that sharp little mind of yours. I think you’ve known all along.”

I looked away. “She’s in my dreams now.”

Enzo’s fingers brushed my chin, tilting my face back toward him. I hated that I let him. I hated that my skin reacted to the touch before my brain could tell it not to.

“What does she say?” he asked, voice like silk.

“Nothing clear,” I whispered. “Just… warnings. Whispers. She tells me not to trust you.”

His smile sharpened. “Smart woman.”

I pulled back. “You’re not going to charm your way into my head, Enzo.”

“Oh, darling,” he said, “I’m already there. I’m just rearranging the furniture.”

God, he was infuriating.

Infuriating and gorgeous and terrifying all at once.

“Why are you all so obsessed with me?” I snapped. “You act like I’m the key to something, but no one will tell me what.”

Enzo’s expression shifted. Still playful, but colder underneath now. Like a blade dipped in honey.

“Because, Rory,” he said slowly, “you are the key.”

He moved closer, lowering his voice.

“To secrets. To power. To a truth we’ve been chasing for years. You’re not just collateral. You’re the prize. And the trap.”

“What trap?”

He leaned in, mouth close to my ear. “The one we all walked into the day you arrived.”

I shivered. Not from fear this time—but from something worse.

Curiosity.

Enzo pulled back, eyes searching mine.

“You want to know who she was? That woman you keep dreaming of?”

I nodded slowly.

He stepped past me, walked to a small desk, and opened the drawer. From it, he pulled a folded letter—aged and frayed at the edges—and handed it to me.

“I wasn’t supposed to keep this,” he said. “But I did. Because something about her… about you… never made sense.”

I unfolded the paper with trembling fingers.

It was a letter.

Handwritten.

To Aurora,

If you’re reading this, it means I failed.

It means they found you.

And you’re in more danger than you realize.

Do not trust the heirs.

Do not trust the Syndicate.

And whatever you do—never go near the vault.

The rest of the ink had smudged, water-stained and illegible.

My heart pounded.

“Whose handwriting is this?” I whispered.

Enzo looked at me.

And for once, he wasn’t smiling.

“Your mother’s.”

A mother I didn’t know I had.

A vault I’d never heard of.

And four heirs who would kill to keep me away from both.

But now?

I was going to find it. Even if it destroyed me.