Accidentally Yours Chapter 104

**Lola**

She woke to the sound of steady breathing. Not the mechanical kind—real, human, heavy with exhaustion.

Her ribs still ached, skin still burned where gauze wrapped tight, but her head was clearer. Less fog, more weight. She turned, slow and careful, and found him there—Enzo, folded into the recliner beside her bed, long legs bent awkward, head tipped against the armrest. His suit jacket was crumpled on the floor, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands still wrapped from split knuckles. Even asleep, he looked carved from stone, jaw set, bruises dark across his skin.

Her chest twisted. God, he looked wrecked. This man who never let himself be anything but iron—cracked, worn down, here.

“Enzo,” she whispered, voice softer than breath.

His lashes twitched. A beat later, his eyes opened—black, groggy, then sharp all at once when they landed on her. The relief that punched through him was so raw it almost hurt to look at.

She lifted her hand weakly, IV tugging, nails bitten down and bandaged knuckles trembling. “Get in here. Now.”

He frowned, confused, until she patted the mattress beside her. “Bed. With me. Broken ribs be damned. I need you close.”

For once, he didn’t argue. He stood, stiff from too many hours in the chair, bones cracking with the stretch, and eased himself down carefully. The mattress dipped, his warmth folding over her, and when she turned into him, the world finally felt right.

They lay there for a while in silence, her cheek against his chest, his heartbeat steady under bruised ribs, the faint smell of smoke and coffee still clinging to him.

Finally, she spoke. “I remember more.”

His arm tightened around her. “Tell me.”

Her eyes stayed on the dark ceiling, voice low. “The blast—it wasn’t fire that hit me first. It was my tattoo table. Got thrown on top of me, slammed me into the wall. I think… I think that’s why I lived. Gotta send that manufacturer a thank-you note.” Her lips curved weakly. “Five stars on Yelp: saved me from Russians.”

Enzo didn’t laugh, but she felt the quake in his chest where he wanted to.

“I remember being dragged. Out of a car, maybe. The cold hitting my skin. Then—red lights. Running toward them. And… Sherry. I swear I saw her, just for a second. But then nothing. Black.”

His body went rigid. “Sherry.”

She nodded against him, tired eyes closing, silver hair spilling across his chest. “I’ll explain later. To all of you. I’ve been running something on the side. Collecting pieces. It’s more than I thought I’d ever find in a couple weeks.”

He tilted her chin up until her eyes met his, sharp and searching. “Lola—”

“I love you,” she cut in, fierce despite the crack in her voice. “That’s all that matters right now.”

His forehead pressed to hers, breath shuddering. “You don’t deserve this life.”

Her lips twitched, stubborn. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not living for this life. I’m living for you.”

The kiss that followed was slow, desperate, a breaking and a binding all at once. She clung to him until her lungs burned, then let him pull back only because he had something clutched in his hand.

“Got you something.”

She blinked as he placed it gently between them.

A duck. A floppy, ridiculous stuffed duck with button eyes and soft yellow fluff. And clothes—tiny jeans, a jacket, a stupid little hat stacked beside it.

“What…” Her voice broke. “Enzo, what is this?”

“Press the chest.” His voice was gruff, almost embarrassed, his ears going faintly red.

She did. And his voice came out, low and rough through the tiny speaker: “For the nights I can’t be here, amore. For when you’re stuck in this bed, or when I’m out cleaning up what’s left of this mess. You’re not alone. Not ever.”

Her throat closed. Tears spilled hot before she could stop them. “You made me a Build-a-Bear?”

“Build-a-Duck,” he corrected, deadpan. “Apparently ducks are softer.”

Her laugh cracked into a sob. She ugly-cried, shoulders shaking, clutching the duck to her chest like it was oxygen.

Enzo brushed at her tears with his thumb, helpless, his rough hands trembling slightly. “Don’t cry, diavoletta.”

She sobbed harder. “You gave him clothes!”

“Of course I did,” he muttered, like it was obvious. “He’s got more outfits than I do.”

The door opened. Dom and Gino stepped in mid-scene, froze at the sight of Lola in bed, clutching a duck, tears streaming down her battered face.

“What the fuck happened?” Dom whispered, horrified.

“She finally snapped,” Gino deadpanned, leaning against the doorframe.

“Shut up!” Lola wailed, clutching the duck tighter. “This is the best thing anyone’s ever given me, you assholes!”

Enzo pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering in Italian \[Italian\], but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, tugging upward.

Dom’s gaze darted between her blotchy tear-streaked face and Enzo’s half-smirk. “Wait—hold on. She’s sobbing like someone died. What the fuck is going on? Why is she holding… is that—” He squinted. “Is that a stuffed duck?”

Lola hiccuped, nodding so hard her ribs screamed. “He—” she jabbed a finger at Enzo like he was on trial, “—made it for me. Clothes and everything. And—and—” her voice cracked into fresh tears, “it has a recording inside!”

Dom froze. Then slowly, painfully, his face split into pure disbelief. “You’re telling me Enzo Maraschi—the man who once stabbed a guy with his own belt buckle—went to Build-A-Bear?”

“It’s a duck,” Enzo corrected, flat as stone. The twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him anyway.

Gino exploded, laughter echoing off the walls. “Holy shit. What’s next, boss? You taking her to Justice for matching pajamas? Claire’s for friendship bracelets?”

Dom leaned back in his chair, smirking wide. “Nah, bro. Picture it: Enzo at the park with a stroller. Duck strapped in, Glock tucked in the cup holder, bulletproof diaper bag slung over his shoulder.”

Nico shook his head, chuckling low. “Forget the blood, forget the bullets—this right here? This is the most dangerous thing he’s ever done. He walked into a mall full of teenage girls and came out with that thing.” He whistled. “Respect.”

Gino doubled over, wiping tears. “Bet he kissed the little heart before they stuffed it.”

Enzo finally lifted his head, dark eyes sharp as knives. “We’re done talking about the fucking duck.”

Silence. A full beat of it.

Then Lola, eyes blazing even through fresh tears, clutched her duck to her chest and sat up straighter. Her voice cracked but came out strong as a war cry:

“You listen to me. His name is Lord Archibald Featherstone Quackston III, Supreme Commander of the Bathtub Brigade—and you will put some respec on it.”

The room went dead quiet.

Dom’s mouth opened. Closed. Then, deadpan: “Yes ma’am.”

Gino wheezed so hard he nearly choked. Nico slapped a hand over his face to muffle the laugh tearing out of him.

And Lola, cheeks wet and chest heaving, finally broke into helpless giggles—clutching her ridiculous duck like it was her crown jewel.

She glanced sideways through the blur of tears and laughter and caught Enzo. He hadn’t joined in—not even close. His jaw was tight, eyes narrowed on the others, the weight of his glare sharp enough to slice the air. But when his gaze shifted back to her, it cracked. Just for her. His shoulders dropped, his mouth curved the smallest bit, and she felt it—that secret softness he didn’t show anyone else.

Lola sniffed hard, hugging the duck tighter like it could shield her from the roasts still hanging in the air. “That’s right,” she said, chin lifting. “You laugh all you want, but Lord Archibald Featherstone Quackston III will outlive every single one of you. And I’ll make sure of it.”

Gino wheezed again. Dom buried his grin in his coffee. Nico was still shaking his head, muttering something about supreme commander.

But Enzo? Enzo just watched her glow, battered and beaming, and Lola swore she saw pride slip through the cracks of his scowl.

And that right there made her clutch the duck even tighter.