Accidentally Yours Chapter 98

**Enzo**

The call came like a blade across his throat.

Static. A hiss. Then—her voice, faint and broken, dragging his name out of the dark.

“Enzo…”

The sound gutted him. It was her. Alive. Weak, but alive.

Then silence.

The line didn’t disconnect, just… held.

Enzo slammed the phone onto the table, speaker on. His men froze. The room went still except for the pulse racing in his ears.

Jake’s hands were already flying across the keys. “It’s coming from a burner. Signal’s bouncing—whoever set it up masked it to hell. Give me time.”

Enzo didn’t have time. His knuckles pressed white against the steel table. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to tear the city apart with his bare hands until he found her. But he couldn’t—not when this line was the only tether he had.

The silence stretched—then a sound cut through. Beep—beep—beep. A steady rhythm, soft and mechanical.

His chest locked. A monitor. A heart monitor.

Her heart.

It was like being dragged underwater and breaking the surface in the same breath—drowning and alive all at once. Proof she was still here, somewhere, fighting.

Twenty-seven minutes.

That’s how long the line held. Twenty-seven minutes of beep—beep—beep, each note hammering through the speakers and straight into his ribs.

Every sound in the room bent around it. Boots shifting restlessly. Magazines slamming into rifles. Gino pacing tight circles, muttering curses. Dom leaning too close to the speaker, whispering half-prayers, half-threats. Jake hammering at the keys, teeth bared with frustration.

And Enzo—Enzo sat unmoving, fists closed around the small key that hung on his chain. The edges bit hard into his palm, grounding him in the storm. He hadn’t blinked in twenty-seven minutes. Couldn’t. Not when each beep confirmed her heartbeat, and every pause between clawed another strip of flesh off his chest.

His body was wrecked. Forty-eight plus hours without sleep. Two days of hunting, of tearing through Russian warehouses, backroom clubs, strip joints, and safehouses. His knuckles split open, bruises blooming along his ribs. None of it mattered. He’d burn his city to ash if it brought him back to her.

Jake cursed, slammed a palm on the desk. “It’s bouncing off half the fucking grid. Whoever rigged this phone wanted it untraceable. We’re narrowing it down—slowly—but it could be anywhere in Vegas.”

Enzo’s jaw ground tight. “Then rip the grid apart. I don’t care if you burn every server in the city. You find her.”

“Yes, boss.”

Beep—beep—beep.

Relief. Torture. Hope. Despair. It shredded him, piece by piece, while the seconds bled out.

Then—something shifted.

Not static. Not the rhythm of machines. Different. Footsteps. A creak, faint as breath.

Every head snapped toward the phone.

A woman’s voice cut through. Calm. Curious. “Hello? Who is this? This phone was left in my patient’s room—”

The room detonated. Gino lunged, nearly tearing the speaker off the table. Dom’s roar cracked the air: “Who the fuck is this? Where is she?”

Enzo rose slow, the chair screeching back under him. His voice carved the air sharp and merciless. “You’re standing with her. Which hospital?”

The woman stammered, startled. “I—I can’t—”

“Don’t play games with me,” Enzo snarled, black fury pouring through every word. “You’re holding her life in your hands. Which. Hospital.”

The silence stretched, taut and brittle.

Jake’s fingers hammered. “Come on, give me a trace, just one clean ping—”

The woman’s breath caught. Then, soft, like she knew she was crossing a line she could never uncross:

“Valley Memorial.”

Enzo’s pulse detonated. He was already moving, the table shoved aside, boots pounding across concrete. Behind him, the crew exploded into motion—guns strapped, magazines slammed, SUVs roared to life.

The line crackled once more, then died.

Enzo didn’t hear it. Didn’t need to. He had what he needed.

Lola was alive. And he was thirty minutes from tearing the world apart to get her back.

**Nico**

The SUV rumbled steady, but Nico’s chest was restless. Too tight. Too hollow. He stared out at the blur of neon, jaw locked, wishing like hell she was there beside him, shoving her icy hands against his ribs just to hear him curse.

San Diego. His turn to be the “boyfriend.” Not fake. Not awkward. It never was with her. Lola slid into his space like she belonged there—couch pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, her hair in his face, her foot thrown across his lap without asking. She was the only person alive who could smack him in the chest with a sketchbook or swat his hand away from her fries and make him grin instead of growl.

That day had been more of the same. Easy. Comfortable. Dangerous in how natural it felt.

Dinner in that hole-in-the-wall joint with threadbare tablecloths. Lola arguing Casablanca like it was scripture, throwing Bogart quotes across the table with fire in her eyes. Her laugh—loud, unfiltered, genuine—still rang in his head, even now, forty-eight hours since the world had swallowed her whole.

She got him. More than most ever tried to. She got his love for old films, his thing for books with spines falling apart, his dark jokes that made other people blink. She was smart, sharp, witty in ways that caught him off guard. She was rare.

And he loved her. Quietly. Fiercely. The kind of love he’d never let show, because Enzo was his brother in everything but blood and loyalty wasn’t a thing you bent for selfish want. But the truth sat there anyway, heavy in his chest.

If the world stole her now—if she was gone—then something in him would stay broken forever.

Nico’s hand flexed tight around the rifle in his lap, knuckles pale. His throat worked once, hard.

“Hold on, Lo,” he whispered, the words rasping raw in the dark cab. “Don’t you dare cut me off halfway through the story.”

**Dom**

The convoy sped through Vegas neon, sirens of their own engines tearing the night open. Dom sat stiff in the back seat, fingers digging into his knees hard enough to bruise.

San Diego kept replaying like a punishment reel. His turn with Lola. Enzo had wanted her shadowed at all times, the crew rotating like bodyguards disguised as boyfriends. Dom hadn’t wanted the job—he wasn’t the “fake date” type. He’d grumbled, dragged his feet, swore he’d rather take a bullet.

And then she’d looked at him, smirk tugging at her mouth like she knew every curse bottled in his throat, and slipped her arm through his anyway.

She’d teased the hell out of him all day—mocking his taste in beer, stealing bites of his food, daring him to win her a stuffed shark at the pier. But she’d also asked questions. Listened. Made him talk about shit he never bothered voicing, like his dad teaching him cards or how he hated quiet dinners. She laughed at his worst jokes, didn’t flinch at his sharp edges, and by the end of the night she had him carrying her shoes like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He hadn’t said it then. Wouldn’t now. But he’d give anything to go back to that day. To dote on her properly. To let her know she wasn’t just tolerated in their orbit—she was the spark keeping it lit.

The memory burned like acid now.

Dom glanced at Enzo in the lead SUV up ahead, and his chest twisted. Enzo would level the city to get her back. Dom swore to himself he’d be the fire at his side when he did.

He clenched his teeth, muttering under his breath to the empty seat beside him.

“You better not be gone, Lo. I still owe you that rematch at darts.”

**Gino**

Gino had seen Enzo fight wars. Seen him break men, bend empires, stare down whole cartels without blinking. His cousin was always iron—never rattled, never cracked.

Not now.

Forty-eight hours without sleep had stripped Enzo raw. His shirt was still streaked with blood from earlier fights, knuckles torn, jaw shadowed hard from stubble. His eyes were worse—black, feral, alive only on fury and caffeine. Every time that phone beeped with Lola’s heartbeat, Gino caught the flicker of life in him. And every time it went quiet, he saw the edge of madness.

It scared him. Enzo didn’t scare easily, but this—this version of him—did.

Gino loved Lola too, but different. She was chaos bottled into five feet of sharp wit and stubborn fire. She made their family louder, brighter, more alive. She’d once made him try her protein shake and laughed until she cried when he spat it out all over Dom’s shoes. She’d kissed Enzo’s cheek in front of all of them like she was claiming him back from the darkness.

She mattered.

And Enzo unraveling meant Vegas itself was at risk.

Gino cracked his neck, shifted his grip on the pistol across his lap. His chest ached watching his cousin wear himself into the ground, but there was no stopping him. The only thing to do was back him, hold the line until Lola was safe.

He muttered low, mostly to himself, “We’ll get her back, cugino \[cousin\]. Just hold it together long enough to put her in your arms.”