Chapter 7
SEVEN
The drive back is quiet. Enzo sits beside me in the back of the car, his hand clasped with mine. My knuckles are split and swelling, blood dried on my skin, and he keeps running his thumb over them in slow, careful circles. Like he can soothe the damage.
I stare out the window and see nothing. The city is a blur of lights and shadows, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I should be processing what just happened.
I killed a man.
I should feel something about that. But I don’t.
“We’ll clean you up when we get home,” Enzo says quietly, breaking the silence. “Ice for your hands. Food. You need to eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You will be.” He brings my hand to his lips, kisses my knuckles, one by one, avoiding the split area. “Adrenaline crash. Your body’s going to demand food and sleep whether you want it or not.”
“You’ve done this before,” I observe. “Killed someone and then… what? Gone home and had dinner?”
“Uh-huh,” he admits without hesitation or shame. “This is what I am, Luca. What my life is.” His eyes meet mine in the dim light of the car. “If you stay, this is what you’re choosing. Not every day, but sometimes.”
“I know.” I turn my hand in his grip, lacing our fingers together properly. “I’m not naive. I knew what you were when I decided to kill you.”
His laugh is soft. “And yet here we are.”
“Yeah.” I look down at our joined hands. His is larger, scarred, steady. Mine is smaller, bloodied, still trembling with aftershocks I can’t control. “Here we are.”
We fall back into silence, and I find myself staring out the window again.
But the quiet only makes room for the doubt I’ve been swallowing down about Enzo to creep back up.
I know I shouldn’t pay mind to the words of a dead man, but Sokolov knew exactly where to stick the knife.
Right in the gap between what I want to believe and what I’m terrified might be true.
And now the question I’ve been too afraid to ask sits in my throat like broken glass. The answer might shatter whatever fragile thing we’re building here. But I know I’ll never breathe easy until I ask.
So I do.
“The evidence you showed Sokolov. The transfer logs. The bank records. Were they real?”
I feel him go still beside me.
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
I turn to look at him. His face is half-lit by passing streetlights, impossible to read. “And if I need to see it for myself? Every document, every trail, everything you have on Viktor and Marco?”
“Then I’ll give you access.” The answer comes without a breath of hesitation. “Tonight, if you want. Tomorrow. Whenever you’re ready.” He gives my hand a little squeeze. “I have nothing to hide from you, Luca.”
I want to believe him. I think I do believe him—mostly. But there’s a part of me that might never be fully certain. A part that will always wonder if I chose the right man to trust.
Maybe that’s just what trust is. Choosing anyway, even when you can’t be sure.
I exhale slowly, feeling something settle in my chest. Peace with the uncertainty.
“Okay,” I say quietly and stare out the window again.
Somewhere out there is my old life—my apartment, my few belongings, the job I walked away from. The person I was before I decided revenge was worth dying for.
That person feels distant now. Like someone I used to know in another life.
“What happens next?” I ask. “With the other families. When they find out about Viktor.”
“I present the evidence. Show them he was operating without my knowledge. Offer restitution for what he stole from joint operations.” Enzo’s jaw tightens. “Some will accept it. Others will use it as an excuse to test me, see if I’m weak.”
“Are you?”
He looks at me, and the steel in his eyes makes my breath catch, the crime boss replacing the man who was kissing my knuckles just a moment ago. “No. And anyone who thinks otherwise will learn quickly.”
“Will they come after me? To get to you?”
“They’ll try.” His hand tightens on mine. “Which is why you’re staying close until this is settled. No arguments.”
I want to tell him I can take care of myself. But the truth is, I’m tired. Tired of planning and fighting and carrying grief alone.
I don’t want to fight anymore. Not tonight.
“Okay.”
Enzo blinks. “Okay?”
“I’ll stay.” I meet his eyes, and something passes between us. “Not because you’re making me. I’m choosing this. At least for now.”
“For now,” he echoes. But he’s smiling, as if he already knows how this ends, and he’s just waiting for me to realize it.
The rest of the ride continues in silence and I’m sucked back into my thoughts. Back to the warehouse and what I just did. I sit with the weight of killing a man and I don’t know what to do with myself.
Once we arrive home, Enzo helps me out of the car—unnecessary, but I let him anyway.
His hand settles on my lower back as we walk to the front door together.
I don’t lean into him. Don’t pull away either.
It’s like I’m existing in a strange no-man’s-land between wanting comfort and not knowing how to accept it.
“Shower first,” Enzo says as we step inside. “Then food. Then sleep.”
I nod but don’t move. My feet feel welded to the marble.
He stops walking. Turns to face me fully, and his expression is serious in a way I haven't seen before.
“Luca?”
I open my mouth, close it and try again.
“I don’t—I don’t know what I need right now.” I stare down at my hands. “I keep waiting to feel something, but there’s just… nothing. Like something’s broken inside me.”
He grips both my arms and steps close. “You’re not broken. You’re just in shock. It’ll hit you later—maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. But right now your body is protecting you.”
“Is that what happened to you? The first time?”
He nods. “Three days later. I was eating breakfast, and suddenly I couldn’t stop shaking. My father told me to get over it.”
“What did you do?”
“Got over it.” His mouth twists. “Or buried it so deep I convinced myself I had. I’m not sure there’s a difference.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Don’t know how to reconcile the controlled, powerful man in front of me with the image of a younger Enzo, shaking over breakfast, being told to move on just like that after his first kill.
“I won’t do that to you.” He smiles at me. “Whatever you’re feeling—or not feeling—I’m not going to tell you it’s wrong.”
My eyes sting, and I blink hard.
“Okay,” I manage. “Okay.”
He pulls me to him, palms my face. “Let me take care of you. And if I get it wrong, tell me. We’ll figure it out.”
I lean into his touch before I can stop myself.
“Shower,” I whisper.
“Of course.”
He takes my hand. I follow him upstairs to the bedroom. Then he leads the way into the bathroom and starts the shower, adjusting the temperature until steam starts to curl through the air.
His hands are gentle as he reaches for me. Infinitely careful as he peels the blood-stained shirt from my body. I wince when fabric pulls at dried blood, and he murmurs something soothing I don’t quite catch.
My pants follow. Then everything else. Until I’m standing naked and shaking in front of him, feeling more vulnerable than I’ve ever felt in my life.
“Come on.” He guides me toward the shower, one hand on my hip, the other steadying my elbow.
I step under the spray, and the heat hits like a physical force.
I gasp, bracing one hand against the tile as the water sluices over me.
Through the steam, I watch Enzo undress, stripping out of his jacket, shirt and pants.
My gaze sweeps over his naked form before he steps into the shower, and suddenly the massive space feels impossibly small.
His hands settle on my waist. “Let’s get you clean.”
He starts with my hands. Lifts one to his chest and lets the water run over my knuckles while his thumb traces the skin around the splits.
Then he works the soap into a lather between his palms before he smooths it up my arms, across my shoulders.
He turns me gently, and I let him, feeling his hands slide down my back.
Next, he tips my head back to wet my hair, fingers carding through it slowly, working out the tangles. I feel my whole body go loose and my knees threaten to give.
His arm bands around my waist, pulling me into him.
“Enzo?”
“Yeah?”
I turn in his arms to face him, water cascading between us.
“Thank you. For tonight. For letting me—”
“You don’t need to thank me.” His thumb traces a circle on my hip. “He deserved everything he got.”
“I know. But still.” I reach up, touch his jaw, trace the faint scar above his brow. “You could have kept me away from it.”
“You needed to be there.” His eyes hold mine, unwavering. “I understood that.”
The water runs pink between us for a moment, the last of Sokolov’s blood swirling down the drain.
Enzo's hands slide up my ribs.
“Luca.” His voice is husky, thick with a meaning I’ve come to know over the past few days. “If you want me to just wash you and put you to bed, tell me now.”
My heart hammers. “What if I don’t want that?”
His grip tightens. “Then tell me what you do want.”
I lean in, pressing my forehead to his. “I want to feel something other than anger. Other than grief.”
“I can do that.” He reaches for the soap again, and I think he’s going to kiss me, but instead he turns me around, my back to his chest. “Let me finish washing you up first.”
His hands return to my body, slick with lather. He starts at my shoulders, kneading the tension there, then slides down over my shoulder blades, my spine, the small of my back.
“You’re still shaking,” he observes.
“I know.”
His hands round my hips and drift to my stomach, palms flat, fingers spread. He pulls me back against him, and I feel the hard length of him against my ass. He doesn't acknowledge it, and I don't say anything.
His hands keep going, moving in slow circles across my abdomen.
“Enzo.”
“Mmm?”
“You’re missing spots.”
A low hum rumbles against my ear. “Am I?”