9. Enzo
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Enzo
I’m standing at the kitchen counter trying to remember how to make coffee, which is pathetic because I’ve done it a thousand times and it’s not complicated. Grounds, filter, water, button. But my hands aren’t cooperating and my brain keeps sliding back to her.
To last night.
To the way she looked at me when I asked if she was sure, like she was seeing something in me I didn’t know was there. To the sounds she made when I was inside her. To the way she said my name when she came apart, like it was the only word she remembered.
I grip the edge of the counter and try to get my shit together.
This was supposed to be simple. Help her burn down my family, enjoy the chaos, walk away clean. I’ve been doing that for years. I’m good at it. But last night wasn’t about revenge and we both know it, and now I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
The coffee maker beeps. I pour two cups, black, and then realize I don’t know how she takes it. Cream? Sugar? Both? I should know this. I should have asked. I’ve had my mouth on every inch of her body and I don’t know how she takes her coffee.
That bothers me more than it should.
I hear her before I see her, soft footsteps on the hardwood, and when I turn she’s standing in the doorway wearing one of my shirts.
It falls to mid-thigh on her, sleeves rolled up, collar slipping off one shoulder.
Her hair’s still damp from the shower, curling at the ends.
She looks soft and rumpled, like she belongs here.
Like she’s mine.
I need to get a grip.
“Coffee.” I hold out a cup. “Didn’t know how you take it.”
“Black is fine.” She takes it with both hands wrapped around the mug. “Thank you.”
We stand there drinking coffee and not quite looking at each other. The morning light is brutal, washing out all the shadows that made last night feel safe, and everything looks sharper now. More real. She’s got a mark on her neck from my mouth and I want to put another one next to it.
“So,” she says finally. “The plan.”
“The plan.”
“You said we should figure out how to finish this.”
Right. The plan. The reason she’s here. I set down my coffee and lean against the counter, crossing my arms, trying to put some distance between us before I do something stupid like push her against the refrigerator and find out what sounds she makes in the morning.
“First thing is the divorce,” I say. “You need to be legally done with Rafael. I’ve got lawyers who can handle it, they’re good, they’re mean, and they’ll make sure you get everything you’re entitled to.”
She nods slowly. “Rafael won’t sign willingly, he was already dragging his feet when I asked.”
“He’ll sign.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know my brother. He’s lazy and he hates conflict and if we make staying married to you harder than letting you go, he’ll let you go.
” I shrug. “Plus the longer he waits, the worse he looks. His wife left him for his estranged brother. People are already talking. Every day he stays married to you is another day everyone’s whispering about what a fuckup he is. ”
Something flickers across her face, satisfaction or maybe something darker, and I like seeing it there. I like that she’s not trying to be nice about this anymore.
“Good,” she says. “Let them talk.”
“Oh, they will. Which brings us to the next part.” I push off the counter and move closer, not touching but close enough to feel her warmth.
“We need to be seen together. Everywhere. Restaurants, parties, anywhere the right people will notice and run their mouths. The story needs to be out there before anyone can twist it.”
“The function this weekend.”
“That’s a start, but we need more than one appearance. We need to be unavoidable.”
She takes a sip of her coffee, thinking it over. “And then what?”
“Then we make sure everyone knows the truth. Not just that you left, but why. What you walked in on. What Rafael and Viviana did.” I hold her gaze. “We control how this story gets told.”
“How?”
“Leave that part to me.”
She studies me for a long moment and I can practically see the gears turning, the risks and rewards lining up in her head. Then something settles in her expression.
“This is really happening,” she says quietly. “We’re really doing this.”
“Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
“No.” Fast and certain. “I haven’t changed anything. I want this. I want them to know they didn’t break me.”
“They didn’t.”
“No.” She lifts her chin and there’s that steel again, that fire I saw last night when she decided to stop being the quiet daughter who takes what she’s given. “They didn’t.”
I want to kiss her. I want to back her against the counter and kiss her until neither of us can think. I want to carry her back to bed and spend the rest of the day making her forget anyone else ever touched her.
Instead I turn away and pick up my coffee because if I keep looking at her I’m going to do something that blurs the lines even more than they’re already blurred.
“There’s something else,” I say.
“What?”
“You living here.”
Silence. I can feel her eyes on my back, can feel the weight of what I’m not quite asking.
“Last night this was just somewhere to sit until Amelia called,” she says carefully. “Now you’re talking about something else.”
“I know.” I turn to face her. “I’m saying you should stay longer.”
“How much longer?”
“As long as you want.” It comes out rougher than I mean it to. “As long as this takes. As long as…”
I stop before I say something I can’t take back.
“It makes sense for the arrangement,” I say, trying to sound like I’ve thought this through instead of just wanting her here where I can see her. “If we’re going to make people believe we’re together, you should be living here.”
“Is that the only reason?”
The question sits there between us and I should say yes. I should keep this clean and simple and safe.
“No.” The word comes out before I can stop it. “It’s not the only reason.”
She sets down her cup and takes a step toward me, then another, until she’s close enough that I could reach out and pull her in.
“What are we doing?” she asks, quiet.
“I don’t know.” It’s the most honest thing I’ve said all morning. “I thought I knew. I thought this was going to be straightforward. Revenge, chaos, watching my family lose their minds. I’ve been doing that for years, I’m good at it.”
“And now?”
“Now I don’t know what this is.” I reach out and tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger. “I just know I don’t want it to stop.”
She’s quiet for a moment and then she rises on her toes and kisses me, soft and quick, barely there.
“Okay,” she says.
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I’ll stay. For the arrangement.” A small smile tugs at her mouth. “And maybe not just for that.”
Something loosens in my chest, something I didn’t know was wound so tight.
“Good. That’s good.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the black card I grabbed earlier, holding it out to her.
“Take this.”
She stares at it. “What’s that?”
“What does it look like? You need money. Clothes, whatever else. Use it.”
“Enzo, I can’t…”
“You can.” I press it into her hand. “Whatever you spend won’t make a dent, trust me. Do your worst.”
She looks at the card, then back at me, and something stubborn flashes in her eyes.
“Don’t regret it later.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m serious, I might buy a lot of things.”
“I’m counting on it.”
She tucks the card into the pocket of my shirt, her shirt now, apparently, and shakes her head. “You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
Her phone buzzes from somewhere deeper in the apartment and she frowns toward the sound.
“That’s probably Amelia, I should…”
“Go. I’ll be here.”
She hesitates like she wants to say something else, then turns and walks out of the kitchen, my shirt swaying against her thighs.
I watch her go and I don’t pretend I’m not watching.
I’m in trouble. I know I’m in trouble. This was supposed to be simple and it’s already messy and complicated and I have no idea how to get control of it back.
The thing is, I’m not sure I want to.
She comes back a few minutes later and her whole demeanor has changed. Shoulders tight, jaw set, something hard in her eyes.
“What happened?”
“My phone.” She holds it up. “Forty-seven missed calls. Thirty-two texts.”
“From who?”
“Everyone.” She scrolls through, face going pale. “Rafael. My father. Numbers I don’t recognize. My mother.”
“What are they saying?”
“Rafael keeps apologizing and begging me to meet him, to talk, to let him explain.” She laughs but there’s nothing funny about it. “Like there’s anything to explain. Like I didn’t see exactly what I saw.”
“And your father?”
Her expression goes cold. “Furious. Demanding to know where I am, what I think I’m doing, how dare I embarrass him.” She keeps scrolling. “Doesn’t mention Viviana once. Not once. It’s all about me, how I’m ruining everything, how I need to go back to Rafael and stop causing problems.”
“He doesn’t know she’s back?”
“He does by now, I’m sure. But he didn’t when he sent these.” She stares at the phone like it’s something rotten. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Even knowing what Rafael did, what Viviana did, he still blames me. I’m still the problem.”
I want to take that phone and smash it against the wall. I want to find Fernando Costa and break his jaw. I want to burn down everything he cares about and make him watch.
But that’s not what she needs right now. What she needs is to do this herself, to take back everything they’ve spent her whole life stealing from her.
“What do you want to do?” I ask.
She looks up. “What do you mean?”
“Your choice. Ignore them, answer them, block every number and never talk to any of them again.” I shrug. “Whatever you want. I’ve got your back either way.”
She goes quiet, staring at the phone, and I can see the fight happening behind her eyes. The part of her that still wants her father’s approval going to war with the part that finally understands she’s never going to get it.
“I want to call my mother,” she says finally. “Just to let her know I’m okay. She worries.”
“Okay.”
“But my father…” Her jaw tightens. “I don’t want to talk to him. Not now. Maybe not ever.”
“Then don’t.”
“He’ll be furious.”
“He’s already furious. Nothing you do is going to change that.” I move closer and put my hand on her shoulder. “You don’t owe him shit, Ana. You don’t owe any of them anything.”
She looks up at me and I see something shift, some wall coming down, some last bit of resistance crumbling.
“You’re right,” she says. “I don’t.”
She finds her mother’s number and hits call. I start to move away to give her space but she catches my wrist.
“Stay. Please.”
So I stay.
I listen to her half of the conversation, short sentences, careful words. Yes she’s safe. No she’s not coming home. No she can’t say where she is. Yes she knows her father is angry. No she doesn’t care.
Her voice stays steady but I can see her hand shaking and I can see what it costs her to hold herself together.
When she hangs up her eyes are wet.
“She cried,” Ana says. “Said she was worried. Asked me to come home.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That I can’t. That I need to figure out my own life.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “She didn’t understand. She never does. Just kept saying Father knows best, Father will come around, if I apologize everything goes back to normal.”
“You want things to go back to normal?”
“No.” Fierce. Certain. “I never want to go back to that. Being invisible. Being the daughter who does what she’s told and gets nothing for it.”
“Then you won’t.”
She looks at me and something passes between us, something I don’t have words for.
“Thank you,” she says. “For letting me stay. For helping me. All of it.”
“Told you, don’t thank me.”
“I know. I’m doing it anyway.”
Her phone buzzes again and she shows me the screen.
Rafael: Adriana please. I need to see you. I can explain everything.
And: Where are you? Are you safe?
And: I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please just talk to me.
“Persistent,” I say flatly.
“Pathetic.” She stares at the messages with something like disgust. “Seven months married and he never texted me this much. Now suddenly he can’t stop.”
“He doesn’t want you back. He just doesn’t want to be the villain.”
“I know.” She types something quick and hits send.
“What’d you say?”
“Told him to talk to my lawyer and sign the papers.”
I feel my mouth curve. “Good.”
Her phone buzzes again immediately and she laughs.
“What?”
“He’s asking what lawyer.” She shakes her head. “Like he doesn’t believe I have one.”
“He’ll find out soon enough.”
“Yeah.” She puts the phone face down on the counter. “He will.”
We stand there in the morning light, coffee going cold, her phone buzzing uselessly against the marble. There’s more to figure out, more to say, more to plan.
But right now this is enough.
“I should get dressed,” she says. “Real clothes instead of your shirt.”
“I don’t know, I like you in my shirt.”
She blushes and something warm spreads through my chest.
“I don’t have any clothes here,” she points out. “Everything I own is at Rafael’s place.”
“That’s what the card’s for.”
She touches the pocket where she put it. “You really don’t have to…”
“Ana.” I close the distance between us and tip her chin up. “Let me do this.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods.
“Fine. But I’m paying you back eventually, when I have my own money.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.” I let go of her chin and step back. “That’s one of the things I like about you.”
She looks at me like she’s not sure what to do with that, then shakes her head and walks out of the kitchen. Still wearing my shirt. Bare feet padding on the floor.
I watch her go.
I’m in deep. I know I’m in deep. This was supposed to be simple and clean and it’s already neither of those things and I don’t know how to pull back.
I’m not sure I want to pull back.
I just want to see how far this goes.
My phone buzzes and I glance at the screen.
Rafael.
Have you heard from Adriana?
I stare at the message for a long moment, then type back.
Why would I have heard from your wife?
Three dots. Gone. Back again.
She left. We had a fight. Thought maybe she came to you for some reason.
I smile and there’s nothing nice about it.
Haven’t seen her.
A lie. The first of plenty.
But if I do, I’ll let you know.
I won’t. I have no intention of telling Rafael a goddamn thing. Let him wonder. Let him worry. Let him spend the rest of his miserable life imagining where his wife might be and what she might be doing.
What she’s doing with me.
I put my phone down and pour another cup of coffee.
The game’s just getting started.