7. Enzo
I driftin and out of serene inner peace when suddenly, a voice shatters the silence. “That’s enough!” Firm, unyielding, and unmistakably Father Malone.
A few more minutes of shuteye would’ve been nice, considering that my lull to consciousness is met with a surge of agonizing pain.
Eyes closed, I gingerly reach for my jaw, wincing as I feel the swelling. It’s throbbing, and I might actually need a doctor. Or, at the very least, a dentist.
I pry open an eye, the effort amplifying the pain from mildly tortuous to excruciating agony.
To be clear, I can take a punch. I’ve been fighting men twice my size since I was fifteen. But the force of two pounds of steel, backed by a three-hundred-pound ape-man’s punch, has suddenly taken its toll.
“Can you stand?” Father Malone asks, coaxing me up.
A resounding “No!” screams out from the depths of my soul. But my pride duct tapes that guy’s mouth shut and shoves him into the trunk.
Punching through crashing pain and licking blood from my lip, I nod, gritting my teeth as I breathe through it. My head explodes as Father Malone helps me to my feet.
I watch as Andre and Rocco exchange smirks as they turn to leave. And a surge of emotion ripples through me like a sudden gust of wind, stirring the air around us with a dizzying, almost tangible force—the need to kill them.
Not figuratively. Literally.
I know it’s a visceral response—a primal instinct deep within me that rails against pain, against the antagonizing thought that if I lose, they win.
This dance is getting old. The one where Uncle Andre is my wrangler, and I’m his wild stallion chained to a post, kicking and bucking until exhaustion sets in and my spirit is stomped out.
I’m not fifteen anymore. And sooner or later, this has to end.
With one of us dead, no doubt.
A weaker man might have crumbled, willing to say or do anything to end the torture. But not me. I simply endure it, familiarizing myself once again with the metallic taste of blood and redirecting my pent-up aggression elsewhere.
My fists clench tightly at my sides, and my jaw tightens as I struggle to regain my composure. I shove Father Malone against the nearest wall, the frustration boiling inside me. “You let Rocco in here,” I growl, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ground.
“All are welcome,” he replies, unbothered by my hurling him into a brick wall. “It’s literally written at the entrance.”
Like all my outbursts, he takes it in stride. Marc Malone, once a prizefighter who could’ve easily gone pro, stripped his DNA of all inclinations for violence long ago. A subject he often revisits in one too many sermons.
Which means he’s here for me.
Because he’s under the insane impression that my body needs protection and my soul can be redeemed.
On both counts, he’s wrong.
Part of me still needs to lash out, but as the world whirls all around in a dizzying blur, all bets are off. Fuck. Do I need a hospital?
With a deep sigh, Father Malone gently guides me to the nearest bench. “You’re the one who insisted on having this meeting here. I complied and stayed out of sight.”
He wets a corner of his robe from the fountain and gently dabs my face. I wince from the initial blinding pain, which thankfully subsides.
“Keep it up,” he says, “and your brain will be pummeled like Play-Doh.” I try to pull away, but his iron grip on my chin refuses to release.
“I’m fine,” I growl.
“You’re suicidal is what you are,” he declares as he finishes cleaning me up and inspecting me thoroughly. “But alive. For the moment.” He holds up two fingers in a V-shape. “How many fingers?”
I flip him the bird. “One.”
He chuckles. “Fine motor skills and humor. Good to see your mental processes haven’t completely turned to mush.”
“I said I’m fine,” I snap, then press. “How many?”
His warm smile holds as he nods. “Fifty.”
Pride floods his features, but the number pisses me off. “We were aiming for three times that. A hundred and fifty.”
“It’s a marathon, not a race.” His hand rests reassuringly on my shoulder. “Fifty women and children taken from Andre’s grasp to safety, right under his nose, was a win, Enzo. More than your father could’ve accomplished. You should be proud.”
Ignoring his last comment, I refocus on the task at hand. “And the rest of them?”
“We’ll stagger them in two waves. One next week and one the week after,” he explains. “If we move too many at once, the capos will catch on.”
“And if we move too few, some will die.”
“You can’t save them all. Not today, at least,” he reminds me. With a plastic cup from a stack by the fountain, he fills it. As kids, we’d drink straight from it. Today, even in the cup, I’m a little skeeved out.
With enough convincing, I sip as he takes a seat beside me. For a moment, I just breathe. “This courtyard is almost a retreat—without the benefits of lavender-scented, half-naked masseuses.”
“Considering your money transformed it from a heap of trash, I’d say anything is possible.”
I notice the idyllic grin across his face and scold him. “Why, Father Malone. Fantasizing about half-naked masseuses? Shouldn’t that earn you at least a timeshare in hell? With you being married to God and all.”
“Not exactly God,” he corrects, deflecting with a teachable moment. “The church. The bride of Christ,” he explains, using any excuse as a Sunday school teachable moment.
“Whatever.”
“And I wasn’t fantasizing. Not entirely, anyway.” He chuckles, a twinkle in his eye. “I was remembering you and your brothers as kids. If you weren’t pounding the Smith boys, you were knocking the crap out of each other.”
I chuckle as the memory replays in my head. “Their mom was a saint. Twelve boys. Now, they all work for me.”
He turns to me, puzzled. “All of them?”
“Protection for Trinity,” I say wearily. “And if you jumped into the line of fire just to make sure I keep your secret, you can relax.”
It’s no surprise that a former heavyweight would take on fights to keep up his skills.
The fact that he’s doing it for cash might ruffle some feathers with the patrons, not to mention the church.
Which boggles my mind. It’s not as if he’s granting absolution to prostitutes by getting blowjobs, which is definitely how I would abuse my power.
Besides, he donates all his winnings to the church, for which he should be commended, not condemned. It’s part of the reason why I’ve started stuffing the donation box.
That, and the fact that he helps provide safe passage for women and children escaping abuse through old prohibition tunnels right below the very spot we’re sitting.
For a beat, his stare pierces through me, assessing. Then, somehow satisfied, he nonchalantly reaches into my blazer pocket and retrieves two cigars.
“Stealing, too?” I quip, feigning surprise.
He hands me one, then takes the other for himself. “This way, you’ll stop stuffing them in the collection box with all that cash,” he remarks, shaking his head in disgust. “Seriously, I put these in my mouth, and who knows where that cash has been.”
With a grin, I twirl the cigar between my fingers. “Oh, I have a pretty good idea.”
“Exactly what I was afraid of.” He reaches into his robe for a small book of matches.
I recognize the print. “Seriously? Dante’s Inferno? Was it priest night at my brother’s club?”
He chuckles, flicking the flame to life and igniting each cigar with deliberate care. “You left them in the confessional with your, ahem, ‘girlfriend,’” he says with air quotes and a knowing smirk.
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
He nods. “So you vehemently denied to your uncle.” When I stay silent, he adds, “So, you’ve set your sights on Kennedy?” I puff my cigar, refusing to answer. He exhales a sigh, shaking his head. “You need to be careful, Enzo. She’s been through enough.”
Great. Just what I need. A sermon.
The man’s God-given superpowers include rote memorization of the Bible, spotlighting every last one of my sins, and doling out lectures like candy on Halloween.
And, of course, he knows Kennedy. He’s a priest. He knows all the saints and sinners in this godforsaken town. And as much as I appreciate his protectiveness of sweet Bella, the last thing I need is advice from Mr. Virgin of the Year.
Kennedy needs to be unleashed, not restrained. Though I could kill two birds with one stone...
“There’s something you should know about her?—”
Instantly, I shut him down. “No, there isn’t.”
“All right, all right,” he concedes, both hands raised in surrender. After a tense pause, he probes, “How is Trinity?”
I blow out a long string of smoke. Damn, I need weed for this conversation. “Better in some ways,” I reply vaguely, avoiding his hopeful gaze.
Instead of answering for the millionth time if she remembers him, I take another long drag and let the cigar ease the pain pulsing from my face.
She doesn’t remember how close they were.
Or that for a stretch of years between age one to the day she was attacked, Marc was a staple at Sunday dinners—one of us. Grayly defined somewhere between best friend and brother.
Or that he kept vigil by her bedside all sixty-five days in the hospital—until she finally opened her eyes and screamed, terrified at the stranger by her bedside.
I half wonder if it’s the reason he turned to God. An offering—sacrificing his true happiness for hers.
Despite all that, he still believes in miracles. That by some wild stretch of the imagination, any day now, all those erased memories will miraculously resurrect themselves.
Hell, the real miracle will be if he comes to terms with her mind being riddled with big, gaping holes.
For whatever reason—delirious pain in my head, perhaps—I toss him a bone. “She’s chatty,” I offer with another puff from my cigar.
Even from my periphery, I see his eyes light up. “That’s good,” he says, nearly in tears. “Can I do anything to help?” The hope in his tone is like a hunting knife to the gut.
So before our little chat gets to the point of me feeling the serrated tip of that blade pressing against my sternum—then, heart—I stand.
I let the cigar slip from my fingers to the ground as Father Malone rises alongside me.
Even in my thoughts, he’s become “Father Malone.” The closeness I feel to him right now means I need to keep distant. For both our sakes.
My steps hasten as he escorts me to the door. As we move past the tall columns, he says, “This is where the two of you met, isn’t it?” I pause for a beat. “Though you called her something other than Kennedy.”
Bella, though I keep that to myself.
The memory rushes through me, redirecting my thoughts like a trade wind. Kennedy was fiery and raw, untouched by any hint of makeup. And only one word can come close to capturing her in that moment: stunning.
My gaze drifts upward to the ceiling adorned with angels and devils locked in eternal struggle. Bella was perfection, with her dark eyes and plump pink lips, subtly parted in awe as she stared up at them.
But then she lost her damned mind and made a scene. That cute little shove she made at my chest imprinted on me.
Owning her was my only option.
I was so tempted to pin her against this very column and teach her a lesson. A good, hard lesson...regardless of how many parishioners died of heart attacks at the sight.
Father Malone interrupts my fantasy with a gentle hand on my shoulder, his voice coaxing. “Remember, Enzo, God always has a plan, even when we cannot see it. Trust in His wisdom, and He will guide you through these troubled times.”
He’s actually talking about Kennedy. And all I can think is... Really? Now you’re gaslighting me? “If God’s plan is to have Kennedy violently raped by the likes of Rocco, then yes, Father, His plan is going swimmingly.”
Father Malone gasps, stunned, before his expression melts with compassion. Despite the harshness of my words, his gaze is unwavering. “I’m always here for you, Enzo. For even in our darkest moments, His light still shines, guiding us toward redemption.”
I grit my teeth against the tide of conflicting emotions swirling within me, grappling with the weight of Father Malone’s words.
“Redemption,” I echo bitterly, the word tasting like cheap cigarette ash on my tongue. “Tell me, Father, where is the redemption for those who have been wronged, for those who have suffered at the hands of sewer scum like Andre and Rocco?”
Father Malone’s gentle eyes meet mine in silent acknowledgment. “Redemption comes in many forms, Enzo,” he replies softly. “It is not for us to question God’s plan, but to trust in His mercy and His justice.”
My resolve hardens like steel as I stare through him into the distance. “God can take the mercy,” I reply. “I’ll take the justice.”
“So you’re saving her? This girl, Kennedy?” His eyes light with the idiocy of hope. Or, shit, is it pity?
Because saving her is what I would be doing. Sparing her from a life of beatings, torture, and rape, until the day finally comes when they’ve had their fill.
At which point what remains of her would be either sold off or dead.
I swallow back the bile churning up from my gut. Father Malone knows better than anyone who I am. The enemies I’ve amassed. The rules I’ve vowed to live by.
I want Kennedy. But wrestling her from Uncle Andre’s sharp talons would cost more than I have.
I can’t trade her safety for the safety of Trinity. Or my brothers.
La famiglia prima. Family first.
Rather than cling to illusions or miracles, I settle into the ice-cold reality of my life, and stare at him like he just jerked off into the fountain behind us.
Slowly, I shake my head. “Kennedy and I made a deal, one which I’ll honor. Protect her sister and avenge her father’s death.”
“If God put her in your path, do you really think you can let her go?”
“I’ve let lots of women go.” Though most try to hang on like a bad case of jock itch. “Letting go of women has never been my issue,” I remind him as much as myself.
“You’ve gotten everything you ever set your sights on, Enzo. Do you really think you’ll be able to let her go?” His question hangs in the air like a pi?ata waiting to be beaten down.
My eyes narrow on his. “Yes,” I say firmly. I’m taking a week. Not proposing marriage.
The feel of Bella’s tight, wet pussy up and down my shaft just might be worth the cheap price of Rocco’s sucker punch—but that’s where I draw the line.
With Father Malone’s stupid doe-eyed stare boring into my skull, I add, “She had her chance. I offered her anything,” I spit. “Cash. A blank check. She chose her sister’s life over her own.”
“Wouldn’t you do the same?”
What kind of a stupid question is that? “Of course, I would,” I snap. “And I’m doing it now. You heard Andre. He’s hungrier than ever for power, and I’m probably the only thing standing between him and my family’s total annihilation. Kennedy’s debt belongs to him, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Can’t you?”
“You think I haven’t tried?” I gesture to my face. “Hello? How about you let me handle Kennedy, and you do what you do best.” I pull out a wad of bills from my pocket and thrust it into his hands. “Focus on your little charity cases.”
Thirty grand should shut him up. At least for a while.
He studies the money for a moment, stunned silent. But then he gets his second wind. “Do you know how many people this will help?”
All except the one I want. “I don’t care,” I mutter.
Then, as if our bond needs more reinforcement, he adds, “The last money you donated went to?—“
I hold up a hand, too engrossed in the jackhammer inching its way into the center of my skull to care. “Spare me the details.”
He nods, but before my feet clear the exit, Father Malone’s grip on my arm stops me like a vise. “Doesn’t it bother you that Andre is so interested in this girl?”
I blink. It’s as if he hasn’t heard me at all.
He steps in front of me. “The man buys and sells debts every day.”
“Any man who’s seen Kennedy would be interested in her,” I explain. “Unless, of course, you’re gay, blind, or a priest.”
Between my pounding head and me dying a slow, agonizing death from this conversation, I need to leave. Now.
“You need to check into that.”
What I need is a Xanax.
I try to sidestep him, but he swiftly blocks my path. “Why won’t he just sell you her debt?” he presses, his tone urgent enough that my last shred of patience disappears.
I snatch him by his holier-than-thou collar, my voice booming across the stone walls. “Because it’s me!” I snap, the words flying from my lips like bullets through all that reasonable logic.
“He’s manipulating you,” he says sadly, as if he’s finally connected the dots.
I glare with contempt. “Then he’s a moron,” I spit out, my patience razor-thin. “Like the rest of you, he thinks I give two shits whether Kennedy Luciano lives or dies. And just so we’re clear,” I add, my words slicing through the tension, “I don’t.”
I bolt from the room and out the door. Nothing is more important than the safety of my family.
Not even her.