12. Kennedy
Panicked,I chase after Enzo, his strides threatening to unleash a Mach-4 storm on three very naughty little girls.
Once outside, he halts abruptly. I collide into him from behind.
“Hey!” he barks, attempting to sound every inch of the stern kingpin that he is. With both hands on his hips, he demands, “What do you zoo animals think you’re doing?”
The girls, no taller than my waist and completely unfazed by his presence, laugh even louder as they slide down the windshield of the sleek, black sports car.
Assertively, he demand, “Get down from there this instant, or so help me...” He doesn’t finish the threat. Instead, he lets the implications hang heavy in the air the way all parents do when they have no idea what to say next.
I can’t help but wonder if he speaks to everyone like this—little children and dangerous thugs alike.
The girls continue treating his car like their personal jungle gym, giggling hysterically as they slide down the windshield and bounce on the hood.
He holds up a finger. “I’m going to count to three. One.” Pause for effect. “Two.” A second finger goes in the air.
Thankfully, before he can reach the dreaded three, they’re all on the ground, front and center.
One of them, a curly-haired brunette with pigtails, points an accusatory finger at her friends. “It was their idea!”
His stern brow turns to me. “Are you going to tell her, or should I?”
“Tell her what?”
“Snitches get stitches.”
Playfully, I smack him in the chest and pray he isn’t serious. “They’re very comfortable around you,” I reply softly, hoping he somehow understands what a great day this is for them. “They’re not like this with everyone,” I add, hoping to butter him up.
“You’re the only one I want comfortable around me.”
When his car alarm goes off again, he rolls his eyes. “Stop leaning on the car.”
The girls stand back up.
With a huff, he clicks his fob, stopping the noise, mid-honk. “You can’t just climb all over someone’s car like that. Do you have any idea how much a brand-new Aston Martin costs?”
The littlest one shrugs her shoulders. “A hundred dollars?” I bite back a smile as she hands him something. “Here you go, Zo.” I’m momentarily stunned that she knows his name. Or, I think she knows it.
She puts whatever it is in his hands, and it looks delicate, like angel wings. “What is it?” I ask, curious.
“The hood ornament off the car.” His voice is low, dangerous.
Shit.
My horrified eyes meet his, and I can sense the impending eruption. I step between him and the girls. “I’ll pay for it.”
“With what, Bella? Monopoly money?” My breath catches as both his hands grip my waist. He lifts me up like a rag doll and sets me aside with unsettling ease.
Then his heated gaze locks on the girls as their guilty glances morph into puppy dog eyes. Oh, they’re good.
The ringleader, Lola, steps forward. “Sorry, Zo,” she says, her voice dripping with the saccharine sweetness of a seasoned pro. “We won’t do it again.”
“You better not,” he warns.
“It’s just that it looks like a castle,” she says dreamily.
Unimpressed, he raises a brow. “Yes, and in the real world, castles don’t come cheap. And climbing on them is a one-way ticket to broken bones.”
I gasp, stunned. He wouldn’t really hurt them, would he? I shoot him a panicked look as he reaches for a twig on the ground.
To my surprise, he lowers to a knee, addressing them all, face to face. “When my sister was younger, she thought our father’s car was the world’s greatest trampoline. Want to know what happened to her?”
Wide-eyed, they listen attentively. I’m on edge, unsure of where this is going.
I can’t help but interrupt Story Time with Enzo. The last thing they need is some terrifying tale that keeps them up at night. “Um, Enzo, can I have a word?”
He continues, his voice ominous. “She broke her leg. Crack!” He breaks the stick in two for effect. They all jolt, and he goes all in, full storyteller mode. “And do you know what happens when little girls break their legs?”
On the edge of their seat, they all look back at him. “What?” one of them asks.
He leans in dramatically as he enunciates every word. “They. Can’t. Dance.”
With that, he stands back up and points a stern finger at each of their noses. “No more jumping on cars.” He huffs, agitated.
They giggle.
“Besides, what if you fell into traffic? You’d be squashed.” He makes a sound effect and bulges his eyes.
They laugh louder, their cherubic faces beaming. “Okay, Zo!” The man oozes so much natural born parent, it’s all I can do not to swoon.
He reaches into his pocket, and with a click, the car’s lights flash. “You want to play? Do it on the inside.”
They cheer wildly as if they’ve just been let loose in a candy store as Enzo takes a seat on the steps, pulls out a cigar, and lights it.
“What are you doing?” I ask, because he has no idea how much peanut butter and jelly might still be under their fingernails.
He looks up at me through a veil of smoke, his expression deadpan. “Slowly descending into the depths of hell. What does it look like?”
“You can’t just let them play in your car.” I stare as six little hands smudge fingerprints all over every inch of glass.
“Well, it’s either that or shoot them, and you seem to be attached,” he quips, the corners of his lips quirking up in amusement. Taking a slow drag from his cigar, he shoots me a sidelong glance, his eyes smiling for the first time since he arrived. “Sit down, Kennedy.”
It’s the way he says my name. Like I’m some sort of challenge he’s trying to overcome. “Polite pass.”
He clears his throat, the sound deep and rich. “I wasn’t asking.”
When my feet still won’t budge, his irritation melts. “Sit down, Bella.”
I hate how much I love when he calls me that.
Then he sweetens the deal. He nods towards the car, where the girls are still bouncing around like it’s an amusement park ride. “Hurry before you miss out on the best show in town.”
My hesitation fades away. Fair play isn’t in this man’s vocabulary. Enzo knows exactly where to strike, aiming a cherub’s arrow right at my vulnerable soft spot, hitting dead center.
Slowly, I sit beside him, and feel a little like a puppy being trained.
For a moment, we sit in silence. Then my nerves get the better of me and I speak. “You’re good with kids.”
“I had babysitting duty a lot with Trinity.”
“Trinity?”
He nods. “My sister.” He gestures his cigar toward the car. “They remind me of her,” he remarks, settling a hand on my knee, the possession of his touch potent.
I’m pretty sure the book of Enzo isn’t cracked open very often. My hand smoothes over his. “I’d love to hear about her.”
He blows out a long strand of smoke. “Once, Trinity had the brilliant idea to ‘decorate’ our dad’s brand new Mercedes. Nothing says Happy Birthday like a bedazzled steering wheel and a fire-engine red nail-polish happy face on the dash.”
My hand squeezes his. “Your father must have been furious.”
He shakes his head. “My father had this remarkable way of not yelling. He just gave us that disappointed look. And made me clean it up, of course.”
“Why you?” I ask, fascinated by a D’Angelo family story that seems so...normal.
“Because I was responsible for her. I’d give anything to have that time back.” His lips tip down, the look in his eyes full of sadness and regret. “I’m still responsible for her.”
I nod. “I get it. I’d do anything for Riley.”
He withdraws his hand from mine, and it’s as if he’s suddenly partitioning parts of himself off. I feel all the walls go up between us, and all I want to do is tear them back down.
He leans back, losing himself in watching three little girls engrossed in pretending to drive around town. “The point is kids will be kids,” he mutters with so much regret I know not to pry.
If this really is the last time we’ll see each other, I don’t want it to end like this. I try to lighten the mood. Gently, I elbow him in the ribs. “I’m surprised the Chicago god of war is this easy going under the circumstances.”
A small smile lifts his lips, but he doesn’t look at me. “You know my nickname. Finally got around to googling me?”
“I figured it was only fair, considering you seem to be stalking me.”
“How else am I supposed to find out your preferences in porn?” He puffs a circle of smoke through the air.
I lower my voice. “What makes you think I watch porn?”
“Everyone watches porn.” His smile is short-lived as two women rush up the street, frantic as they start calling for their daughters.
The girls quickly hop out.
I jump to my feet. “It’s fine, Ms. Adams and Mrs. Lee. The girls were just playing.” Calmly, I introduce Enzo. “This is?—”
“We’re so s-sorry, Mr. D’Angelo,” Mrs. Lee stammers, huffing and hastily pulling little Annabelle’s death grip away from the steering wheel. Once dislodged, she shields her protectively.
It’s obvious they know who he is. It’s painfully obvious that I’m the only person in Chicago who failed to recognize him on sight.
Meanwhile, Ms. Adams attempts to retrieve Mackenzie, who defiantly clings to Enzo’s lower leg, refusing to let go. “I want to play with Zo!” she protests, her tiny fingers gripping him tightly.
Her mother, visibly mortified, apologizes profusely as she gently pries her daughter’s hands from around his thick calves. “I am so sorry,” she murmurs, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“Try picking up your kids on time,” he scolds with the gentleness of a grizzly bear. “This woman is not your babysitter.”
These women are practically bowing as they depart, and it’s irritating. “I’m happy to watch them after school.”
His eyes, like molten gold, lock onto mine. “Do not push me, Bella.”
“Then don’t speak for me,” I snap back, shaking my head. “You can’t just boss people around like they work for you.”
He gestures to the retreating women, rushing away, with their little girls in tow, as if being chased by a ravenous wolf. “Apparently, I can.”
By the time Lola’s mom arrives, Enzo is in rare form. She hurries, out of breath as Enzo shakes his head. “You again. What did I tell you about being late?”
Lola’s mom gasps for breath, her excuses coming out in pants and puffs. “Sorry...late delivery...missed the bus...”
I quickly intervene. “Lola’s mom is an OB nurse.”
Her mom props Lola on her hip. “You know babies. They come when they come,” she offers.
Lola proudly brandishes her discovery from Enzo’s car. “Can I keep it?”
My eyes widen when I realize what she’s holding. A shiny flask. One which she’s waving around enough that we all hear the booze sloshing inside it.
Enzo puffs his cigar, smiling. “Finders keepers.”
Lola’s mom laughs nervously. “Give it back to the nice man,” she pleads, still trying to pry the flask from Lola’s tight, two-handed grip.
Oh, good. I’m not the only one who had no idea who he was.
With a puff of his cigar, Enzo holds out a fist. “I’ll trade you the flask for what’s in my hand.”
“What is it?” Little Lola asks, still clutching the flask tight, as if keeping it is actually an option.
“There’s only one way to find out.” He wiggles his fist.
I chime in. “I wonder what it is?” I ask to entice her.
Slowly, suspiciously, she hands over the flask, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
To my shock, he hands her the angel wing hood ornament from his Aston Martin. Her mother obviously has no idea what it is, but still instructs her daughter to thank the nice man.
“Thanks, Zo,” Lola says, clasping the charm to her chest with a smile that could light up the room.
“We’d better go or we’ll miss the bus,” her mother says, bidding us all an awkward farewell as they take off down the street.
I notice the empty space where chrome angel wings should be. “You didn’t have to do that. I could’ve grabbed some Gorilla Glue.”
“You think I’d let you within a foot of this car with Gorilla Glue? Maybe there’s a chewed up wad of gum lying around. Or, duct tape.”
“Maybe,” I tease. “You let three little girls wreak havoc on the interior.”
“Now, I’d like a full-grown woman to wreak havoc in it.” He puffs his cigar, motioning towards his car. “I have a proposition for you. Get in.”
“That doesn’t make me sound like a prostitute at all.”
Riled up, he mutters, “My life would be so much easier if you were.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shakes his head. “Just get in.” When I hesitate, he adds, “unless you’d rather go wait for the bus with Lola’s mother. I believe the creep that loves drooling all over your legs is holding a seat for you.”
Bleh. I shut my eyes. “How is it that you know about that bozo?”
He holds open the front passenger door for me. My heart kicks up to a million miles a minute.
“I don’t want to do this,” I blurt out.
“Do what?” he says. “Be specific.”
“Be a conquest. Just one of a thousand one-night stands.”
He drops the cigar and completely ignores me. “Get. In.”
I knot my arms tight. Part of me wants what he’s offering. The horny part. And the part that foolishly believes he actually wants more than wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.
But the other part of me—the smart one—knows the reality of this situation. He’s leaving. He said so himself.
Then he offers me the one thing—the only thing—I can’t refuse. “You want to see your sister, don’t you?”
I do. He knows I do.
So, I get in, watching as he gets behind the wheel. His stoic features grimace the second he does. “This car needs a bleach bath.”
He pulls into traffic and his jaw tenses as he heads north. “Where are we going?” I ask.
I know he’s heard me, but he doesn’t answer right away. It’s like he’s working something out in his mind, deep in thought.
I can only take the suspense for so long, especially as we turn down a familiar street. “Where are you taking me?”
With a long sigh and a hard right at the light, he finally replies. “Your place.”