24. Enzo
When I glance around,Savannah Whitaker has magically vanished. Shocker. She’s probably hiding out in the bathroom, doing her best to avoid being tossed from the plane.
Which, with this dog using my fine wool suit as his personal sneeze guard, she should be scared shitless.
I shut my eyes tight, desperate to ignore both the scrap of fur at my feet and the jabbing pain at my skull.
His little paw batting at my knee makes that all but impossible. For a fleeting second, I picture drop-kicking the ball of fur into the cockpit.
Which would be followed by the glow of Kennedy’s murderous glare, so I refrain. He does it again. “Fuck off,” I mutter.
When I hear the delicate rip of his unclipped nail against my expensive slacks, I snap, “What?”
Without asking, the dog backs up, gives his rear end a shake, and jumps into my lap. Like his nickname is Death Wish.
My eyes narrow. “You’ve got three seconds. Choose to live, mutt.”
He doesn’t budge. With an exasperated sigh, I shove the dog off my lap and smooth out my slacks. He barks, and it takes a beat to realize I’m locked in a serious death glare with a dog.
My phone buzzes with a text, snapping me from my staring contest with Fido. The incoming text displays an anonymous sender and only a single number for the message.
7
Ah, my uncle, right on time. Apparently, he plans to remind me of my remaining time with Bella—on a daily basis, no doubt.
Or, maybe the cocksucker just wants to brag that he can actually count to seven, because I seriously had my doubts.
I down a gulp of scotch, annoyed.
Maybe it’s Rocco, peddling his usual brand of mind fucks, relishing in the cheap thrill of messing with my head.
Regardless of who sent the message, it elicits the same response: blinding, unadulterated rage.
With a muttered curse, I hurl my phone against the nearest wall, down the rest of my drink, and shut my eyes tight.
Seven days.
With most women, seven days is six days too many. But this is Kennedy, and I already know it won’t be nearly enough.
I like to think I can afford anything. Assets. Loyalties. Souls. But a war?
Putting Trinity’s safety on the line again?
Even I have my limits. And keeping my sister tucked away and safe is it. She’s been to the pit of hell and back again. Trinity’s been through enough.
But then again, so have I.
Where there’s a will, there’s a way the lunatic Scotsman whispers in my ear.
And, as usual, he’s right.
Where there’s a will, a psychopath, and the net worth of a mid-size European country, there’s a way.
There’s always a way.
Always.
Visions of her in a white dress give way to a night of her on her knees, and I groan in actual need. Raw, unrelenting, visceral pain.
Half the time, I struggle just to breathe under the weight of my own skin, and the woman is pure oxygen.
And the thought of losing her? Fuck, hacking off both legs at the knees and hobbling around on stumps would be less excruciating.
I sprint through several options and blow out a reflective breath. The weight of four paws hops up on my lap. His persistence would almost be admirable, in the way one admires Kamikaze bombers.
Where’s the Wicked Witch of the West? I’ve got a dog she might be interested in.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, eyes still closed. “Look, Toto, I don’t care how attached Kennedy is to you. Get off my lap before I have you made into smoking slippers.”
Nothing.
He doesn’t budge.
Then he paws at my shirt. My silk shirt. I’m two seconds from stuffing him into the overhead bin when I open my eyes.
What the...
In his mouth is my phone. Gingerly, he sets it on my lap. A message lights up the cracked light of the screen, and I’m glad it’s not from Uncle Fuckface or his sidekick.
It’s from the only person who somehow always melts my pain to tolerable.
Trinity
I thought I was your favorite sister.
The corners of my lips lift to a smile.
Me
You’re my only sister.
Favorite is implied.
Trinity
Since when do you have a dog?
And why am I the last to know?
And you named her Truffles???
She follows it with a string of heart emojis, which pretty much solidifies it. “Good news, dog. You get to live.”
He blinks, utterly clueless.
I narrow my gaze at said dog as the phone rings. A video request. “What kind of name is Truffles?” I ask, disgusted, flipping his ear. “You’re a dude. Have some respect,” I say as if he had any choice in the matter.
I let the phone ring twice more before I answer, fluffing Truffle’s fur just so. As soon as I do, Trinity’s squeal is so loud I’m now permanently deaf in one ear.
Truffles tilts his head, and my sister coos at the stupidly adorable pup.
I nuzzle him closer to my face, hoping to elicit a broader smile from Trinity. “She’s so precious.” Truffles responds with a sloppy lick to my cheek.
Bleh.
Try as I might, I can’t mask the disgust seeping from every one of my pores, prompting a giggle from Trinity louder than any I’ve heard in years.
It squeezes my heart just enough that I have to blurt out, “He.”
“Huh?” she asks, confused.
“It’s a he,” I explain, lifting him up so she can thoroughly inspect his junk.
She winces and averts her eyes until I set him back down. “You”—she points to the screen—“named a boy dog Truffles?”
“You named a girl cat Thor.”
“I was three. And in my defense, Thor was a huge cat.”
She’s spot-on with that. He’s like a colossal Maine Coon, but with extra fluff. A memory pops into my head. “Remember when you tried to ride him?”
Her laughter fades quickly. “I don’t remember that,” she confesses, her teeth worrying her lip, a habit she falls into when she trips over a chasm in her memory.
It’s become a regular part of her life, something she’s learned to accept. But for me, it slices a deep gash in my heart the way it does every fucking time. The fact that she remembers any of us or even her own name feels like a miracle.
Her attacker managed to wipe memories from her mind like an eraser. I intend on returning the favor. With a power drill.
I veil my anger under a warm grin. “You were very young.”
“No, I’m just losing my mind.” Her laughter is a brittle echo of what it used to be, and it cuts through me like broken glass.
Grasping at straws, I clutch at the only one I have—the damn dog.
I hold his paw to the screen and pull a British accent out of my ass.
“You’re mad,” I declare aloud.
She blinks. “W-what?”
“Bonkers, completely off your head!” I push Truffles closer to the screen. “But I’ll tell you a secret.”
“All the best people are,” she says. A warm rush of color returns to her cheeks as she finishes the Lewis Carrol quote, adding, “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.” She nods with relief. A small victory against the demons of her past.
I puppet around the little dog ridiculously, ventriloquist-like, as if I’ve shoved my hand up his butt. “Who painted my roses red? Off with their heads!”
In that shared laughter, time stands still, cocooning us in a bubble where time blurs and pain recedes.
She’s not a victim, and I’m not the blood-thirsty monster hell-bent on vengeance.
Here, now, I’m just her older brother, doing stupid things so my little sister isn’t sad. Her laughter fades to four simple words: “I love you, Zo.”
What’s left of my heart wrings out four words in response. “I love you, too.”