Chapter 8 #2
A small black chip. He holds it up so I can see it even from here.
Tracker.
He crushes it under his boot and I watch it shatter into pieces.
Behind him, the man is moving, crawling, leaving a trail of red on the gravel like a wounded animal. Enzo turns, walks back, grabs him by the collar, hauls him up like he weighs nothing at all.
The man's face is purple and swollen beyond recognition, blood everywhere, and I can barely tell he's human anymore.
"Last chance."
The man grins with blood coating his teeth and dripping from his mouth. "We can't wait to see her back in the basement where she belongs."
Everything inside me goes cold, freezing solid like ice in my veins.
Enzo's hands find the man's throat and squeeze.
"Enzo, no!"
I'm moving before I think, grabbing his arm, pulling with all my strength.
"Please. Please stop—"
"He knows where we are." Enzo's voice comes out flat and empty and terrifying in its lack of emotion. "He's been watching you, taking pictures, reporting back to Declan everything he sees."
"Then we leave, we go somewhere else—"
"He'll tell them everything. How to find you, how to get to you, how many men I have, where the weak points are."
"Enzo, please—"
"I will kill the whole world if it keeps you safe."
The man's face is turning purple and his hands claw weakly at Enzo's wrists, getting slower with each passing second.
I watch in horror as the life dies out of the man, killed by Enzo’s bare hands.
Bile rushes up my throat the moment he stops moving, dead eyes looking and seeing nothing.
A gasp leaves my lips and I stumble back, tears in my eyes.
I knew Enzo was a very dangerous man, heck, I saw him kill my captors before but seeing him again now, during the day, in front of our cabin, reminds me of who I’m going crazy for.
I’ll kill the whole world if it will keep you safe.
Then he lets go.
The man drops to the ground, unmoving. Still, Enzo pulls his gun. Two shots ring out, echoing through the trees and through my head and through everything.
Then silence.
The man won’t move.
I'm staring at the body, at the blood pooling beneath it, at what used to be a person and now is just meat and bone.
"Go inside."
Enzo's voice is calm, like he didn't just execute someone five feet away from me.
"Enzo—"
"Now."
I turn and start walking, my legs not feeling attached to my body, my steps uneven and wrong like, I've forgotten how to use them.
I make it to the porch and collapse onto the steps, staring at nothing, seeing everything. Behind me I hear dragging, branches breaking, Enzo's footsteps moving away into the woods and coming back lighter.
Then he's sitting next to me, not close, leaving careful space between us.
"I'm sorry you had to see that."
"You killed him."
"Yes."
"He was already down, already beaten, couldn't even stand up. And you still—"
"He would've gone back the second I let him go, told him exactly where we are, how to get to you. I couldn't let that happen."
"So you murdered him."
"Yes."
The word is simple and final with no apology in it, no regret, nothing but cold acceptance of what he is.
We sit in silence while the sun sets, orange and pink spreading across the sky like a watercolor painting.
I should feel something. Horror or disgust or fear or anything at all.
But all I feel is numb, hollowed out, empty.
My eyes drop to his arm where the sleeve of his shirt rode up during the fight, exposing a scar I've never seen before. Long and raised and angry, running from his wrist almost to his elbow.
"I've never seen that before."
He pulls his sleeve down fast, covering it. "It's nothing."
"That's not nothing. How did you get it?"
"Old injury."
"Enzo."
"Drop it, Isabella."
"You just killed a man in front of me." My voice comes out steady and cold, surprising me with its strength. "I think I've earned the right to ask questions."
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer, then he leans back and stares up at the porch ceiling like the answer might be written there in the wood grain.
"Nine years ago. When they took you."
My breath stops in my throat.
"I got to the warehouse where they were keeping you.
They had four men on the perimeter, two inside guarding the basement door.
" His voice is flat and emotionless, like he's reading from an after-action report.
"I took out the outside guards quietly, made it to the basement door.
One of them had a knife, got my arm before I put him down. "
I'm staring at the scar now, really seeing it for the first time. The way it cuts across his skin in a jagged line. The way it must have bled, how deep the blade must have gone to leave a mark like that.
"You almost died getting me out."
"No."
"Matteo said you nearly bled out in the car on the way to the hospital."
"Matteo exaggerates to make a good story."
"Matteo doesn't lie about things like that."
Enzo doesn't answer, just keeps staring at the ceiling like he can see through it to something beyond.
I reach out with my hand hovering over the scar, not quite touching because I'm not sure I'm allowed.
"Does it hurt?"
"No."
"You're lying."
"Maybe."
My fingertips brush the raised skin, light as air, barely making contact.
He goes completely still like he's stopped breathing, like my touch has frozen him in place.
I trace the line of it slowly, feeling the way it cuts across muscle and tendon, feeling the damage that never quite healed right underneath.
"You saved my life that night."
"I did my job."
"Is that what you tell yourself?"
He doesn't answer, just pulls his arm away and stands abruptly, putting distance between us.
"We should go inside."
"Enzo—"
"It's getting dark and looks like a storm is coming fast."
He walks into the cabin and I follow because I don't know what else to do, the door closing behind us with a soft click.
He goes straight to the kitchen and washes his hands in the sink, and I watch the water run pink then clear as the blood from his split knuckles and the dead man's face swirls down the drain.
"I need to shower."
He nods without looking at me.
I go upstairs and close the bathroom door, turning on the water as hot as I can stand it.
I step under the spray and let it wash over me, trying to wash away the image of that man's face, the sound of those gunshots still ringing in my ears, the smell of blood and dirt and death.
But it doesn't work. None of it works.
I close my eyes and tip my head back, focusing on the water and the heat and anything except the last hour of my life.
Then the lights go out.