Chapter Thirty-Two Enzo
Chapter Thirty-Two
Enzo
“Tiernan, for the love of everything holy, please stop humping my baby sister,” I moaned at Achilles and Tierney’s penthouse on the Upper East Side. “At this rate, you’ll knock her up before she’s done cooking your current baby.”
It had been a week since that conversation with Tom, and though I no longer believed he actively wished to destroy me, I knew damn well we weren’t anywhere near a real couple.
Tiernan begrudgingly unlatched his mouth from Lila’s throat. “Gealach, am I humping you?”
Lila shook her head with a grin.
“Harassing you?”
Another headshake, this time accompanied by a soft giggle.
“So what you’re saying is that Enzo is just a sad, lonely prick who can’t stand to see other people happy? Mmm, I always said you’re the smartest, sweetheart.” He went back to ravaging her neck.
My stare floated from the couple on the couch to Achilles and Tierney.
They, too, were making out in the kitchen while putting the last few touches on the buffet-style dinner.
In the far corner of the room was Tristan Hale, my half brother but a whole asshole, with newly platinum hair, engaged in a private, hushed phone call.
Technically, he was alone, but I wasn’t excited to start a conversation with him.
For one thing, he was a condescending prick.
For another, I always felt like he knew way more about everyone than we knew about him.
He was the dark horse of the family. Sly, quiet, and chillingly methodical. I’d been in his presence almost every week for the past few months, and I still didn’t know him any better than I had the first time I laid eyes on him.
I knew Luca and Achilles shared my worries—that Tristan would, and very much could, snatch the don title from between their fingers somehow if they lowered their guard.
Alex and Slava stood at the edge of the hallway, as far away from everyone as humanly possible, speaking in Russian.
They both had dates. Slava’s was a petite, chic Frenchwoman who looked to be a couple decades his senior.
Probably the curator chick who’d warned off Federico.
At any rate, I’d rather bathe in dog drool than willingly converse with the Rasputin brothers.
Whose idea was it to orchestrate this get-together? Oh, right. Luca’s. He thought it would be wise to pretend nothing was amiss, that we had no idea about the Bratva’s upcoming shipment to our port.
For the most part, he was right. But I really wasn’t in the mood to face any Russians today, much less my future brothers-in-law.
I slinked to the bathroom, took a piss, then stared at myself in the mirror. I looked normal. Hot. Stylish. Still, something about me had changed, and I wondered when, and if, someone would pick up on that.
I was washing my hands when the door swung open and Slava breezed in, unzipping and taking a piss. Cunt.
“Ever heard of the concept of personal space?” I muttered.
“Heard of it, yes. Abide by it? Rarely.” He made sure to piss everywhere but inside the toilet. Achilles was going to fucking kill him. Rolling his zipper up, he shouldered past me, trekking to the sink to wash his hands. His movements were slow, deft, and laced with malevolence.
“Nice jacket.” I jerked my chin to his camel-hued biker blazer. “Is it new?”
“No.” He was staring at his fingers under the stream of water as he spoke. “You know, I always wondered…what do you do with the skin of the people you flay?”
My palms halted inside the hand towel. I dumped it into a designer hamper. “Who says I’m doing anything with their skin?”
“You’re the creative brother.” Slava flicked the faucet off, shaking his hands. “You wouldn’t go through all the effort without using it for something. What is it?”
I winked. “Hope you enjoyed Tierney’s prosciutto.”
Slava either didn’t appreciate my joke or let it fly over his head, because he said, “Katya’s taken a liking to you.”
My heart dropped to my stomach. I’d been hoping we were both on the same page. But I guess this was what he’d come here to tell me.
My lips twisted in a teasing smile. “Feeling’s mutual.”
Wanting the conversation to be over, I turned around and reached for the doorknob. Slava slammed the door when I opened it an inch. I swiveled to face him.
“Please don’t make me gut you right here, right now,” I said calmly. “Achilles would make me scrub your blood from the grout with a toothbrush.”
Slava got in my face, a mixture of rage and frustration marring his. “Listen here, pretty boy. She’s not your plaything. You will not do to her what Achilles did,” he warned. “I won’t fucking let you.”
My eyes hooded. “Step the fuck back, Slava.”
When he didn’t, I shoved at his chest hard enough to plaster him to the opposite wall, and stomped my way out, feeling out of sorts.
I slouched in my seat, checking my text messages, hoping for one or two from Tom.
No dice. We’d seen each other the first three days after our trip to Lake George, but he’d been silent the last couple days, citing work.
It put me on edge more than I cared to admit.
Katya: We never discussed how many kids we want.
Katya: Do you want one? Two? Three? Four?
Katya: None?
Katya: I would like to have at least one, though. If it’s okay with you.
I wanted kids, sure. But not with someone I didn’t know, and certainly not with someone whose family despised my own and vice versa.
I wanted kids with someone I knew inside out.
With someone I’d witnessed in times of trouble and despair, in crisis and in joy.
Someone whose reactions I could anticipate, who I knew would make a good parent.
Katya, as lovely as she was, was not that person.
And, deep inside, I knew she never would be.
I was beginning to resent her for her mere existence, the way Achilles had when he pined after Tierney, for the imminent wedding that wouldn’t, it seemed, be called off. Because Luca was too obsessed with any chess move to bring him closer to winning Sofia back to do something about the Bratva.
I got out of my chat with Katya and opened the one with Tom, reading our last exchange from yesterday.
Me: Hey, just checking if today is the day you’ll finally put your ranch in my hidden valley.
Tomcat: ?
Me: You know…test the mattress.
Tomcat: My mattress is fine, actually.
Me: HAVE SEX WITH ME. CHRIST, MAN.
Tomcat: I wish I could. Busy with work.
Me:
Me: Tomorrow?
Tomcat: I’ll keep in touch, but tomorrow looks busy as well.
Me: Look, you don’t have to meet me, but at least don’t lie to me. You always make time when you want to.
Tomcat: You’re right. And I do want to. But remember our first time, when I lost control, and almost ruined everything?
Me: Yeah…
Tomcat: I was serious about what I said. It’ll never happen again. Bear with me for a few days while I sort through my thoughts, all right?
Me: Fine
“Are you reading your own obituary?” Luca took a seat beside me. He looked good. Tan. Fit. In pressed tailored clothes and his favorite cologne. And still, something was off. “You look like death.”
I slid the phone into my front pocket, blowing out air. Luca thrust a paper plate into my hand. I looked around and realized everyone had already helped themselves while I hosted a pity party for one. We were in the far corner of the room, sitting on the balcony recliners facing the living room.
“I’m fine. What are we eating?” I glanced down at my plate.
“Wild-rice-stuffed dolma and kebab, fried sardines, and sliders. You have to try the sliders.” Luca took a juicy bite of his. “Tierney fries the burger with lamb fat, onion, and cilantro. And there’s about five hundred fucking salads. Got you a spoonful of each.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, shoveling in a bite of potato, carrot, peas, eggs, and pickle salad slathered in mayo and groaning. “Okay, what the fuck? Why is this good?”
“I know,” Luca said reluctantly. He wasn’t a fan of Tierney, but he did like her food. “Olivye salad.”
“At first glance, these ingredients should not be anywhere fucking near each other, but boy, do they make sense together,” I said, thinking about Tom and me. Fuck. Now salads made me think about him? That was a new low.
“How’re you doing?” I asked.
Luca waved the plastic fork in my general direction, not bothering with words. “You?”
“I’m pretty sure I have strong feelings for someone.” The words got out before I could stop them. But turning back on them wasn’t an option, either. I wanted him to know.
Luca’s face bricked over. His chewing slowed as he gave it some thought. “I’m guessing it’s not Katya.”
“No.”
“And I’m also guessing you didn’t manage to fuck her out of your system last week, wherever you screwed off to.”
Her. Was he provoking me? Daring me to correct his assumption? Or was he just clueless?
“This person…” I was careful not to use Tom’s pronouns. “They’re special to me.”
“Keep her as a mistress.”
“They deserve to be more than that.”
His gaze flicked over to my face. The elusive darkness behind his irises warned me not to press forward.
We have a good thing going, I could hear his mind reasoning with mine. You stay repressed, and my kingdom lives to see another day.
Problem was, I didn’t give two shits about his kingdom anymore.
It wasn’t even about Tom. It was about me. Maybe Tomcat was right. These growing pains meant my roots were too thick, too solid, for the rest of me to be blown over by Luca’s every whim and impulse.
I wasn’t unsure anymore. I knew I was gay.
My brother ran a hand over his mouth. “What exactly are you saying?”
“I’m saying don’t put me in a position where I’d have to break ranks. Us and the Russians—it is time for war, not peace. This wedding should be canceled.”
“It is your duty to do as your don says, Enzo.” His tone sharpened.