Chapter Thirty-Five Enzo
Chapter Thirty-Five
Enzo
I was on my bike, weaving through heavy traffic in downtown Manhattan, when Luca called.
The desire to ghost his ass singed through my veins, but I happened to stop at a red light, which felt convenient.
Plus, these days, who knew what could throw him into the arms of depression.
The man was down bad for a wife who was probably screwing the literal enemy.
Flicking my thumb over my phone, I pinned it between my ear and helmet and flipped the visor down. “Whaddup?”
“I need help.”
“Jesus, man. I’m so fucking glad you came to this conclusion. About three decades delayed, but you know what they say. Better late than never.”
The light turned green and I forged ahead, zipping down Fifth Avenue.
I had a lull between beating people up, so I’d decided to buy Tom a pair of cool sneakers.
He had impeccable style, normally speaking, but his gym attire was embarrassing.
He didn’t have to look like an old man just because no one was watching him at his building’s gym.
No boyfriend of mine was going to walk around in fucking Hokas.
Plus, it wasn’t entirely true that no one was watching. I’d managed to get access to the CCTV footage and enjoyed the view of him doing his chin-ups and push-ups. He was so fucking cute.
“Do you want me to hook you up with Tierney’s psychologist?” I asked. “She swears by he—”
“I need help with business,” Luca specified, grinding each syllable between clenched teeth. “Not with…whatever the fuck other people go to therapists for.”
“Mental health,” I provided.
“Yeah, I don’t buy into that new-age bullshit. If it ain’t bleeding, I ain’t treating it.”
Wow. It was a total mystery why Sofia left him. He was boundlessly delightful.
“What do you need?” I grumbled.
“Can you collect protection money in Chinatown? It’s our first time working with them.”
“For real?” I let out a grunt. I’d already finished my collecting duty for the week yesterday. “Out of all the people in the organization, I’m the only one who’s available?”
“Half of my associates are in the can for one random infraction after another. We’re short-staffed.”
“What?”
“You heard it right. My deal with the NYPD commissioner is down the shitter. I need to figure out why they’re on our ass all of a sudden.”
Fucking great. Like we needed more problems.
“Padlock raid, probably. And the other half?” I asked.
“Business’s booming. The world’s fucked-up, and people are picking up a drug habit. They’re working.”
“Where’s Achilles?” I pressed. After Achilles had decided to blow up the Secondigliano alliance in Naples in order to steal Tierney from a business rival, he’d been demoted.
Technically, I outranked him. But in practice, I was still the smallest fish in the pond, who was left to deal with the unglamorous side of business.
Normally, I didn’t mind. But now that I had a secret boyfriend, I actually valued my time off.
“Achilles has some important shit upstate, or I’d have called his ass first,” Luca lamented. “Adoption stuff.”
Achilles and Tierney were adopting? Well, fuck. My mood brightened instantly. Heck yeah. Tierney was going to be a badass mom, and I was going to be an uncle again.
“Fine. Text me the address and sum.” I hung up before he ruined my good mood by speaking again.
Twenty minutes later, I sauntered into Sicilia, an Italian restaurant on the edge of Chinatown.
It was a saloon-style eatery with dim lights, antique furniture, and candle centerpieces.
Dark wooden frames and beige curtains ornamented the windows.
I tucked my helmet under my armpit, running my fingers over my hair to slick it back into perfection.
A line ran all the way to the ma?tre d’, so I waited patiently.
I was still reeling from the news about Tierney and Achilles and hoped they would find success.
A party of five stood ahead, and I could feel some people lining up behind me. I never bulldozed into a place and flexed my muscles. These were innocent business owners, already caught up in an ugly Mafia world. The least I could do was be gracious when demanding our payment.
Before I knew what was happening, someone cut me off, waltzing right past me to the front of the line. “Sullivan. Party of five.”
What a d-bag. The person who was originally behind me started grousing, when a shoulder brushed mine. I instinctively looked to see who it was.
Tom.
Tom was standing next to me. Looking irritated, gorgeous, and smelling like rain and citrus and man.
How did he know I was here?
He’s your stalker, dum-dum, of course he knows where you are.
“Hey.” I grinned at him without even meaning to.
Which was when I realized he hadn’t even noticed me.
He slowly pivoted toward me, expression flat, wrapped in his usual crisp dress shirt, dark tie, vest, impeccable peacoat covering his holster, and slim-fitted slacks.
Not one muscle in his face moved. The blue of his irises was pale and unresponsive.
That was when I knew I’d made a huge blunder in assuming he was here for me.
He simply gawked, hands casually tucked into his front pockets, his coat open.
I swallowed back a blabbering apology and looked away, hoping no one saw and that I didn’t get him into too much trouble. My face was on fire.
He was keeping us safe and discreet, just like we’d agreed.
This was good. Cool. Fantastic.
Then why did it feel like rejection?
“Rothwell!” The Sullivan guy—whom I now recognized as his work partner, Sully—gestured to him from his spot near the ma?tre d’ to come forward. “Call the others. Our table’s ready.”
Tom didn’t spare me a second look. He brushed past me like I didn’t exist, two tall, middle-aged men following closely behind him, as well as a young woman.
Jesus. I needed a minute. Swallowing hard, I leaned against the wall and stared as the ma?tre d’ led his group to a private booth opposite the crowded bar.
Of course she was beautiful, and of course she sent flirty smiles at Tom, who remained all business.
I waited for him to turn around and steal a glimpse at me, acknowledge that he saw me in public, maybe wink by way of apology for blatantly ignoring me, but that didn’t happen.
With shaking hands, I took out my phone and texted him.
Me: Dude! What are the odds, right?
I looked up. He must’ve heard his phone ping, because he removed it from the inner pocket of his coat, flicked a disinterested glance at it, then tucked it back inside.
Motherfucker. That was just plain cruel.
“Hey! Enzo, right?” The ma?tre d’ emerged from their table, returning to me. I nodded absentmindedly, ignoring the tightness in my throat.
“Yup. That’s me.”
“Let me take you to the back to meet Mr. Marini.”
As I glided past patrons, mainly businesspeople on their lunch break, tourists, and bored socialites, I tried to calm myself down.
What was I expecting, for Tom to stop everything and kiss me in front of his colleagues?
I recognized at least two of the men in his party as FBI.
First, there was this Sully asshole, and the second one, the Black guy, was Ezekiel Maddox, the next director of the FBI, if rumors were correct.
The third guy, I had no idea who he was.
I just knew he was adequately attractive.
And then there was the woman. Another unknown face.
She was extremely beautiful, with rich raven hair, heavily lashed eyes, and generous lips.
She was all business, though, talking animatedly and deeply absorbed in the conversation.
Didn’t matter. I hated his attractive companions on impact.
The ma?tre d’ and I were passing their booth on our way to the back office. I searched Tom’s face, desperate for a shred of reaction, apology, embarrassment, delight, anything. I’d settle for any emotion that would acknowledge my existence right now.
Tom’s eyes were hard on the menu, his lips moving as he spoke to his colleagues.
“…New York is a cesspool of crime, most of it sponsored by the same lowlife family, but it is home for me.”
Lowlife family?
Was he talking about us? The Ferrantes? About me?
“One of the guidos is here, by the way,” Sully said, snorting. I slowed down purposely, so I was able to hear them. “He looks like a pool boy. Easy on the eyes, that one. He’s gonna have a bad, bad time when we throw him in prison.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. I breathed through my nose, forcing myself to calm down.
What did he mean, toss me into prison? Tom had said the case was dead.
Pointless to ask, since Tom would never give me a straight answer about his job.
What the hell did I do to deserve this kind of treatment? I got that we couldn’t be cuddly out in public, but he could’ve at least answered my text. Or, you know, not shit all over my family name with me within earshot.
“I don’t care about the Italians,” the young woman said fiercely. “I’m here to talk about how I infiltrate the Bratva. Once we take them down, the Outfit and Camorra will follow.”
Little Miss Hard-Ass had some aspirations. Alex Rasputin was gonna make meatballs out of her.
Sully chuckled condescendingly, no doubt because she was a woman. “Easy there, Duarte. One thing at a time.”
“There we are. Mr. Marini will be right with you!” the ma?tre d’ chirped, and I realized I was inside an office. I hadn’t even looked where I was going.
“Uh, thanks.”
“Can I get you something to drink?”
Cyanide sounds great right now.
“I’m good.”
I stood in the office like an idiot, taking my phone out to see if Tom had texted me back. He hadn’t. Before I was able to stop myself, I shot him another text.
Me: Was it necessary to shit all over my family name right in front of my face?
The text had been read, but there was no response.
The door opened, and a short, graying man with eyes too close together swaggered in. Marini, I assumed.
“Ferrante, thanks for waiting.”
I nodded. “Business doin’ all right?”