13. Enzo
ENZO
My eyelids flutter, barely cracking open enough for me to get a glimpse of my surroundings. Bright light. Too fucking bright. My mouth feels like I crossed a desert on the back of a camel and have forgotten how good water tastes.
I try to swallow and get a dry clicking sound in the back of my throat that quickly gives way to bile that has no trouble finding its way out. By the time I’ve finished retching, my brain is pulsating inside my skull accompanied by Batman-style speech bubbles going Boom! Wham! Ka-pow!
I roll my head back against the pillow and lose myself in the colors exploding behind my eyelids with every thudding heartbeat.
My first hangover was when I was eighteen.
I’d been to a house party the night before with a bunch of kids I’d grown up with in Sicily, mostly sons and nephews of other mafia families.
We were all privileged, all aware of our places within the hierarchy, some higher than others, none of us strangers to violence and death, and eighteen was like a bomb detonating beneath our feet and telling us to get out there and live a little.
I woke up on a beach in a puddle of my own vomit. I was fully clothed, stinking, with no memory of how I’d gotten there, who I’d been with, or what alcohol I’d consumed to end up in that state. Everything prior to that moment had slipped away inside a giant black hole never to be recovered.
It was the lack of memory that scared me the most, the thought that anything could’ve happened to me, and I would never know. I vowed then that I would never relinquish control of my life to liquor and started training myself to be tolerant of its effects, building it up gradually over time.
That’s how I feel now, hungover with my memory snoozing at the bottom of a gigantic black hole, but I instinctively know that I wasn’t a willing participant this time.
Before I do anything, I need to know where I am.
Cracking open one eye, I study what’s directly in front of me without moving. The light is natural and must be coming through a window as I’m in a room. Careful not to upset my aching brain, I roll my head sideways, noting the minor detail I missed when I first woke up: I’m sleeping on a bed.
The window reveals a pale blue sky with painted-on gray-white clouds. I slide my eyes down to the floor, to my shoes standing smartly side-by-side on the carpet, my clothes folded neatly on the armchair across the room.
My room.
Why don’t I remember getting here?
I push myself into a sitting position and grip the side of the bed to stop myself from face-planting the floor.
“I’m going to be sick,” I announce to the room in general.
Lurching from the bed, I dash to the ensuite bathroom and land on my knees in front of the toilet. My body takes over, expelling whatever toxins are wreaking havoc inside my skull, and leaves me shivering in a heap on the cold tiled floor.
“Enzo?” A woman’s voice. It feels like cold water trickling through the cracks in my swollen brain, soothing and painful all at once. “Jesus, fuck, what the hell happened to you?”
My teeth are chattering. I’m vaguely aware of curling up into a ball, with my fists under my chin, of my face being cleaned with a damp cloth, of something cold and wet being placed on my forehead with a dry fluffy towel under my head.
“Open your mouth, Enzo.” I do as I’m told with no idea why I’m being told to do it, or who is taking control.
Cold water trickles between my lips, and I turn towards it greedily.
“Slowly or you’ll be sick again.”
She raises my head a little and holds a glass to my mouth. The water is cold, tracing a winding stream through the raging desert heat of my body as it goes down. My hand trembles violently as I try to hold it myself.
“I’ve got it, Enzo, let me help.”
The water is already taking effect, hydrating me slowly, punching through the migraine and dulling the drumbeats inside my head enough for me to open my eyes.
“Bianca?” My voice is cracked like centuries-old parchment.
“I’m here.” She waits for me to drain the glass before setting it aside. “Do you think you can stand?”
“…got to…” I can’t comprehend what or why exactly, but I can’t stay here because there’s something I need to do.
Gripping my sister’s hand tightly and leaning against the bathroom wall for support, I stand on trembling legs, panting while my brain cells play catch-up.
“At least you kept your boxers on.” Bianca tries to inject some light into her tone.
It doesn’t quite land.
“How did I… get here?”
Frown lines crease her forehead. “You don’t remember?” She must realize I’m incapable of shaking my head or saying something witty because she doesn’t wait for me to answer. “You were in bed when I got back. I tried talking to you from the doorway, but you were sleeping like the dead.”
“Where were you?” I croak.
“Reveling with the Bratva.”
The Bratva.
It’s like a flame being held to the bottom of a firework.
It catches fire, spreading slowly towards the main event with vivid flashbacks of the night before.
Nyx, her voice belonging to someone else, the real Nyx showing up and removing my mask, whispering in my ear to go with her.
My pulse picks up when I recall the wrong Nyx being hurt, how she felt in my arms, the shock traveling through me before the door opened.
“They have Nyx.”
Bianca studies me intently like she isn’t sure if I’m her brother or an alien version teleported into my apartment from outer space. “Enzo, there won’t be a third time, you realize that.”
“I can’t walk away now.”
“Okay.” She takes my hand and guides me away from the wall, supporting my tentative steps across the cold floor on my bare feet, until I’m facing the mirror. “Like what you see?”
I hardly recognize myself. My skin looks gray, my eyes are sunken and bloodshot, with puffy circles beneath them, blood is still caked around my nostrils, and my lips are blue.
“I…” The fuckers weren’t messing around this time, but if this is what they did to me, I’m frightened for Nyx. For them both. “They were here.”
They were here in my apartment, and this revelation is what I needed to jolt me out of my electric-shock induced stupor.
I let go of Bianca’s hand, hobble to the shower, and turn it on.
They want me to play, bring it on. I won’t stop until I find Nyx, and then I’ll show them what happens when they mess with a Sabatelli.
“You can’t be serious?” Bianca is still staring at me.
“Deadly serious.” Every part of my body is sore, but I force my eyebrows upwards as I prepare to remove my boxers.
“You’re fucking crazy,” Bianca mutters as she turns around and leaves the room.
I stand under the shower until I can move my head without the floor sliding out from under me. I towel-dry and dress for back-to-back meetings with Giovanni, which, now that I think of it, I’ve probably missed over the past week, and make my way to the kitchen.
I’m greeted by the aroma of pancakes, grilled bacon, and scrambled eggs.
“Sit.” Bianca doesn’t even follow through with a glance. Her tone is enough to stop me from protesting. “I won’t try to stop you, but I’m not letting you walk out of here without some food in your stomach.”
I sit at the breakfast bar and check my cell phone. Giovanni has tried calling me over the past couple of days, but it’s the message from Megan that turns my blood to ice.
Enzo, please come for dinner. I’m worried about you.
Did they read my messages when they brought me back to my apartment, undressed me, and tucked me in bed? Megan and Amber survived the Fish; I’m not letting these assholes get anywhere near them.
I open the back of my phone, remove the sim card, and trash the handset against the side of the marble counter. Then I grab the scissors from a drawer, snip the sim into tiny pieces and toss them into the trash can.
Bianca serves breakfast on two plates and places them on the breakfast bar along with maple syrup and two cups of black coffee. She sits down, drizzles maple syrup over her pancakes, and chews a mouthful of eggs before finally looking at me.
“So, now you’re on the Bratva’s radar and uncontactable. I thought that was my playbook.”
I fork eggs and bacon into my mouth, realizing how hungry I am when the flavors explode on my tongue. “You don’t have the monopoly on taking risks.”
She inclines her head, conceding the point. “You’re going back then.”
“Unless you can give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”
“How about you’re too young to die?” She swallows a mouthful of coffee. “Or you don’t need to do this alone. Or here’s a good one that you should’ve learned from our father: stay one step ahead of the enemy and then shoot them in the eye instead of in the back like a fucking coward.”
I would smile if I thought my facial muscles would cooperate. “You’re calling me a coward?”
“No, Enzo, I’m calling you a fucking idiot. Did you not listen yesterday when I told you the Bratva is closing ranks?”
“I heard you, but I had to go back and make sure Nyx was okay.”
“So, what now?” Her eyes narrow.
“Now, she’s in danger because of me. Our father would never have sacrificed someone who tried to help him.” I smother bacon in syrup and chew a sweet, crispy rasher; Bianca remembered exactly how I like it. “Where were you last night exactly?”
“Another casino. There’s someone you should be aware of. Dmitri Malevsky. He has a reputation amongst the Bratva families for being a sick bastard who carves up the enemy and disposes of them in small pieces. He also has mommy issues.”
“Meaning?” I’m not even going to ask where she gets her information from.
“Meaning, women are disposable assets to him. You know how some people collect artwork or earthenware plates with lemons painted on them or underwear supposedly worn by their favorite actor.” She gives a small smile. “He collects virgins and keeps their blood as a souvenir.”
I lower my fork while this sinks in. “What did that information cost you?”
“Does it matter?”