Page 93 of Jordan

Marco nods and gets up, going to the small bar. He returns with a glass full of something dark.

“She doesn’t drink that,” Enzo says.

I take the glass and take a sip while staring right at him. It’s disgusting. But I swallow it down and smile, giving Enzo a big fuck you.

“Looks like you don’t know your wife,” Marco says, clearly trying to rile Enzo up. I like him for that alone.

“He doesn’t,” I add. Enzo glares at me again, like I’m completely ruining his life. Good.

I think I may pay for that one, though.

“How much longer will you be here, Marco? Is there anything else you need?” Enzo asks.

“Just want to visit my brother, Piccolino,” he practically coos.

I perk up. “Is that Italian?”

“It is,” he answers.

“What does it mean?”

I’ve always been intrigued by the Italian language. My father speaks a little, but my grandparents spoke fluently. I always wanted to learn, but never took the time to do so. The only thing I did outside of the required classes for school was when I tried to get my massage license. Thought it would be a great idea to become independent and make my own money, but then I decided I didn’t want to spend my time putting my hands all over men who would walk away with boners.

“Verbatim? Little one. It’s the word our family uses for the baby.”

“The baby?” I question, turning to Enzo. “You’re the baby?”

Marco barks out a laugh. “He does look old, doesn’t he? I tell him all the time, but he never listens.”

“I’m younger by four years. It isn’t that much.” The way he growls out the words between his teeth tells me how much he hates that Marco and I are getting along. Doesn’t he realize it only makes me want to be nicer to Marco?

“How old are you?” I question carefully.

Marco shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. He hides his smile with his glass of alcohol, which is lighter than the one I’m drinking.

“Thirty-nine.”

About the same age as my father. He’s only forty-three.

I shake my head. “It’s not that he looks old. I just thought you were younger,” I tell Marco.

He smiles and looks at Enzo. “I like her.”

I smile brighter and try not to laugh at the frown on Enzo’s face.

He called me down here to meet his brother. Shouldn’t he be happy we’re getting along?

“How many other siblings do you have?” I ask.

“One other brother,” Marco answers. “Elio. He’s the oldest.”

“And your parents?” I ask.

Marco glances at Enzo nervously, clears his throat and says, “Our mother died about twenty years ago and our father is ill.”

Not sure what that was about, but okay. Maybe they don’t get along with their parents?

“I’m sorry,” I say, looking to Enzo who isn’t looking at me. His gaze is on the floor. I haven’t heard him mention anything about his father, or even talk about going to see him. Does he not care? Or is he just trying to hide it from me? I take another sip of the awful alcohol and place it on the table beside an empty glass. “Well, I’m going to get back to, uh…” I smile. “I’m just going to go. It was nice meeting you, Marco.” He smiles, and I turn and leave.