Page 2 of Enzo (Redcars #1)

TWO

Enzo

He fell quiet—unconscious. The pain in his eyes when he begged us not to tell anyone… I’d seen pain like that before, and it gutted me. The kind of pain that meant secrets too heavy to carry and too dangerous to speak of. I carried him into the garage. Rio was stunned into silence, and we got him upstairs to the apartment we kept for anyone who needed it. Rough and ready, but it had a couple of beds—singles in case of families—and a TV that worked most of the time.

The bed wasn’t made, so Rio grabbed an armful of blankets from the closet and tossed them over the mattress. We laid him down with as much care as we could manage. He didn’t stir. The air in the room was thick and foul, a rancid mix of sweat, coppery blood, and the sour tang of infection. It clung to everything, heavy enough to make my stomach churn.

“Put a 911 out to Doc,” I said, my voice low.

Rio was already ahead of me, waving his phone. “Already done. He’s fifteen out.”

I nodded, my hands still pressed to the young man’s side, feeling for the rise and fall of his breath.

Rio hovered nearby, eyes wide, voice quiet. “Do you think he’s gonna make it?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But we’re going to try. We’re gonna give him a shot. That’s all we can do right now.”

Rio looked at me for a long moment and nodded. “We’ll do whatever it takes.”

I reached for the damp cloth beside the sink and dabbed at the worst of the grime and blood on the boy’s face, then took the scissors Rio passed me and began to cut away his jeans. He was skin and bones, nothing to him.

“Jesus, Enzo,” Rio whispered. “What the hell did he survive?”

“I don’t know,” I said again, swallowing hard. “But if he ran here, if he made it this far, it means he’s still fighting. That matters.”

The young man moaned in his sleep, flinching at the most gentle touch.

Rio stepped forward, placing the clean towels on the side table, his voice trembling. “Fuck, Enzo… fuck.”

Doc arrived with Jamie close behind, Rio staggering under the weight of towels and bandages. “Jesus Christ,” Doc muttered, recoiling as the stench hit him. Tall and thin, his face pinched with disgust, Doc wore a battered backpack slung over one shoulder.

“In my car—two boxes in the trunk,” he barked, tossing his keys to Rio.

Rio caught them and bolted out the door.

“Get his pants all the way off,” Doc ordered. “Then clear the room.”

“I’m staying.” I planted myself beside the bed.

Doc’s eyes flicked toward me, sharp with disapproval. “Fine. Jamie, out.”

Jamie hesitated. “But?—”

“Out!” Doc barked, and Jamie retreated, leaving me alone with Doc and the bloodied man.

Rio returned moments later, boxes balanced in his arms. We tore into them, digging out gauze, antiseptic, and sterile wipes, then Doc ushered Rio out as well.

“It might be better to just let him go,” Doc snarled when he tried to tug at denim. “I have enough morphine to?—”

“Fuck you asshole,” I snapped.

“Fucking bleeding hearts,” Doc grumbled. “Help me with these.” The fabric had stuck to the man’s skin with dried blood, stiff and crusted like old glue. Each tug made him flinch and whimper, despite being unconscious.

“Walking fucking corpse,” Doc muttered, his expression grim.

When the fabric came free, the full extent of his injuries hit me like a gut punch. Blood-smeared scars mapped his thighs and hips, carved into him jagged and uneven. Some were old, their edges faded to silvery lines, while others were fresh angry welts still crusted with dried blood. The flesh stretched tight across each scar, puckered and rigid, a painful map of violence. Whoever had done this hadn’t just hurt him—they’d claimed him, marked him with pain as if he were nothing more than property. Old cuts had been reopened, their surfaces raw and ragged. And then there was a cock cage—filthy metal, rusted in places, and cruelly tight. Parts of his body had swollen around the device, angry and infected.

“Jesus…” I whispered. “How long do you think...”

“Too fucking long,” Doc said, grimly. “Are you sure you wanna?—”

“Fix it!” I snarled.

“Your dime.”

“What about his head, he hit it when he fell back?—”

“Head is the last of his worries,” Doc said.

The hours dragged on, each minute feeling stretched thin as Doc worked—examining, injecting, poking, and cutting away damaged tissue. Crimson smears of blood marked the towels, and the scent of antiseptic mingled with a coppery tang. Doc’s fingers were sure and precise; his gruff curses muttered as he stitched and bandaged with grim focus. I didn’t know his backstory—no one did—he came, fixed, charged us, and went. That was all I cared about right now.

The rest of his body had taken the brunt of whatever nightmare he’d escaped from, and Doc worked to clean and repair what he could. By the end, his arms shook with exhaustion, but the patient was still breathing—weak and shallow but alive.

“By morning, he’s gonna be dead.” Doc wiped his blood-streaked hands on a rag. His voice was flat, emotionless—a man who’d seen too many close calls to sugarcoat the truth. “You have a cleaner you can use? Someone who can handle the body quietly?”

“He won’t die,” I said, my voice low and fierce. The words felt like a vow, something I had to will into existence. “Not after everything he’s been through. Not here.”

Doc looked skeptical, but he didn’t argue. “I want twenty for this,” he said.

I winced inside. Twenty would wipe me out and leave me scrambling to pay for anything else, but I nodded anyway. I had no choice but didn’t hesitate for a moment.

He wiped his hands on a towel, pulled out his phone, tapped in something, and a moment later, my screen buzzed with a message—encrypted account details. “We’re doing this, now? Here?” I asked, eyeing the scalpel he’d flicked into his hand as if it were an extension of his fingers.

“Yep,” Doc said, his tone grim and final.

“Jesus…” I muttered, but I took the towel from him, and tried to dry my fingers, then opened my phone and started a transfer from the emergency fund—god knows what Logan would say to that, but I was good for it. Logan might well manage the business side of Redcars, but he was here every day, and he was one of us—an ex-con with a second chance thrown at him. There was no turning back now. I swallowed the rising panic. The man was too fragile to survive the night, and I wasn’t sure I’d know what to do if things started to go south.

Doc’s nose wrinkled as he stepped back from the bed, pulling off his gloves and tossing them into the overflowing trash. “Get the bits you can reach clean,” he said, voice low and grim. “Keep the wounds dry and burn every bit of medical waste.” He picked up what remained of the cock cage—a twisted piece of corroded metal crusted with dried blood—and turned it over in his hands. “Trafficking, maybe? Kept for sex? There’s fucking scarring around his cock and ass,” His face hardened, and for the first time that night, there was something in his expression resembling compassion.

He glanced at his watch. “It’s six a.m.,” he said.

I felt my shoulders sag under the exhaustion. It had been hours since we’d dragged the victim inside, and the adrenaline that had kept me moving was starting to crash. My arms ached from holding him, and my eyes burned from strain. But sleep wasn’t an option—not with him still clinging to life.

“Call me if he’s still breathing by mid-afternoon, and I’ll come back. Five for each visit—cash only for those.”

Cash? Fucks sake, I was already cleared out. “Sure,” I agreed. He tossed boxes onto the bed, snapping instructions as he worked. “Take this—it’s for infection. Give him this every four hours for the pain. That one goes up on the drip when the first bag runs out,” he said, pointing to a clear IV pouch filled with something that looked more like cloudy broth than medicine. “Extra pain meds in that one,” he added, shoving a smaller vial into my hand. “Don’t give him more than one dose every six hours, or you’ll tank his breathing.”

I panicked. “Can you write it down?”

He rolled his eyes, “No fucking point. He’ll be dead in an hour.”

I lost my shit then, crowding him against the wall, both of our shirts slick with the patient’s blood. “Write. It. The. Fuck. Down.”

He confronted me, asshole, and if we didn’t need him, I’d have had my hands around his throat, and I’d have fucking choked him out in an instant, and snapped his neck even quicker.

No, I didn’t know a cleaner, but I could find one if I needed to, but he didn’t need to know that.

He shoved me away, took his phone out, tapped some instructions and messaged me with them.

When he left, Rio and Jamie returned to the door, lingering inside. Rio’s gaze flicked between me and the man on the bed, concern etched into the lines on his face. “How much?” Rio asked quietly.

“Twenty,” I said, my voice hoarse because my throat ached.

“And?” Rio pressed.

“Five for every visit after that.”

Rio and Jamie exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. “We’ll help.”

“I’ve got it,” I said.

“We’ll help you,” Rio snapped. “But as soon as he’s okay to leave, he needs to be gone.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” I said immediately.

Rio shifted his stance, jaw tightening as his gaze slid toward the front of the garage. “You feel that, Enzo?” he muttered. “If he’s in here, and someone wants him, then trouble’s circling. I don’t like that kind of attention coming anywhere near Jamie.”

Jamie frowned. “Why are you saying that as if I’m the one you need to worry about?”

Rio placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “Because I’m always worried about you.”

“Well fuck you,” Jamie snapped, though the heat in his tone didn’t quite hide the crack underneath. “It’s not like I’m gonna get triggered and burn Redcars to the ground.”

“That’s not what I meant, J,” Rio said with a sigh, shaking his head. “For fuck’s sake.”

“We’re not throwing the kid out on the street,” Jamie continued, voice hardening.

Enzo didn’t speak, but the words settled deep in his chest. First, the victim might look young, messed up and vulnerable, but he wasn’t a kid. And second? No one was touching the man on the bed. No one was throwing him out. He’d found sanctuary here, and that meant something . It meant everything . He was theirs now—wounded, terrified, silent—but theirs to look out for. And Enzo would make damn sure that whatever had broken him never got close again.

“We got this,” Jamie said firmly. There was no hesitation, no doubt—only quiet certainty, as though they’d already made up their mind not to let me carry this alone.

“That’s… if he survives,” I whispered. My voice shook this time; all the bravado I’d tried to carry drained away. My fingers clenched tight in the bloodstained towel still clutched in my hands.

Please survive.

It was a little past midday when he woke up, and his gray eyes flared wide with panic. For a second, he stared—unable to piece together the room or how he’d ended up in it. Then his gaze shot straight to me, and terror detonated in him.

His breathing hitched, fast and sharp, his chest rising and falling in frantic bursts. His eyes darted to the room’s corners, tracking shadows as if he expected someone else to lunge from the dark. His fingers clenched on the blanket, twisted tight like he was ready to rip it away and bolt—but his body wouldn’t cooperate. Every tiny shift in movement came with a wince or a sharp, broken breath. He was too weak to run, too battered to fight, and he knew it. The moment that realization hit him, something snapped behind his eyes.

I wasn’t a comforting sight—big, broad, covered in ink, with oil-streaked jeans and my spare scarlet shirt that didn’t hide the stains from my last shift in the garage. My face probably didn’t help either, thanks to the fresh scratches slashed across my cheek. I wasn’t just a stranger to him — I was a threat. Someone stronger, bigger, and in control of the room. His ribs rose and fell like a trapped animal’s, and the more I tried to hold still and look non-threatening, the worse his panic got.

He shifted again, one hand curling over his side and he squeezed his eyes shut as if he could disappear. I could see how badly he wanted to vanish as if he believed if he stayed perfectly still, maybe I’d forget he was there.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “You’re safe.”

He didn’t believe me. I could see how his fingers dug deeper into the blanket, his entire body curling in on itself as if he could shrink away from me.

“Don’t,” he whimpered, his voice barely more than a breath. His gaze flicked toward the door, then back to me, eyes wide and glassy with fear. “Don’t…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, but I filled in the rest.

Don’t hurt me.

“No one knows you’re here, just me and my friends.”

He winced at that, his face twisting like I’d struck him. Was it the word friends ? Or was it the idea there was more than just me—more strangers he couldn’t see, people he couldn’t predict or protect himself from? His fingers twitched in the blanket, curling tighter. His breath quickened.

We didn’t have ice chips, but Rio had rigged up a water bottle with a straw, and I inched closer, slowly, until he could swallow some water. The second he saw me move, panic flared in his eyes. He whimpered and tried to inch away, trembling, the movement jerky and pained. Every shift made him sob, the sound raw and broken, and his gaze was unfocused and wild.

“It’s okay,” I murmured on repeat, trying to keep my voice low and calm. “It’s just water. You need to drink. I promise it’s just water.”

He shook his head, lips pressed tight, terror stealing his breath. I could see it—he wanted to believe me, but fear had its claws too deep.

“You need to drink,” I repeated, holding the bottle up so he could see the clear liquid. “No tricks. Just water. You’re safe now.”

He stared at the bottle, blinking fast, and then—so slowly it broke my heart—he let me bring it close. He sipped once, then again, tiny, desperate gulps like he didn’t believe the water would still be there if he waited too long.

“It’s okay,” I whispered again, then glanced at the drip. “I need to change your meds. Are you in pain?”

He was surprised at the question, his brow furrowing as if he hadn’t considered it. Maybe the meds were doing their job, numbing everything except the cold, clawing panic lingering in his chest. He blinked, confused, as if he were trying to search his body for an answer, and kept coming up blank. For a moment, his fingers twitched on the sheet, almost like he was testing for pain—waiting for it to flare.

“I… I don’t know,” he whispered, voice thin and cracked. “I can’t… nothing.”

“You’re safe here with us. No one will hurt you.”

A thin and fragile hope flared in his expression but quickly died as his gaze dropped.

“That’s what he said,” the kid murmured. His voice cracked on the last word.

“Who?” I asked, voice sharper than I intended. Fuck, I wanted a name. I needed someone to blame for what had been done to him. Someone to hurt.

I could be out there right now, tracking the bastard down. Hunting him. I’d find him, drag him out of whatever hole he thought kept him safe, and show him what real fear felt like. All those things I’d buried, all those skills I’d promised never to use again—I’d dust them off without hesitation. I’d make him scream, make him beg. I wouldn’t stop. Not until he knew, in the very last second, what it felt like to be powerless, to be broken. I’d do a million times worse than what he’d done. And I wouldn’t lose a second of sleep.

He shook his head.

“I get it,” I muttered, swallowing my frustration. Pushing him right now wouldn’t help. I’d wait. However long it took. “What’s your name?” I asked after a beat, keeping my tone calm, careful not to spook him.

“R—Ro—Robert—Robbie—” he blurted, fast and shaky as if he’d grabbed the first name he could think of. His eyes flicked away as soon as he said it, guilt rippling across his face. The name didn’t sit right, but I let it go. He wasn’t ready to tell me the truth yet, which was fine. Whatever he’d been through, trust was going to take time.

“Hey Robbie. I’m Lorenzo, but everyone calls me Enzo. My friend Rio and I found you out back.”

“Enzo,” he whispered, as if saying my name out loud made it more real. He focused on my face, and his expression shifted to my face and the scratches. “I hurt you.” His knuckles whitened as he gripped the blanket, and his breath hitched. He remembered—remembered clawing at me in his panic, recalled that those scratches were his doing.

“It’s okay,” I said quietly. “You were scared.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” tears ran down his face. “I didn’t mean?—”

“I know,” I cut in. “You were trying to survive. Don’t worry about it.”

His grip stayed tight on the blanket, but his face slackened, some tension draining.

“Where… where am I?” he asked, his voice thin and dry. He sounded sleepy, and I assumed the meds were kicking in again.

“You’re safe,” I promised. “We don’t ask questions here; no one here’s gonna hurt you.” I couldn’t guarantee that no one would come looking for him or that whatever had broken him wouldn’t return to finish the job. I needed to believe I could keep him safe, but the uncertainty twisted like a knife in my gut. I wanted to kill someone. I wanted to rip someone apart.

If they came here… I would.

“How old are you, Robbie?” I asked, keeping my voice gentle.

He blinked as the question caught him off guard as if no one had asked him something so simple in a long time. His brow furrowed, and he swallowed hard, fingers still tangled in the blanket.

“I... I don’t know,” he said at last, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Eighteen?” He didn’t look much older than that, so damn skinny and sleepy.

He yawned and winced. “No… I think… twenty-two? Maybe twenty-three now?”

I nodded, trying not to let the ache I felt show on my face. He wasn’t a kid, but he was still too young to have seen whatever hell he’d crawled out of. He closed his eyes then, exhausted, and was sleeping in seconds as the cloudy contents of the second drip finally did their work. I didn’t know what was in it and didn’t care—I had to trust Doc.

Jamie was up next, bringing me a jacket. Like Rio, he didn’t say much, but then he never did. He also placed an envelope at my side, stuffed with cash to cover the next visits from Doc. We exchanged nods, and then he left.

When Rio and Jamie arrived together, just after I’d called Doc to tell him to return, they stood opposite the bed and stared at Robbie lying unconscious. We’d tried to change as many of the covers as we could, not so much blood staining, but the scent of pain lingered, and he looked like shit warmed up.

“I called Logan,” Rio admitted, as if he’d done something wrong.

“ We called Logan,” Jamie corrected.

“Good.” Redcars had his daughter, Cassidy, this weekend, and it was right not to tell him until she was nearly being picked up by her mom.

“He says you should message him if he needs to come over now.”

I glanced up. “Nah, tell him we got this. We’re not bringing Cassidy anywhere near this.”

They nodded.

“We have work covered,” Rio said and fist-bumped Jamie, and then they vanished downstairs to do what Redcars officially did—fix and maintain broken cars.

I sat back in the chair, flexing my fingers, absently tracing the ink on my arm—the solid black that covered the tattoo I hated most. The one forced on me in prison, branding me as a killer. They’d had to hold me down to do it. That was the only time anyone had ever held me down for anything. I was a fighter—I always had been.

I stared at the black ink, feeling the ghost of the needle that had carved it into my skin. I hated that mark, but I never covered it with sleeves. It was a reminder—of the worst parts of my fucked-up life, of the things I couldn’t undo. But it also reminded me I’d survived. I’d fought my way through hell and made it out. And when I looked at Robbie—small, skinny, barely holding on—I saw that same fight in him. He was a survivor—a fighter.

My mother used to say I got that stubborn streak from my dad—that I inherited the same dark hair and brown eyes. On her more lucid days, she’d spin these stories about my dad as a dashing Puerto Rican man who swept her off her feet, a hero with a wild smile and a reckless streak. I didn’t know how much of it was true, and if I wanted to know for sure, I’d need a DNA test. But it didn’t matter. My mother was an addict, and anything I’d learned about surviving came from never wanting to become what she was.

There was still so much fear when Robbie woke up the next time, but he seemed to relax a little when he locked eyes with mine.

“Hey,” I said, and I helped him drink. I fiddled with the drip and then sat back down. “Can you tell me what happened?” I asked, although I already knew what the answer would be.

His body told enough of the story. The bruises were nasty—dark, ugly blooms of purple and black stretching across his ribs and trailing up to his chest. But it was the scars that hit me. The angry lines carved into his wrists — old marks, pale and faded, that spoke of past pain—and newer ones, red and raw, as if someone had taken wire or rope and tried to tear him apart. There were burns, too, scattered across his arms, some faint and barely noticeable, others deep and blistered.

The worst were the marks on his neck—thick, ropey scars that twisted like a collar above his collarbone. Someone had held him down. Someone had collared him so severely that the skin had been torn and scarred.

He had so much damage carved into him, but I saw the strength that had kept him alive. He’d clawed his way through hell and refused to die there. What had he escaped from?

“Robbie?” I prompted.

“No,” he said, curling in on himself as if shrinking down small enough would make him disappear. He drew his legs up, wrapping his arms around his bruised body. Every movement looked like agony, his face tightening with pain. It hurt him to move, but he’d do that instead of talking to me. His breathing turned ragged, and I could tell he was hurting—ribs, maybe. Stomach, too. The drugs would dull some of it, but not enough. I stayed put, giving him space, but I wasn’t leaving.

“I’ll stay here,” I said, examining the pile of reading material on the unit by the small sofa. We had everything from comic books to fiction books, as much as possible to cover anyone who needed to stay up here. I grabbed one with cars on the front, something familiar, something steady. Something to show him I wasn’t going anywhere.

“You can’t have me!” His voice cracked, dry, and rough.

He yanked at the blankets, and his voice rose, sharp and desperate. “I won’t give myself to you. I won’t let you hurt me. I’ll kill myself!” he tried to yank at the cannula in his arm, but I pressed a hand there to stop him.

“Jesus, kid, it’s okay…”

He struggled, but he was fading.

So I held him as he struggled weakly, and I waited for him to lose consciousness.

Whenever he opened his eyes—in panic or confusion—I was there. I made damn sure of it.

Sometimes, I sat quietly, flipping through magazines without seeing a word. Other times, I paced the room. Once, I’d drifted off in the chair, only to jolt awake the second he stirred, my heart hammering as if I’d been caught off guard.

“Why are you here?” he asked in one of his more lucid moments.

I met his gaze and let the truth slip out. “I’m here to keep you safe.” Safe was a lie some people told to make themselves feel better. But I wasn’t lying, not about this and not about him.

“I don’t want…” he choked.

“What?” I helped him sit up a little.

He fought me off, crying in pain, and then curled on his side.

“What don’t you want, Robbie?”

“Hope.”