Page 3 of Enzo (Redcars #1)

THREE

Robbie

The dream started with pain—sharp, burning, and immediate. Fear hit me just as hard, a cold rush that made my skin crawl. I knew I was dreaming. I told myself that repeatedly, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. My ribs ached, my fingers throbbed, and the numbers—those endless, looping numbers—filled my head. I clawed at the air, reaching for something, someone, desperate to break free. But the numbers kept coming. 5… 13… 22… E… M… V… again and again until I thought my skull might split open.

A trio of shadowed men, John front and center, grinning at me.

He’s good.

He’s mine.

You can share!

With each repetition of numbers came the memory of pain. Cold metal on my skin. A fist. The sharp bite of a boot to my ribs. Flashes of John’s expression meant the fear was visceral, lodged deep in my chest. His face emerged from the blur—sharp, cold, and familiar. He was there in my nightmare, holding me down, his fingers digging painfully into my arm. “Tell me,” he hissed, his breath hot against my ear. “Tell me everything you heard.” I knew then — I was a prisoner, a bargaining chip.

The wallet password is nothing without the seed phrase.

I knew everything, and that made me dangerous. John’s face twisted in frustration when I said nothing, and the numbers pounded louder in my skull. Password…

5… 13… 22… E… M… V…

I woke with a strangled gasp, clawing for air and reaching out for help, and someone gripped my hand, warm and rough, fingers wrapped around mine.

Enzo.

The man who’d carried me.

His dark eyes were bloodshot and his short beard framed a face that should have been intimidating but wasn’t as he half smiled. His hair was short but wild as if he’d given up trying to tame it. His skin was warm-toned and his lips were too soft for someone so hard.

There was a kindness in his gaze that felt foreign and almost impossible to believe. Kindness wasn’t something I understood. Not real kindness, the kind that didn’t come with a price. In my world, kindness had always been a mask—a trick to lure me in before someone hurt me or took something I couldn’t afford to lose. John’s voice echoed in my head, the sick sweetness of his promises twisting in my memory. But Enzo’s gaze didn’t hold that same gleam. It was steady, quiet, and scared me just as much as John ever had. Because if I believed and it wasn’t real, it would destroy me all over again. I didn’t remember compassion that didn’t come with strings or expectations. My memories were sharp and jagged—snarled words, clenched fists, and cold, calculating eyes. Trust was a dangerous thing, and yet… there it was in his eyes.

Tattoos wound down his arms—his neck and face were clear, the bold patterns on his skin hinting at stories untold. He stared at me with an intensity that should have scared me. It didn’t. Instead, I shifted closer, drawn to him as he held my hand.

My gaze focused on the dark corners of the room. Shadows stretched long and deep, swallowing the edges of the space. I hated that I couldn’t see what was there—what might be hidden. My heart pounded, the phantom sting of old bruises flaring back to life. John was always there, in the places I couldn’t see, watching. Waiting.

He’d done this before—twisted my mind, chipped away at what little hope I had left. A smile, a promise, a warm hand on my shoulder —and then pain. He’d once dragged me from a freezing alley into a dimly lit room, pressing a steaming mug of coffee into my hand, telling me everything would be okay and that I was safe. That he was going to help. I believed him—for maybe five minutes—until the questions started—sharp, urgent demands cloaked in calm words. “Tell me what you know,” he’d said. “Tell me what they told you.” I’d tried to say nothing, to hold my silence, but he’d pushed harder, his fingers curling around my arm like a vice.

Then came the beating. He’d kept me barely conscious, barely conscious enough to know that the kindness had never been real—that he’d only given me warmth so he could tear it away again.

I couldn’t trust this place, couldn’t trust Enzo, even if I wanted to. Because what if John had planned this too? What if this warmth and safety was a trap—hope dangled in front of me only to be ripped away the second I reached for it?

My chest tightened. John had made me paranoid, but this space was too big—too open. The air felt thin and sharp, and the shadows seemed to stretch and crawl. I could feel him, or thought I could—the cold pressure of fingers digging into my arm, the rasp of his breath at my ear. Memories blurred with reality, and I swore I heard his voice whispering in the dark, coaxing me to trust. My pulse hammered, and my skin prickled with a cold sweat. I needed something smaller—a box where I could feel the sides, shut the lid, and disappear.

Was John here? Had he found me?

I didn’t know how far I’d run, desperation fueling every stumble and when I finally stopped, gasping for breath in the cold night air, I had no idea where I was. But the warehouse couldn’t be more than ten blocks from here. Ten blocks. Separated by a highway, but still too close. If he was there anymore. He had a lot of places and had told me that himself, boasting about his reach, about how he could disappear when he needed to. But that wasn’t the only thing keeping my mind tangled up in knots.

I had numbers in my head—rental amounts, bank accounts, and payments that had filtered through under fake names. Information I had memorized without meaning to, details that might have been useful once but now felt like a dead weight. I told myself it didn’t matter, that it was meaningless noise. But the thought gnawed at me. John had always been careful, but I’d pieced together fragments of the life he had built. And if I could do that, what if he had done the same with me? What if he knew where I was? What if he was waiting?

I was already tight with anxiety when footsteps sounded from the hall, heavy and deliberate, each one striking a chord of panic deep inside me. The door creaked open, and a shadow filled the space. I was startled, heart racing, instinct yanking me back. My breath hitched, and I wriggled closer to the big man—Enzo, my mind supplied—as if he could shield me. His hand squeezed mine tighter, grounding me when I felt I might unravel.

“It’s just Doc,” Enzo said, his voice gravelly and low.

The man in the doorway was tall and lean, with dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail. His stubble shadowed sharp cheekbones, and a jagged scar ran from his hairline to his chin, pulling the corner of his mouth into a permanent quirk that made him look like he was one wrong word away from violence. His gaze locked onto me—intense, assessing—and I swore I felt my skin crawl.

“He’s here to help,” Enzo added, his fingers still firm around mine.

I wasn’t sure I believed that. But right now, Enzo’s hand in mine was the only thing keeping me grounded. So I stayed close, and I didn’t let go.

“Well, look who’s still alive,” Doc said, his voice dry and cutting. “Gotta say I’m surprised.”

Enzo stiffened beside me, his hand tightening around mine as if warning Doc to back off—or maybe reassuring me that I wasn’t alone. I clung to that touch like a lifeline.

“I need to check a few things—you got the cash?” he asked, and Enzo nodded to somewhere in the room. Doc lifted an envelope and pocketed it, the crinkle of paper loud in the silence. “Okay, then. Hold still.”

I tried, but Doc’s hands were rough and impersonal, fingers pressing on bruises I didn’t know I had, poking and prodding as if I were nothing more than a bundle of parts. I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper, forcing myself not to cry because crying never helped. The worst part wasn’t the pain—it was when Enzo had to let go of my hand. His warmth vanished, leaving me cold and unsteady. Without his hand gripping mine, I felt brittle—as if I might shatter if Doc pressed too hard. I tried to focus on Enzo’s face and how his dark eyes never left mine, but it wasn’t enough.

The numbers whispered in the back of my mind, insistent and relentless. 5… 13… 22… E… M… V…

“Okay, not bad,” Doc muttered, his tone gruff as he wiped his hands on a rag pulled from his pocket. “You’re tougher than you look.” He glanced at Enzo, giving a curt nod. “He’ll make it, but he’s gonna need proper rest.” He paused, eyes flicking back to me. “He needs quiet, warmth—and someone watching him. He’s not out of the woods yet.” Doc’s gaze relaxed a fraction. “Might not look like much, but he’s still breathing. That’s gotta count for something.”

“You feel like some food?” Enzo asked me.

No, I thought. No, I didn’t. I felt empty—hollowed out and raw. The idea of eating turned my stomach, but I didn’t say that. Instead, I shook my head weakly.

Enzo shuffled closer, his voice quieter this time. “I have some soup,” he said. “Rio got it. Wanna try?”

Rio. Tall guy, big, kinda loud. Jamie, blond, blue eyes, manic energy.

Enzo. Big-muscled, warm-colored skin. Too good to be true.

No, I thought again. But I opened my mouth and let him guide a spoon to my lips. The lukewarm liquid hit my tongue, and my throat tightened, instinct trying to force it back up. I swallowed, gagged, swallowed again. This time, it stayed down. I could imagine the path it was taking—slow and deliberate and fighting my body’s instinct to purge itself right now I felt the warmth pool in my stomach, faint and distant, and I clung to that sensation as if it might anchor me.

“Okay?” Enzo asked.

I nodded, swallowing a second spoonful, gesturing that I didn’t want anymore. My stomach felt like it hadn’t registered what I’d eaten, the warmth curling inside me, but I knew if I pushed it, I’d be sick.

“Where am I?” I asked as soon as he set the soup down, my voice hoarse and thin.

“Redcars,” Enzo said with pride, as if that should mean something.

It didn’t. I frowned, confusion tightening my features. The name bounced around my mind as if it were meant to stick, but I couldn’t understand it. Redcars… a place? A group? Something worse? My puzzlement must have shown; either that or Enzo had already planned to.

“So Redcars is a garage,” Enzo said. “We deal mostly with high-value stuff, muscle cars, the odd Porsche or Ferrari. But it’s more than that. It’s… a place that gives second chances.” He paused, his gaze shifting past me as though he was sorting through memories. “Rio, Jamie, Logan, and I are all ex-cons.” He waited for me to react, but my head was full of clouds, and although I tried to be afraid, my body wouldn’t let me. “You’ve met Rio and Jamie, but not Logan because he’s out for a couple of days with his daughter. Logan runs the place now that Tudor has made him boss.” He stared into the far distance as if in thought.

“Tudor,” I murmured. That was a weird name, a word that made no sense in my head.

“Tudor inherited Redcars from his dad. He brought us in and gave us a shot when no one else probably would. He’s retired now, handed the whole thing to Logan… Look, all I’m saying is that you don’t need to worry about anyone else because this is a safe space,” he added. “No judgment. No questions. Just a place to get your head on straight.” He shifted on the mattress beside me, his fingers twitching like he wanted to grab my hand again. I wished he would. “The apartment you’re in is always ready for anyone needing it.”

I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and he helped me with the blankets, and somehow just him being there meant all the ghosts in the corners were chased away.

And I slept.

* * *

The nightmare came back, and I reached for Enzo’s hand.

But there was no one there.

Panic flared hot in my chest. I rolled to the side of the bed too fast and hit the floor hard, landing on my knees, my cannula catching in the covers. I wasn’t on the drip now, thank god, and my breath stuttered, and for a moment, all I could hear was my pulse pounding. Where was Enzo? Where was anyone?

I didn’t want to be here—not alone. My head spun, the room tilting and shifting, and the light above felt too bright, stabbing through my skull. The air smelled stale and wrong, like oil and sweat and something sharp beneath it. My stomach twisted, and I knew I needed to go. Now. Before John came back. Before the other two got there.

Before something worse happened.

I crawled toward what I hoped was the doorway, my hands scraping across cold, grimy floorboards. My fingers found the frame, then nothing—space, air—a yawning black chasm that turned out to be stairs. A flight of them dropped away, and I swallowed hard, bracing myself. I had to get down. No choice. Ignore the pain. Ignore everything. Find a door. Find a way out.

I managed to get down, fall, slip, and slide to the bottom. My knees hit the floor hard, jarring pain shooting up my legs, but I didn’t stop. A shout cut through the haze—my name. Enzo’s name. I had to hide. I couldn’t trust anyone.

I pushed myself forward, dragging my aching body along the cold floor. My breath came in ragged gasps, each one burning my throat.

Enzo’s voice—calm, steady—followed me. “It’s okay,” he kept saying, over and over like a chant. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Nothing was ever okay. Jamie and Rio were there too—two solid figures blocking the exit. I knew they were trying to help, but panic twisted my thoughts. I couldn’t tell the difference between safety and threat, and all I saw were bodies in my way—people who might grab me and trap me. Rationally, I knew they weren’t John or the other two. But fear doesn’t listen to reason, and I couldn’t stop the instinct to run. I flinched back, barely hearing their words. Were they helping me? Stopping me? I couldn’t tell. My head swam, and nothing made sense.

Then I saw it—an open door, a small dark room no windows, one door—a mess of boxes stacked high in the corners. I staggered inside, something shifted, and I was somehow safer. The chaos of outside was gone, or at least muffled. I sank to the floor, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I let out a breath that didn’t catch in my throat.

“I’m safe! I’m safe!” I yelled at Enzo, though nothing about this felt true. His face blurred in front of me, distorted by fear and confusion. I curled up tight in the corner, pressing my back to the wall. My breath was too fast, too shallow, as the shadows swallowed me whole.

“Robbie—”

“Shut the door!” I gasped, forcing the words out as though they’d been torn from my throat.

Enzo nodded slowly, his face a mask of concern, and pulled the door shut with quiet finality. I scrambled forward, hauling myself to my knees and dragging boxes in front of the door with what little strength I had left. The scratching of cardboard on wood seemed deafening in the silence.

Then came the pain—deep and jagged, tearing through my chest as if someone had reached in and twisted something vital. Memories flooded in with it—John’s face contorted in rage, his knuckles bloodied from beating me—the cold of the concrete floor beneath my cheek. The taste of copper in my mouth was sharp and metallic. I remembered lying there, unable to breathe, hearing John mutter something about how weak I was, how I was nothing. How I owed him for being alive.

“What did you do!” He screamed over and over, the snap of iron around my neck.

He’s gripping me.

“You’ll kill us both!” he’s screaming at me. The ache in my chest wasn’t just pain—it was fear, helplessness, and the awful certainty no one was coming to save me. That moment felt real, my body curling in on itself to brace for another blow that wasn’t coming. I wrapped my arms around my knees, and sobbed. The tears came hard and fast, and I let them. I was too tired to fight anymore.