Page 111 of Enzo

Not with rage. Not even with disgust.

With confusion.

Like she’d walked in on something she was never meant to see—like she didn’t know whether to reach for me or run. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out at first. Just breaths in the silence of the warehouse that had witnessed profound horrors.

“Enzo… what did you do?”

43

PENELOPE

Iclutched my coat tighter against the chill as I scanned the shadowy edges of the dock and the containers stacked up in rows.

The air was sharp with salt and rust. I’d never been here before—this narrow stretch of waterfront was forbidden territory, even to my papà.

So what the hell was Enzo doing here?

The feeling had been gnawing at me for days. At first, I blamed it on the grief. Amara’s loss had cracked something inside me. But deep down, I knew this was about more than loss.

It was about a lie.

When Enzo slipped out of the house tonight, quiet as breath, I let him think I was asleep. And then I waited until the front door clicked shut before following him.

Now, as I crept deeper into the dockyard, the silence grew thick around me. I thought I heard voices. Maybe footsteps. Or was it just the wind brushing past the metal containers like a warning?

“Enzo?” I called out, barely louder than a breath. But even that whisper felt too loud in the stillness.

Bang. Bang.

The gunshots shattered the silence—sharp, final, merciless.

My heart stopped, then started again, hard and fast. I ran, feet pounding the concrete, weaving through crates until I found the metal door and shoved it open.

I froze.

Dr. Gvozden lay sprawled on the ground beside another man I didn’t recognize. Both were unnervingly still, eyes glassy, limbs limp. A dark pool of blood spread beneath their heads, the bullet wounds clean, dead center. Execution style.

And that wasn’t even the worst part. There was a young man on the surgical table who lay cut open, gaping holes where his major organs should’ve been.

“What—” The word caught in my throat.

And just like that, the feeling I’d been carrying for days morphed into something worse.

I staggered back a step, clutching the doorframe. My breath caught, the metallic tang of blood in my nose sharp and nauseating.

A distant splash echoed somewhere and I spun toward the sound, my pulse racing like it was trying to outrun the horror show in front of me.

I took a cautious step forward, then another, shoes slick against stone while my mind raced with questions. Why was Dr. Gvozden here? Who was the man on the operating table, all marked up?

“Enzo?” I repeated, though part of me wasn’t sure I wanted an answer.

I turned the corner and there he was.

My husband, in his three-piece suit, stood with his back to me, his figure hunched over a large copper sink. One hand gripped the edge, blood stains on the hems of his sleeve telling a story of their own. In his other hand, he still held the gun.

My stomach turned.

“Enzo…” My voice was hoarse now. He didn’t move. “What did you do?”