Page 114 of Enzo

Our lives were full of them, and we never knew where each choice would take us.

I didn’t follow Enzo home right away.

I drove around aimlessly for an hour with shaking hands, those men’s blood still sticky on the soles of my shoes. At some point I ended up in front of Amara’s grave. I sat in the car and stared at the headstone, waiting for it to make sense.

It didn’t.

Nothing did.

And so I came home, hours later, to find him pacing in front of the cottage like a caged animal. The sun had started to rise, a pale light bleeding through the sky.

The door to my car swung open.

“Where were you?” Enzo roared. “I was worried sick. You were supposed to follow right behind me.”

“I drove around. I needed time to think.”

My mind was a scrambled mess, shocked at what I’d learned and still reeling from my sister’s death. I was tired, heartbroken, and so fucking confused. My husband had gotten involved withorgan trafficking—a move that would no doubt put our entire family at risk.

He had to know that, right?

With his help, I got out of the car and his hand came to my back, ushering me inside.

I flinched.

He let out a bitter laugh. “Don’t worry, these hands could never hurt you.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but really, what was there to say?

The kitchen was quiet when we entered, the scent of coffee drifting through the air.

“I figured you’d need some,” Enzo said, nodding toward the fresh pot.

“Yes, please.”

He poured two cups and handed me one. I took a sip of the bitter liquid as Enzo remained by the sink, staring out the window, his jaw clenched tight.

A half-zipped duffle bag sat in the corner with a gun and gloves peering out of it. It was a sight I’d never witnessed before, despite my ties to the underworld.

I slumped into a chair at the table, my eyes lowering to my outfit. It was apparent I got dressed in the dark, the colors of my sweatshirt and leggings uncoordinated. Red and yellow hardly went together. Amara would have gotten a kick out of it…

I sighed and shook my head, then asked quietly, “Are you going somewhere?”

His eyes found me, his jaw still tense. “We both are.”

I folded my hands around my warm mug.

“I want to help my parents and the boys, through…” I choked back a sob. “They’ll need me.”

“Staying here isn’t wise.”

“I could?—”

“Don’t you dare say you’ll stay, Penelope.”

Silence stretched between us, taut like a rubber band on the verge of snapping. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of cigarettes—and only then did I realize he hadn’t smoked around me. Not once since the day we were officially introduced.

My gaze caught on the blood staining his sleeve, and I found myself thinking about everything he’d done for me since we got married—whether I wanted it or not. Every selfless act, every quiet sacrifice, his gentle kindness… I hadn’t felt the weight of it all at once—until now.