Page 116 of Enzo

“Enzo?” Penelope prompted.

I didn’t know where to start.

Pen sat, her knees touching mine under the round kitchen table, her hands shaking just slightly as they gripped the mug of coffee.

She was scared. Still here, but scared. And I didn’t blame her.

There was no mask left to wear, no version of myself I could point to and say, “That’s who I really am.”

The only thing left was the truth.

So I gave it to her, every ugly, jagged piece.

“My mother was mentally unstable. As crazy as they come. She’d call Amadeo and me monsters,” I said quietly. “Even when I was little, before I knew or understood anything, she claimed I’d be a ‘Marchetti monster.’”

Pen’s face softened when she heard the emphasis—confused, but not daring to interrupt.

“Father had her put away shortly after Amadeo was born. He caught her dangling me off a balcony when I was a baby and he could no longer turn away or claim she was adjusting poorly to motherhood. So, she was committed to an institution, but every so often, she’d escape and come for us. And every time, she’d try to finish us off while telling us in no uncertain terms that we should have never been born. That God made a mistake.Shemade a mistake.”

I paused, watching Pen’s eyes widen in horror.

“One night she snuck into my room and smothered me with a pillow. I woke up gasping and fighting for air and managed to wrestle out of her hold. She just stood there, hovering over me, a smile plastered on her face. As I was gasping for air, there was one thought that screamed in my mind. If she can’t love me, how could anyone else?”

“I do,” she rasped.

I swallowed. “But you’re also scared.”

She shook her head, but then her brows furrowed as if trying to recall what she’d heard. “I thought your mom died at the same time as your uncle? An accident or something.”

Cazzo, if I was doing this, I might as well go all in.

“My mom survived, but my father—who’s actually my uncle, by the way—ensured she was dead to the world.” Pen put a hand to her mouth. “The father you met is actually my uncle Enzo. I just found out about it recently myself, shortly before we got married.”

“Jesus Christ.”

I waved my hand. “Yeah, that can be a story for another day.”

I dragged in a breath, sharp and cold.

“Anyhow, the seed was planted, and even though my mother was dead, her words fucked with my mind. I was a monster, and my commitment to life in the Omertà cemented that. You’ve experienced it, you know perfectly well. I’ve killed men who tried to date you—who does that?”

She didn’t speak, but I could see the wheels turning.

“But then came Amara. Tiny but fierce. Loyal. She said she’d kick my ass if I hurt you and yet treated me like I was her family.”

Her throat bobbed. “She liked you. She might’ve even loved you one day.”

“No child should suffer like that, least of all her. So when you spoke those words, it hit me like lightning. I would dismantle the organization, but first I would use it to procure an organ and save her.”

Understanding flashed in her eyes.

“I said that I wished those organ traffickers would snatch me,” she croaked.

“That’s right. I’d already learned that Atticus was involved, so I went after him. Unfortunately, he had a vendetta against your papà and made it his mission to eliminate any potential match for Amara. So, I tortured him into signing the organization over to me, along with all the names of the ones that worked with him. Although, now I know he didn’t give me everything.”

“You’ve been killing them?” she whispered. “One by one.”

“Yes.” There was no sense in lying. “I wanted to use every possible avenue to find a match. I’ve searched high and low for another liver match. Atticus said there were a total of five, but in his records, I only found four.”