Page 117 of Enzo

I wouldn’t tell her I learned from Gvozden that Pen was the fifth one. Atticus Popov made sure that Penelope wasn’t viable and used Dr. Gvozden to do his bidding. That would hurt her beyond repair.

“And then she died. It wasn’t until the morning of the funeral that I learned of Dr. Gvozden’s treachery and connected him and the other guy to the organization. I was too late. I failed her.”

The words nearly broke me.

I found names. Money trails. Surgical records with no patient history. Stolen organs sold to people who never waited a day. Why couldn’t I have made that happen for Amara?

“Gvozden,” I whispered. The name burned on my tongue. “He might as well have killed her, because his inaction led to her death.”

“H-how do you know? Do you have proof that Dr. Gvozden worked with Atticus?”

I nodded and reached for the duffle bag, then dug out the envelope I’d found among Dr. Gvozden’s possessions. When his name appeared among pages and pages of files, I had a bad feeling and followed up. It led me to a dark place.

I handed it to my wife, and she opened it with shaky hands. It was a photo of Amara during one of her chemo treatments. Over her liver and heart, there was red ink with two perfect surgical Xs.Extract the heart, the note attached read.

The photo trembled between Pen’s fingers while she stared at it for a long time, her throat working. “Did they take her heart?”

“Yes.” One word that came down like a hammer, crunching against human bones. “Fuck, I failed her,” I rasped, a part of me dying. “I stood with my gun pointed at him and the other doctor,and all I could think of was Amara’s blood, now on my hands. And then the look in your eyes?—”

“What look?” Pen asked, her voice almost a whisper.

“My mother was right. I’m a monster. She knew it all along.”

Pen was quiet for a long time. I didn’t expect her to say anything. I didn’t even expect her to stay.

But when she did speak, her voice didn’t tremble.

“You’re wrong.”

I blinked. “About what?”

“That I looked at you and thought of you as a monster. I didn’t. Idon’t.” She shook her head. “I looked at the man I love, covered in blood, and I was scared. Of what you did. Of what it means. But I wasn’t afraid ofyou. I was afraid you were already gone.”

I stared at her.

“You’re not crazy, and you’re certainly not a monster,” she said fiercely. “I have never seen a monster when I looked at you, Enzo. Not once. Not even now.”

“I don’t know if I can come back from this,mia anima,” I said.

“Then don’t come back,” Pen whispered. “Build something new.”

She reached for my hand, blood stains still lining my fingers.

And she held it anyway.

47

PENELOPE

The lemon trees stood naked this time of year, gnarled limbs stretching like old fingers into the cold, gray sky. The last of their leaves clung stubbornly to the branches, as if they hadn’t yet realized it was over. The wind drifted through them in long, tired sighs, brushing against the stone walls of my parents’ manor like a quiet warning.

From here, the property dipped into a low fog, the hills curled like sleeping beasts beyond it. I stood at the threshold, coat drawn tight, staring up at the sky where clouds met earth. Or maybe that was just how it felt with everything closing in.

Grief had a shape now. It wore my mother’s silence, my father’s stillness, the empty chair where Amara used to sit, a path she used to walk, and her laugh that used to ring throughout.

Enzo stood beside me, hands buried deep in his pockets, collar turned up. He hadn’t said much since we’d left the cottage and crossed the grove, just quiet steps beside mine across the frozen path.

We both knew what today was about.