Page 55 of Enzo

Me: Not relevant.

Father and Uncle kept discussing the threat while my brother and I exchanged messages.

Amadeo: You’re not telling me something.

Me: Some things are private.

Amadeo:

“I have a honeymoon to get to,” I chimed in, cutting my uncle off. “Let me know if any urgent matters come up while I’m away.”

The sun was high up in the sky, not a cloud in sight. I wouldn’t waste this day on work while my bride slept. I had a city to show her.

“Will do, son.”

“Don’t do anything I would,” Manuel advised, humor lacing his tone, as I pushed out my chair.

“Too late for that.” I ended the call, then smiled all the way to my bedroom.

I pushed the door open and was met with silence. My mind instantly went on alert.

“Penelope?” I called out, but there was no reply.

Rushing back downstairs, I was about to roar for my security when I caught movement in the corner of my eye. I sagged in relief as I made my way through the living room and out the large glass doors onto the terrace that looked over the islands.

She sat at the table, her eyes locked on her phone screen.

“Found you.”

Her blue eyes lifted off the screen and she remarked dryly, “I didn’t realize we were playing hide-and-seek. Otherwise, I would have put in some effort.”

She returned to stare at her phone—at what looked to be a book on her reading app. She was still mad.

“Do you like the view?” I asked, ignoring her snarky remark.

She tapped the screen to flip the page. “I might if it weren’t for this gigantic piece of fiberglass obstructing it.”

“You mean our yacht?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

She was really making this difficult.

“We’ll have to wait another day before we set off.”

“Oh my.” She gasped theatrically, never glancing up from her device.

A part of me wished she’d bicker with me, then she’d at least be talking. Anything was better than these clipped answers.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not hungry.”

“Coffee?”

She reached for the mug on the table, raising it up while still reading that goddamned book. For fuck’s sake, it couldn’t be that riveting.

“What are you reading?” My temper was hanging by a thread.