Page 3 of Enzo (Legacy of Heathens #3)

PENELOPE

Y our sister’s in the hospital.

Five words. That was all it took to make me drop everything—including the search for my elusive masked stranger.

The air was thick with the scent of salt, clinging to every breath like memory. The coastline stretched endlessly, a ribbon of white sand unraveling beneath a sky too wide to hold. Sicily was stunning. Wild. Unapologetically raw.

But more than anything, Sicily was home.

Now, standing outside the hospital, the cold sea breeze lashed against my skin like punishment handed down by the gods. Locals bustled past, wrapped in layers of wool and warmth, their eyes flicking toward the girl in a simple knitted dress and flats, motionless in the cold.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

The world might have been spinning, but mine had stopped the second I got the call.

Fall and winter winds might be brutal in Palermo, but they had nothing on the words the doctor had just spoken.

High white blood cell count, anemia, enlarged lymph nodes, low platelet count, liver and spleen affected …

We thought this was behind us. She was in remission, on her way to full recovery.

That was what we were told. The last bout of chemo treatments when she was seven had been rough on my youngest sibling and only sister, Amara.

I was terrified of what it would do this time around.

Yes, she was older and stronger now, but that didn’t mean anything in the face of leukemia.

I clenched my fists and squeezed my eyes shut, attempting to ease the panic in my chest. Breathe in, hold, exhale. Oh my God, how could this be happening to her again? It should be someone else… Anyone else.

The taste of salt hit my tongue, sharp and bitter, tangled with the rising tide of despair.

My pulse fluttered wildly in my throat, like a trapped bird desperate to escape.

Thoughts spun out of control, every what if clawing at my mind, louder than the wind, heavier than the sky.

I stood frozen, waiting for the earth to open and swallow me whole, because anything felt safer than facing what might come next.

“She’ll get through this.” I opened my eyes to Papà’s strong arms wrapping around me.

His face portrayed the strength and determination I’d come to expect from him, but there was also a lingering terror he tried so hard to hide.

“We’ll be with her every step of the way, and we’ll beat that fucking cancer again. ”

My throat felt thick and my words inaudible when I answered. “It’s not fair. She’s been so strong…”

The sun pushed through the clouds, but it did nothing to warm my skin.

It felt as cold as my insides with the knowledge of what awaited Amara.

Leukemia had been like the darkest of storm clouds, hovering over our family and testing our faith in the goodness of the world for years.

As soon as we thought it was behind us, we were back to square one, or at least it felt like it.

Poison pumped into her veins. Sweaty, sleepless nights. Painful days.

“She’ll continue to be strong,” Papà claimed. “And we’ll be strong with her. When she’s tired, we’ll push her through. Okay?”

I swallowed the lump swelling in my throat. He sounded positive, but I heard the waver in his voice.

“Okay,” I rasped.

“That’s my girl.”

I buried my face in Papà’s chest, my head barely reaching his chin, and inhaled his comforting scent. He was our family’s anchor. Mama was strong, of course, but he kept our family from drifting apart.

“I want to volunteer at the hospital,” I said, drawing strength from him. “Like last time.”

“Your classes?—”

I shook my head. “I’m not going back to D’Arc. I can finish remotely. Amara’s more important.”

He nodded. “Very well, then. If that’s what you want. Welcome home, princess.”

The machines hummed steadily around us, a cold, clinical soundtrack as my parents and I struggled to absorb Dr. Gvozden’s words.

Another round of chemotherapy. A desperate search for a liver donor.

A transplant list that Amara had only just been added to.

Papà couldn’t do anything about the chemo.

He couldn’t soften the side effects or shorten the endless hours she spent in that chair.

But the transplant list? That, he tried to fix.

He called in favors, leaned on his connections, spent money like it meant nothing—anything to push her name to the top.

But it didn’t matter.

Because no matter how much power he had, there were no matches.

Not one.

A sob echoed down the hallway, sharp and raw. I turned toward the sound and saw a mother crumpled on her knees, her grief uncontainable. A lump rose in my throat.

They called this floor depressing , but that word didn’t even begin to cover it.

It was a battlefield lined with tiny soldiers: children waging war against cancer.

Some I knew by name from the last time I’d volunteered here, offering time, smiles, distraction.

I never imagined my sister would be back again to join their ranks.

My gaze drifted toward the glass separating us from Amara’s room. She sat propped up in bed, thin and pale, yet still managing to wear that familiar, infuriatingly brave mask. Just like the rest of us.

But how long could she hold it?

And why her?

It was the question I asked myself daily and screamed at God nightly.

As if feeling the weight of my stare, Amara looked up. For a moment, her expression cracked—just slightly. A flicker of sadness, of resignation, passed between us. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. She smiled and waved me in like everything was fine.

I forced my legs to move, stretched a smile across my face, and stepped into the room.

“Hey, sis,” she greeted me, her voice light. “Did Dr. Gvozden say when I can go home?”

“Yeah,” I lied, my voice barely above a whisper. “Tomorrow. They just want to run a few tests first.”

She watched me, eyes the same shade as mine—but older, somehow. Wiser than eleven should allow. Too many kids on this floor wore that same look. And I fucking hated it. Hated how helpless I felt. Hated that I couldn’t make it better.

“Will you stay with me, Pen?”

Tears stung my eyes. I nodded, unable to speak past that pesky lump in my throat.

I wished I knew how to be a better criminal.

Because if I did, I would’ve put it all on the line.

I’d lie, steal, kill, and even give up my own life if it meant she could keep hers.

But if D’Arc had taught me anything, it was this: some lines were etched in blood and legacy and meant never to be crossed.

Not without consequences. Not without the kind of repercussions that didn’t only fall on you, but rippled through your family like poison in a well.

In our world, desire was dangerous. And defiance? Deadly.