Page 52 of Enzo (Legacy of Heathens #3)

PENELOPE

T he 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.

When we arrived at the threshold, my eyes wandered to the upstairs window with the balcony. I half expected to see Amara’s round face pressed to the glass, her breath fogging it up as she waited for us.

Foolish.

I knew she wasn’t there.

Enzo must’ve felt the same echo, because just before we entered the house, he slipped an arm around my shoulders. Not for warmth. For grounding. For grief.

There would be no more casual entrances here. No more slipping in with bare feet and borrowed time. Standing on this threshold felt like the first step away from something we’d never get back.

They wouldn’t know we would be saying goodbye today.

The heavy door creaked open and there were my brothers—Damiano and Armani—standing shoulder to shoulder, half in shadow. They weren’t playing today. No swagger, no smart remarks. Just boys who’d aged too fast. Eyes dulled by something they didn’t yet know how to live with.

“You two planning to freeze out here?” Damiano said. The words were meant to tease, but they sagged in the air.

“We’re coming,” I answered, but I didn’t move right away. Instead, I stared at the sad lemon trees that my nonno loved. So did Amara. So did I. “I used to think I’d live here forever. That the lemon trees would bloom every spring, no matter what.”

Enzo turned his head slightly. “They still will.”

I wanted to believe him. But everything felt different now, like something inside the roots had withered the moment Amara took her last breath.

We stepped inside, the door closing behind us with a final sort of echo.

The entrance hall was dim, the warmth from the fireplace in the next room flickering faintly across the stone walls.

The air held that quiet stillness that only lived in homes touched by grief.

Somewhere down the hall, a door shut gently.

My mother, maybe. Or maybe it was just the house remembering.

“Feels wrong without her,” Damiano muttered, rubbing his arms.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

No one said her name. No one had to.

We drifted into the living room like we were floating.

The fire burned low in the hearth, casting soft shadows on the rug.

My mother sat curled on the edge of the couch, a pair of untouched knitting needles in her lap.

Her eyes were distant, swollen at the edges.

My father sat beside her with a glass of untouched water in his hand, his thumb slowly circling the rim.

When they noticed us, they rose slowly, almost startled to remember we existed. My mother hugged me first, pulling me into a tentative, fragile hug. Almost as if she were scared I would break, or maybe she would.

Her voice came out as barely a whisper.

“Penelope… stay close.” Her eyes darted to my husband, and she added, “Both of you, you’ll stay close, right? You won’t leave us?”

Enzo stood, his posture a marble, but deep inside, I knew he couldn’t utter this lie.

So I said it for him. “We won’t.”

The words were bitter in my mouth, but I took comfort in the relief that crossed my mom’s expression.

We all took a seat, Enzo’s hand holding mine and anchoring me. Or maybe I was anchoring him.

We sat for a while, the six of us, pretending this was just a visit. The kind we’d done a hundred times before. But the air was heavier, and the silence wasn’t peaceful. It was full of things unsaid.

“Remember when we went paddleboarding and she screamed ‘shark’ just to freak you out?” Damiano said suddenly, forcing a laugh. “You nearly flipped the damn board.”

“You looked like you saw the Virgin Mary rise out of the sea,” Armani added with a half smile.

“Maybe I did,” I said dryly. “Or maybe I just peed in the water. Could’ve been both. It’s probably what saved me from the sharks.”

Damiano gave a short laugh, but it died quickly. “She couldn’t stop laughing about that for days.”

“She had a good laugh,” Armani said. “You know? That kind that made everyone else start laughing too.”

We all nodded. And then we were quiet again.

I leaned into the back of the couch, heart twisting until we finally had to go. I couldn’t tell them this was goodbye, that the suitcases were already in the car, that I wouldn’t sleep in their cottage another night. There wasn’t room for more loss in this house.

I hugged my father goodbye. He held the back of my head a little too long, like he knew but wouldn’t say it.

When we left, we didn’t linger. No second hugs.

No backward glances. We walked out into the cold, past the bare lemon trees, past the ghosts, and straight to Enzo’s waiting vehicle parked by the cottage.

When Enzo opened the car door for me, the wind picked up again, swirling leaves around our ankles.

As he started the car, I couldn’t resist glancing back at the manor one last time. Shuttered windows said goodbye, chimney smoke curling up into the black sky while the lemon trees surrounded the home in silent rows, dark and bare.

We drove through the fog without headlights for a while, my hand clutching Enzo’s and my memories like something I could take with me.