Page 21 of Twisted Fate

He nods.

“How?” I ask.

He slides his phone across the table. I glance down at the screen, at the photo there, and for a second, I’m just confused. And then I’m wary.

“That’s your boyfriend,” Damian says. “Enzo Bianchi.”

He doesn’t pose this as a question.

It is a picture of Enzo. Not clear at all, quite blurry. Taken from a distance. But it’s definitely him.

“Not my boyfriend,” I correct, uneasily. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

I can’t tell if he believes me or not.

“How long exactly?” Damian asks.

I tear my gaze away from the screen. My heart is pounding hard as a million memories of my abusive ex rise up in my mind. I push the phone away from me.

“I…I don’t know. A couple months?” I’m lying. I know exactly how long it’s been. The last time I saw Enzo was the first time I saw Damian Russo. The night Damian’s father was shot.

My eyes widen. “Wait. You think Enzo killed your father.”

He takes his phone back. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. One day, he just wasn’t there anymore. He didn’t explain, he just disappeared.”

“You didn’t go looking for him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was glad he was gone.”

Damian sits with this for a moment. “I want to find him.”

“I’m sure you do. But I don’t know where he is.”

“I don’t fucking believe you.”

“That’s too bad, because it’s the truth.”

He hisses out an impatient sigh. “Who did Enzo work for?”

“I don’t know.” Another lie. I’d overheard snippets of conversations, enough to know Enzo unofficially—or maybe officially—worked for the Ivanovs. I’m not sure why I don’t just tell Damian the truth. But my sense of self-preservation is strong and so I hold back that bit of information in case I need it later.

He cocks his head, his expression one of impatience now. “How long were you together?”

“A couple of months. And we weren’t exactly together. He took me out sometimes.”

He reaches over and strokes the backs of his fingers along my right cheek. I fight the urge to lean into his touch. “He hit you.”

“How do you know—?” I remember the impulse I had to run to him that night, to seek protection from Enzo. I take a slow breath. “Yeah. He hit me.”

Damian’s expression has gone cold. “Often?”

I shake my head. “He hit the wall. Yelled a lot. Yanked me around by the arm. Left bruises. I was done. I met him one last time to tell him that. That’s the night he hit me…”

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