Page 45 of The Enforcer

19Zoe

I grew up Baptist.

I’m technically an atheist, but damn near no one knows because my mother routinely lies about that. She doesn’t want to admit this failure, as she sees it, and I don’t care enough to correct her. Besides, she likes to get the congregation to pray for me, and atheist or not, I appreciate all prayers, good wishes, and pats on the back.

I think all of this because as soon as Dario walks into their parents’ house, Alfonso is overtaken by a strong cloud of what I assume is Catholic guilt. I can’t actually say that I’m super surprised since his big bruiser façade has been fraying since we arrived at Nicola’s house last night. And between Ugo’s familiar ribbing and his mother’s incessant questions, I’ve begun to see him as something besides the man who’d nearly beaten a man to death in the street. He was still that, of course, I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, but he’s something else as well.

Or so many other things.

He’s a brother, and, depending on which of his brothers he’s interacting with, his birth order comes out in small, endearing ways. He’s radiating with proud older brother energy whenever Ugo’s around, but he descends into annoyed younger brother status at Nicola’s teasing. Once again, they force me to think about Zahra and Shae and all those complicated feelings about their current predicaments that I don’t know how to process. He’s also his parents’ child, and his relationships with them are unique. Maria is overbearing and indulgent, showing her love in attention and food. And while I haven’t spent much time in his father Gabriele’s presence, I’ve been watching him out in the garden with Ugo as the two men check on their crops. Unlike his wife, the older man seems to barely speak; he listens intently to his son, nodding every now and again. When Ugo bends down to dig into the soil with his fingers, the older man pats him gently on the shoulder. It’s sweet, and I can see how he and his wife have probably gotten along so well all these years.

But the entire mood of the house changes when Dario arrives.

I know every parent says they don’t have favorites, but Dario is clearly their mother’s. I can tell by the smile on her face and the way she exclaims, opening her arms to him. And my suspicions are confirmed when Ugo and Alfonso make eye contact and roll their eyes behind their mother’s back.

Yeah, they’re like Zahra, Shae, and me, and that small look makes me miss them.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Dario says to me.

I haven’t been paying attention to the conversation because it was all in Italian, anyway, so the English is jarring. So is Dario’s accent. Unlike his brothers, his English has an almost British lilt to it.

I look around, and everyone is looking at me. Except Alfonso; he’s glaring at his brother. “Nice to meet you,” I say and let Dario take my hand.

For a second, I think he’s going to do something creepy like kiss it. I told Zahra when she was seventeen to never trust a weirdo who kisses a strange woman’s hand. He doesn’t know where it’s been, which means he doesn’t give a shit where he puts his mouth.

Top twenty tidbits of life advice if you ask me.

Thankfully, Dario doesn’t kiss my hand. He shakes it with a kind smile. “We’d begun to think Alfonso would never bring someone home for us to meet. But here he is, and here you are, and engaged, no less.”

He knows we’re lying.

Alfonso

When we were children, my brothers and I used to say that we had to get past mamma and her little spy. It wasn’t Dario’s fault that he was the baby, and we were so much older than him. But it was his choice to always run to her and tell on us. He grew out of it eventually, but then he became a priest, and instead of mamma’s spy, now he’s God’s.

It is an incredibly frustrating way to think of the little brother who used to follow me around like a shadow. Dario doesn’t help the matter by being an observant and kind person who is also easy to talk to. I avoid him as much as I can because I know it would be far too easy to spill the secrets I need to keep to him, and by extension, God and mamma.

The last thing I want is for him to talk to Zoe and put her at ease. Ugo has already seen through our ruse, but at least he can keep a secret. Dario is not nearly so trustworthy, especially not outside of the confessional.

It’s terrible to be surrounded by so many people I can’t beat or threaten or kill to keep my secrets intact.

“Alright, alright,” I say, intruding on his conversation with Zoe and grabbing her hand from his grasp.

“We’re only speaking, Alfonso. I just want to get to know my new sister.”

He says the word ‘sister’ like it’s a joke. Bai, he figured us out much faster than I thought. Maybe I have been away too long.

“You can get to know her and keep your hands to yourself,” I say. “Where’s your collar?”

Dario’s only twenty-five, but he looks at me the way that all those ancient priests used to look at us when we fought in mass. That must be a look they teach in seminary. I don’t have time to pull Zoe away, to warn her about my brother’s preternatural ability to recognize when someone is telling a lie, so I need to tell her in other ways and hope she’ll get the hint.

First is to make him look less normal.

Dario smiles good-naturedly and turns to mamma. He tells her he needs to freshen up and then ducks off to the bathroom. Ugo follows papà back out in the garden, and mamma turns to us — Zoe and I — with a smile on her face, her eyes on my hands holding Zoe’s tightly.

“Belissima,” she says excitedly and turns toward the kitchen. “Pulisci il tavolo.”

I sigh and pull a chair for Zoe to sit. I won’t make her work, but I need to keep her close.

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