Page 40 of One of Them

A laugh accompanied me to the adjacent bathroom, where I changed while Alisa browsed the room.

The sun was a welcome warmth on my skin as we settled by the pool. Alisa sat at the edge, her feet dipped in. While relaxing wasn’t in my nature by default, she seemed right in her element, so I was determined to give the activity a shot. To make the most out of the weather, I set my towel on the sun chair and laid down.

Calming my mind, I focused on the sound of the waves in the distance. Ever since my mother’s death, I’d been in constant survival mode. I slept very little. I never quite learned how to control my brain. To this day, it controls me.

It wasn’t the horrid images or faces of the people I killed that kept me up at night. I didn’t worry about how I might end up or what might happen. I was too busy obsessing over the bigger picture at play.

A shadow moving close had me on alert. Enzo stood by the other sun chair, drinking out of the wineglass.

“Hey! That’s mine,” I protested.

“Actually, it’s mine,” Enzo fired back, his tone sassy.

It was hard to argue against the truth, so I shut up.

On the side table, a nearly finished bottle sat, and when the Italian read the label, he laughed. “I swear, it’s like you have a talent for sniffing out the most expensive stuff.”

Lowering my sunglasses, I looked at him with puppy eyes. “Mad at me?”

“Not if you share.”

My hands flew in the air, pointing at the glass in his hand. “Seems like I already am.”

Enzo bent to drag the other sun chair closer, joining me in relaxing. He lay down, stretching his legs in his precious custom-made Italian suit. The contrast between our attires was almost comical.

“Are you done?” I asked about his work.

“Yes. So how about we enjoy the quiet before the obnoxious one arrives?”

Who was I to deny him that right? We settled in, both soaking in the atmosphere.

“The chef will stop by later to make us dinner.”

I laughed at how well he knew me. Food was perhaps the only thing I thought about every minute of the day.

“Let me guess, Italian?” I teased.

“Any complaints?”

“None from me. But Alisa is eating low-carb.”

As if I’d insulted him, Enzo turned toward me with a withering look. Italians and their love of carbs.

“Why?”

“Wedding dress fittings.”

His voice softened. “Or so she says.”

“Not our business.”

“Do you think Ilya is forcing her?” His thoughts slipped out as he narrowed his gaze at the pool, where the woman in question swam laps.

“I’ve hinted more than once that I’m willing to help. She turned me down. I can’t decide for her. Can I?”

“Her brothers didn’t say much on the matter, either.”

“Since when are you so interested in other people’s relationships?” I questioned his intentions.

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