Page 49 of Enzo's Vow
“Don’t go.” Other than his hand grabbing me, he hadn’t moved an inch, staring ahead into nothing. His voice, heavy, hollow. The mere misery of it turned my legs into lead, and I sank to the floor.
“Enzo?” I draped my hand over his tricep, the muscle tense and unyielding beneath my touch.
He didn’t flinch, his absent gaze still distant.
I extracted the almost empty glass from his grip; the faint lingering scent of whiskey clinging to the crystal. I set the drink aside on the mahogany table; the wood emitting a quiet thud. “Enzo?” I tried again, this time rubbing the same hand still gripping my wrist, determined to chase away whatever demons plagued him. “What happened?” The vulnerable, lost look in his deep greens clenched my chest.
He furrowed, his wary gaze finally meeting mine, watchful. The haze in his eyes lifted, replaced by a flicker I couldn’t quite decipher. Distrust? Resignation?
I scooted closer and nestled my head onto his shoulder, hoping to soak up even a fraction of his burdens. It hit me then. I couldn’t expect him to share his pain, yet withhold my own. “I’ll go first… if it helps.” A shudder escaped my lips, recalling the stark terror, the false sense of hope as I entered the garden behind the marquee. “When Franco cornered me... I’ve never in my life felt such panic.”
He tensed beneath my shoulder, the subtle shift radiating anger. I’d kept it from him, afraid of the fallout. But if it would get him to open up, if the sordid details helped him share his burdens, so be it. A gamble… revealing my vulnerability, but desperate times.
“Did he force you outside?” The thunderous shift in his voice rolled through me, making me second-guess myself.
My chin wobbled. I prayed he understood. “No, I went willingly.”
He peered into my eyes, seeking what—I wasn’t sure. “Why?”
A slow tear trailed my cheek, shame and regret bubbling to the surface. “He told me Sofia would let me use her phone, and I wanted to call my mother.” I slid my head off his shoulder, enough for him to view my sorrow. “I miss my Mum, Enzo. I understand she’s the worst woman in the world to your family, but she’s my mother. I miss her. And after you forbade me from seeing my father again in the hospital, I took matters into my own hands.” My voice cracked on the last word.
His arm wrapped around my shoulder and drew me to his side. Soft, warm lips brushed my head, a silent act of contrition. “I should’ve let you call her.” His genuine remorse eased the tension in my body.
I snuggled into his chest and propped my cheek against his rhythmic heartbeat, deriving any solace he offered. A fragile peace, but one I clung to. “He… he frightened me. His touch, his bite...” I traced the veins over his strong forearm, needing his strength more than anything right now. “Good thing you showed up. If he’d gone all the way….” I didn’t even want to think about it. Silence stretched between us. Had I dug myself into a deeper hole? Would there be consequences for my actions, for my confession? I knew better than to cross him, considering the many close calls I had already.
“Gemma, I’m sorry for the photo. I had no right to remove your straps.”
My fingers paused in their strokes. Here I awaited his wrath, not expecting an apology. Relief sighed out of me. At the time, the image flooded me with nausea, a violation I couldn’t shake. Yet, here I lay in his embrace, in the same pose as the picture. Not one part of me disgusted. Rather, I basked in his closeness. Was I here to offer him a listening ear, to share in each other’s burdens, or could this be something deeper? “Thank you. Yourapology means a lot.” The words hung in the air, unexpected and strangely powerful.
“She left us,” he said at last, the words flat and devoid of emotion.
His confession dropped into my brain like a bomb. “Who left you?”
“Carina.” His head slid across the chair’s back, the soft brushing whispering in the silence. “She promised a fun day out for my birthday, but left us at an orphanage. Not for adoption, of course, but to be cared for by the nuns in the institute.”
An orphanage? He mentioned an orphanage the other day when we’d helped bottle feed those puppies. “Why leave you there?”
“We’re not sure.” His tone carried a comical note. A bizarre attempt at lightness? “I’d been eight years old and Lucio, five. At first, I presumed abandoning us had to do with the man I killed… but I’m not sure.” Those repeated last words died, the humor fading like a ghost.
He’d killed a man at eight years old? I bit the inside of my cheek, ignoring the instinct to flinch away, and drew closer, showing him I was here no matter what. “Who did you kill?”
A long silence stretched, as if he had to dredge the name up from a place he’d buried it long ago.
“Vito De Luca. The De Luca boss.” The name was a shard of glass on his tongue. “He cornered my mother and me in an alley behind my father’s factory. She hid me, gave me her gun... and then he shot her. Just... shot her.” He paused, his gaze fixed on something far away, something only he could see. “I thought she was dead. He called me out... so I stood up and pulled the trigger.”
Enzo’s fist clenched, his knuckles whitening. His usually sharp, assessing eyes held a flicker of something lost: a ghost of a boy staring out from behind a wall. His jaw worked, a muscle tickingnear his temple as if he were a man holding back the tide. The way he refused to meet my gaze, the almost imperceptible cringe when he mentioned his mother… it wasn’t just anger or arrogance driving him. It was a deep-seated fear, a primal need for protection that hadn’t been met, not then and not now.
“Later, I learned Vito was my mother’s former fiancé. Their marriage was supposed to unite two enemy families—the Calafiores and the De Lucas. But instead of bringing peace, Vito’s death only intensified the vendetta.”
No wonder guards swamped the estate. “These De Lucas… are they intent on killing you?”
“Me, my brother, my mother’s relatives. A kill is a kill to them. But I imagine they’d want my mother since they believe she killed Vito.”
“Carina covered for you?” The fact did little to thaw my impression of her. She remained the coldest woman I’d ever met, a woman I doubted possessed a single maternal instinct.
“This has to be a lot to take in.... realizing you’ve married a murderer.” His lips twisted into a wry smile, but his eyes said something different, almost pleading for reassurance.
I slid my hand across his pecs, over his fast heartbeat. “Murderer... no. You were eight, Enzo. Just a frightened boy trying to survive.” I swallowed, nervous to probe further. “Have you killed since?”
