Page 57 of Enzo
She flicked me a glance. “Says the man who pretended to be someone else.”
“Technically, I never lied to you that night.”
Her cheeks colored slightly, but she never stopped walking. “Technically.”
I changed course, deciding it was wise to stick to more neutral subjects. “How many more classes do you have left before you complete your undergrad?”
“Two. Physics and biochemistry.”
“And then?”
“Then nothing. It’s not like you’ll let me do anything, oh almighty husband.”
I rubbed my jaw. “Am I to understand that you’ll do whatever I tell you?”
“No.” These one-word answers were getting old real quick.
“I won’t stop you from doing anything, Penelope, least of all pursuing your passion.”
“But mobsters?—”
“First and foremost, I’m your husband and partner. Your dreams matter too.”
She tilted her head. It might take some time for her to believe me, but I meant those words.
Just as I was going to ask a follow-up question, she said, “I want to be a doctor, work in the field of cancer research, but for that I’d need a PhD. And I also want a minor in psychology.”
“Makes sense.” I had no doubt that she would succeed. “And why psychology?”
She shrugged. “Studies tell us patients in remission report needing mental health support, but for whatever reason, not many can or do access the services. Whether it be a fear of the disease recurring, issues related to the changes in their body image, or even the guilt at giving their loved ones a scare… It’s not as simple as going into remission and being back to a hundred percent. They need professional help. I just wish there were better plans in place for them.”
I bit back the urge to tell her how proud I was of her. She had such a big heart. “Did your sister need therapy?” I asked quietly.
“No, she didn’t want it.” Her steps barely faltered before she resumed walking, suddenly very interested in the cobblestone sidewalk. “You know, you’re kind of growing on me.” Hope bloomed in my chest, but her next words extinguished it promptly. “Kind of like a wart.”
Then she gave me a dazzling grin, almost as if she wanted to soothe the sting.
It would be the closest we’d get to bonding today.
21
PENELOPE
The day had been soaked in the sun-drenched chaos of Naples—crowded piazzas, scooters weaving like errant thoughts through narrow alleyways, and the smell of the sea clinging to every stone wall. It wasn’t terrible. In fact, it had its charm.
I’d managed to tick off every tourist cliché: bought gifts for my sister and brothers, sampled enough gelato to justify a future confession, and dragged Enzo through half a dozen boutiques without hearing a single complaint. That alone felt like a minor miracle.
By the time our legs were staging a quiet rebellion, we stumbled into a tucked-away restaurant off a side street lined with laundry strung between balconies like faded flags of everyday life. Inside, the space felt almost suspended in time with dim lighting, brick walls, and tables dressed in worn linen that held stories of their own.
Candles flickered gently, casting golden halos around glasses of deep red wine. Somewhere near the kitchen, a radio played soft Neapolitan ballads, half-drowned beneath the murmur of locals deep in conversation.
Pasta arrived as though summoned by magic, thick ribbons of tagliatelle in a ragu that could’ve made a cynic weep, and the wine poured like truth serum.
“So you and your brother,” I began, watching the way his shoulders tensed just slightly, like a cord tightening beneath skin. “You’re close, huh?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just swirled the wine in his glass, eyes flitting to a far corner of the room as though his memories were seated there.
“Sì,” he said finally, voice low. “I’m close with Amadeo. And I love my half-siblings. Isla’s been good to both of us, and especially to my father.”
