Page 8 of Enzo
“Is she studying to be a nurse?” Amadeo questioned, and it was just what I needed to get back to the present.
“Pre-med. Then oncology.”
“Kind of depressing, huh?” he deadpanned. “Gross too.” When I remained quiet, he leaned against the wall and continued talking. “Fratello, you’ve got to stop this full-blown-stalker shit. You know how well that turned out for our mother.”
It wasn’t a reminder I needed. Our mother had been crazy, selfish, and murderous—and that was just scratching the surface. She’d caused her share of damage while she was still alive, and somehow managed to continue fucking us up in her death.
“Want me to talk to Penelope and put in a few good words?” he drawled. “Women usually respond well to me.”
“You won’t fucking glance her way, never mind talk to her.”
The threat escaped me, deadly and cold, surprising us both. Amadeo and I had always been close; sharing the trauma of a dark childhood had a way of bringing brothers together.
“I see,” he stated slowly, concern filling his eyes as he watched my face.
“Go wait for me in the car.” I sighed. “I’m right behind you.”
“Father wants to talk to us. He sent us both a message, but you’ve turned off your phone.” He turned to leave, shaking his head. He took a few steps, then glanced over his shoulder. “Be careful, Enzo. If love is a curse, obsession is a plague. We both know how those worked out for our mother.”
My chest twisted with a reminder of her as aversion slithered through my veins. My skin stretched at the reminder of Mother’s deep hatred, a fact proven by her many attempts at killing us.
I’d yet to tell my brother what I’d recently learned when I struck a deal with Diana Bergman to secure an invitation to the exclusive club.
Beyond the evils we knew, she’d also been the one who orchestrated the first organ trafficking ring in Africa of all places. Now it was up to me to protect our family legacy and those I loved.
I drove out of Palermo and toward the private airport on the outskirts of the city. Amadeo sat in the passenger seat, devouring his gelato like it was his last meal.
“I swear, you have the worst sweet tooth,” I grumbled.
“Dude, you should have gotten yourself a scoop,” Amadeo said, a chunk of the tutti frutti and chocolate flavor flying out of his mouth and landing on his lap. “It’s the best.”
“I really wish you’d stayed in Rome,” I retorted dryly, flicking a glance in the rearview mirror. I tensed, noting a beat-up Ford Bronco on my tail. The very same one that was parked behind me while I waited for Amadeo to get this damned gelato.
I kept driving, and then a message popped up on the dash of the car I kept in Sicily, registered under a false name.
Unknown: Take a detour to the docks. Location pin shared with you.
Beep.
“What the hell is that?” Amadeo questioned.
I was about to reply and tell the unknown number to fuck off when another message filtered in.
Unknown: Or the woman you stalk will pay the price.
A photo of Penelope flashed on the screen, from the very hospital I’d just left her in. Unprotected.
“Enzo, what the fuck’s going on?” he asked, his dessert forgotten.
“Don’t get that shit in the car,” I hissed, yanking my cell from the dash and typing while my mind tumbled over worst-case scenarios.
Me: Touch a single hair on her head and you’ll wish you were dead.
The reply was instant.
Unknown: Did you know that two of the DiMauro children have something called golden blood? There are fewer than fifty people in the world known to have this blood type.
Fuck.
