Page 46 of The Silent Night Stalker
Enzo always knows the right words to make me feel better.
“Thanks.”
Before we can talk further, two men walk up to Enzo, and I instantly tense. Every muscle in my body is a live wire. I know instantly who they are. It takes all my power to put on a mask and pretend I hadn’t just heard them plan out Enzo’s murder. I need to bide my time.
A tall man with wavy black hair, dusted with white, and the strangest eyes I’ve seen—they’re almost golden with flecks of green—steps next to my Enzo and claps him on the shoulder. I want to break his hand just for daring to touch him. “Enzo! Well done defeating Cruz. You have made me even more wealthy than before.”
“Thank you, Halcón. It was fun.”
The man’s strange eyes land on me. “Who’s this?”
Enzo waves a hand toward me. “This man here belongs to me. We’re together. You can call him Constantine.” Then he waves at Halcón. “And this is Alfonzo Valente. Next to him is Mario Rivera. We’re family.”
Alfonzo Valente and Mario Rivera. I repeat their names in my head several times so I don’t forget. They’ll both be easy to remember—Alfonzo with the unique eyes, and Mario with the burn on his face.
“Nice to meet you,” I say with a fake smile.And we will meet again soon. We’ll start with you, Mario. Let’s see how Enzo feels about being played by his own family.
Chapter 17
Enzo
ConstantineandIjustgot back to my place after the fight. It’s late, and while I hurt, I’m still pumped from adrenaline and the high of winning another fight.
When we step inside and close the door behind us, I pull him into a hug. “I’m so sorry I triggered you,” I tell him, and I mean it. I should’ve thought about that. He’s sensitive to being hit, and if he’s as attached to me as he’s claimed, then I can see how watching me get hit would also be triggering.
He hugs me back, gripping the back of my jacket. “I’m fine now. I’ll be okay.”
He doesn’t seem fine. Ever since I saw him right after the fight, he’s been tense, pale, and withdrawn. It’s a reminder of how much suffering he’s been through. What and who he is have already been forgotten—the reason we met in the first place. All I see is a man who is so desperate to be loved and cared about.
I pull away, but I slide my hands into his. “I have something for you, but… I’m afraid it will trigger you, too. It’s just…” It’s not like me to get nervous, but here I am, filled with uncertainty about what I’d donewhen I had time away from Constantine. Will this be triggering for him, too? Probably. I really need to think more before I do shit.
He finally unclenches his body and smiles shyly at me. “You have something for me?”
“Presents… Christmas presents. They’re sitting under the tree.”
He tenses again and frowns.
“You don’t have to open them,” I quickly say. “It’s fine. I can return them. I just thought… Maybe you’d like something nice for once. Something you don’t have to be afraid of.”
His trembling hands grow clammy in mine. He looks away, but he doesn’t pull back from me. “That’s so… nice.”
“No, forget it. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. God, I’m really fucking up a lot tonight.”
Constantine drops my hands, wraps his arms around himself, and walks over to the tree I still have up. I plan to take it down tomorrow, but I wanted to do this for him first. I thought maybe if he finally received some nice Christmas gifts, he wouldn’t feel the need to resort to killing as a coping mechanism during the holidays. Does he even realize he’s trying to cope when he does that? I mean, I’m no fucking therapist. What the hell do I know?
He sits down on his knees, looking at the presents shimmering in red metallic paper with white bows.
“I’ll take the tree down in the morning,” I say.
He cranes his head back toward me. His eyes are glistening with unshed tears, making the guilt consume me. God, I’m such a fucking idiot. I rush to his side, sit down, and pull him onto my lap.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” I whisper and kiss his forehead.
“Are they real gifts? Like real ones, not…”
“I wouldn’t do that to you. They’re very real gifts. But you don’t have to open them. I’ll return them when the stores open.”
His face presses into my throat, so I hold him close to me and rest my head on his. I’m still a bit weirded out that I’m with this little serial killer. But he feels right to hold, to take care of, to protect. None of it was his fault.
