Page 46 of Filthy and the Beast

“I’m so sorry,” I say, my voice soft.

He stops and turns to me, then nods to Petunia. “Try your training. It’s good to run through the exercises in different locations.”

He’s changing the subject, but I’m okay with that. Enzo already shared more than I expected.

For a couple minutes, we let the dogs occupy our attention. I make Petunia sit and lay down and roll over, and Enzo barks out commands to Mirabelle and Goldie, both obediently and happily following his lead. Petunia only gets distracted a couple of times, and when she does, I just have to click like Enzo taught me to regain her attention.

“You’re very good with the dogs,” I tell him.

He nods. I’ve told him that probably every day since I got here, but he always seems to appreciate hearing it.

“You know all three are rescues?” he asks.

“You said something about Mirabelle. I didn’t realize the others.” I bend to give Petunia a quick scratch. “How could someone abandon these cuties?”

“Because they’re pits. People are ignorant. Can’t get a dog that’s more loyal, eager to please and be loved. But all the hatred and bullshit people have for other people, they put it on their dogs, too. Whether it’s people hurting their dogs or strangers judging pits because they got a problem with the owners, the issue always starts with the humans, never the pets. Makes me fucking mad.”

“I know the breed has a bad reputation,” I say. “It’s easy to forget after spending time with these three angels. I don’t know how anyone could hate them.”

Enzo nods, pleased, and we round the corner to circle the block.

I want to ask him more. What was his brother like? How did finding the gym and boxing when he was eleven feel? Does giving a home to the dogs help heal some of the pain?

Boundaries, I remind myself.Expectations and boundaries. I thought I needed them in place for Enzo’s sake, but increasingly, they’re feeling necessary for me, too.

“Is Reggie coming by today?” I ask.

Enzo nods. “Still wants you here for the training, though. We’re increasing the intensity.”

“Another good sign for your healing. You’ll be back to throwing weights around the gym at midnight in no time.”

He snorts. “Midnight workouts aren’t going to cut it. I’m training to get back in the game.”

I blink. “You are?” His boxing career ended completely after that Vegas fight, and the way he’s talked about it, there was no chance of revival. “Even with your back?”

He laughs. “Yes. Even with my old-man back problems.”

I grin. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I’m going to have to build slowly. Might take a year before I’m in full fighting shape. But yeah. I’m going back to training full-time.”

Obviously, this is big news for Enzo. He walks taller and prouder, purpose in his step.

But despite the part of me that is quite happy for him, anxiety prickles, too. I know he used to be the Sledgehammer. But I’ve gotten used to thinking of all that in the past, another man he maybe used to be, but who he isn’t anymore.

He could get hurt. Boxing could change him, bring out qualities I haven’t seen.

An image fills my mind: Enzo standing in the middle of a ring, his bare chest rising and falling with heavy breath, gloves wrapped around his hands, face battered, bruised, and bloody. Terrifying and thrilling at the same time.

“Wow.” My heart kicks. “Back to boxing.” When I look up, his eyes are wide. I could swear he needs me to approve, although I know that’s not actually true. Still, I rush to add something more. “That’s amazing. I’m really happy for you.”

He grunts in relief. “Yeah. It’s time.”

* * *

ENZO

5:53.

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