“No.” I stomp ahead. He trails behind. “I’m not waiting here, pretending to be weak and feeble while you go after Lucas.”
“How do—”
“I know you, Lorenzo Massimo Russo.”
He shudders. “Ew. Don’t full name me.”
“Don’t try to cut me out of my revenge,” I retort.
He harrumphs, but he knows he’s lost. “Fine. Fine. We’ll both go to Carina's in two days, then head home from there.”
Satisfied, I pick his hand back up and lead him over to the fruit stall. Oranges, figs, pineapples, apricots, cherries—the stall is a beautiful array of colors and shapes.
The market around us is humming with the sounds of customers haggling and store owners chatting away.
Picking up a container, I fill it with figs, then hand over some euros, thanking the owner.
Enzo’s eyes my basket warily. “You know, I haven’t eaten a fig since.”
I laugh, remembering the time I almost poisoned him with an unripe one. “Never?”
He shakes his head. “You traumatized me.”
Finding the ripest one, I hand it over. “Try it.”
He shakes his head, trying to pass it back to me. Rolling my eyes, I strain up on my tiptoes, taking a bite from the fruit in his hand.
“See? It’s fine,” I tell him, wiping some juice from the corner of my mouth.
His hand snatches out, catching my wrist and bringing my thumb to his mouth. His tongue darts out, licking away the droplets.
My stomach clenches at the sensual way he’s looking at me, the fire in his eyes. Not breaking eye contact, he brings the fig to his mouth, perfect white teeth biting into its flesh right nextto my bite.
Has the air been sucked from the atmosphere? I swear I almost moan from the sight alone.
He grins. “Delicious.”
Then he kisses me, and I taste the fig on his lips before he pulls back.
Dazed, I let him pull me along, weaving us through the stalls. He stops us at a few, trying testers and buying some cured meats and cheeses for his mamma.
After the market, we walk back to the house, and my stomach aches from laughing as Enzo reminds me of our childhood disasters. Like the time I thought it was smart to climb onto the school roof, only to get stuck and need the fire department to rescue me.
Then there was Maria Bruno—just thinking her name sparks a hot flare of jealousy. She once tried to kiss Enzo by the lockers. God, I hated her. Thankfully, he turned her down and reached for my hand instead, leading me away as if she didn’t exist. Not before I shot her a smug look over my shoulder, of course.
Our smiles die the second we see the door. It’s been kicked in, hanging off its hinges.
We freeze. Then Enzo bolts forward, shouting, “Mamma!” as he tears into the house. It takes me a beat to move, then I’m chasing after him.
In the hall, glass crunches under my boots from the shattered mirror. The kitchen looks like a bomb went off—crockery smashed across the floor, cupboards yanked open, doors dangling.
“Where is she?” Enzo’s voice cracks as I follow the sound into the living room. The space is wrecked: soil spilled from broken pots, furniture splintered, couch stuffing strewn everywhere.
“If she—” he chokes off, gasping.
“Enzo?” Giuliana’s voice drifts in from the side door. A second later she steps inside, a basket of tomatoes cradled in her arms. “I was visiting Signora Conti next door—what on earth—”
Enzo crashes into her, clutching her like a drowning man. “You’re okay. You’re okay,” he repeats over and over.
