“For now,” he echoes. But he’s smiling, as if he already knows how this ends, and he’s just waiting for me to realize it.
The rest of the ride continues in silence and I’m sucked back into my thoughts. Back to the warehouse and what I just did. I sit with the weight of killing a man and I don’t know what to do with myself.
Once we arrive home, Enzo helps me out of the car—unnecessary, but I let him anyway. His hand settles on my lower back as we walk to the front door together. I don’t lean into him. Don’t pull away either. It’s like I’m existing in a strangeno-man’s-land between wanting comfort and not knowing how to accept it.
“Shower first,” Enzo says as we step inside. “Then food. Then sleep.”
I nod but don’t move. My feet feel welded to the marble.
He stops walking. Turns to face me fully, and his expression is serious in a way I haven't seen before.
“Luca?”
I open my mouth, close it and try again.
“I don’t—I don’t know what I need right now.” I stare down at my hands. “I keep waiting to feel something, but there’s just… nothing. Like something’s broken inside me.”
He grips both my arms and steps close. “You’re not broken. You’re just in shock. It’ll hit you later—maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. But right now your body is protecting you.”
“Is that what happened to you? The first time?”
He nods. “Three days later. I was eating breakfast, and suddenly I couldn’t stop shaking. My father told me to get over it.”
“What did you do?”
“Got over it.” His mouth twists. “Or buried it so deep I convinced myself I had. I’m not sure there’s a difference.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Don’t know how to reconcile the controlled, powerful man in front of me with the image of a younger Enzo, shaking over breakfast, being told to move on just like that after his first kill.
“I won’t do that to you.” He smiles at me. “Whatever you’re feeling—or not feeling—I’m not going totell you it’s wrong.”
My eyes sting, and I blink hard.
“Okay,” I manage. “Okay.”
He pulls me to him, palms my face. “Let me take care of you. And if I get it wrong, tell me. We’ll figure it out.”
I lean into his touch before I can stop myself.
“Shower,” I whisper.
“Of course.”
He takes my hand. I follow him upstairs to the bedroom. Then he leads the way into the bathroom and starts the shower, adjusting the temperature until steam starts to curl through the air.
His hands are gentle as he reaches for me. Infinitely careful as he peels the blood-stained shirt from my body. I wince when fabric pulls at dried blood, and he murmurs something soothing I don’t quite catch.
My pants follow. Then everything else. Until I’m standing naked and shaking in front of him, feeling more vulnerable than I’ve ever felt in my life.
“Come on.” He guides me toward the shower, one hand on my hip, the other steadying my elbow.
I step under the spray, and the heat hits like a physical force. I gasp, bracing one hand against the tile as the water sluices over me. Through the steam, I watch Enzo undress, stripping out of his jacket, shirt and pants. My gaze sweeps over his naked form before he steps into the shower, and suddenly the massive space feels impossibly small.
His hands settle on my waist. “Let’s get you clean.”
He starts with my hands. Lifts one to his chest and lets the water run over my knuckles while his thumb traces the skin around the splits. Then he works the soap into a lather between his palms before he smooths it up my arms, across my shoulders. He turns me gently, and I let him, feeling his hands slide down my back.
Next, he tips my head back to wet my hair, fingers carding through it slowly, working out the tangles. I feel my whole body go loose and my knees threaten to give.
