"So you murdered him."
"Yes."
The word is simple and final with no apology in it, no regret, nothing but cold acceptance of what he is.
We sit in silence while the sun sets, orange and pink spreading across the sky like a watercolor painting.
I should feel something. Horror or disgust or fear or anything at all.
But all I feel is numb, hollowed out, empty.
My eyes drop to his arm where the sleeve of his shirt rode up during the fight, exposing a scar I've never seen before. Long and raised and angry, running from his wrist almost to his elbow.
"I've never seen that before."
He pulls his sleeve down fast, covering it. "It's nothing."
"That's not nothing. How did you get it?"
"Old injury."
"Enzo."
"Drop it, Isabella."
"You just killed a man in front of me." My voice comes out steady and cold, surprising me with its strength. "I think I've earned the right to ask questions."
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer, then he leans back and stares up at the porch ceiling like the answer might be written there in the wood grain.
"Nine years ago. When they took you."
My breath stops in my throat.
"I got to the warehouse where they were keeping you. They had four men on the perimeter, two inside guarding the basement door." His voice is flat and emotionless, like he's reading from an after-action report. "I took out the outside guards quietly, made it to the basement door. One of them had a knife, got my arm before I put him down."
I'm staring at the scar now, really seeing it for the first time. The way it cuts across his skin in a jagged line. The way it must have bled, how deep the blade must have gone to leave a mark like that.
"You almost died getting me out."
"No."
"Matteo said you nearly bled out in the car on the way to the hospital."
"Matteo exaggerates to make a good story."
"Matteo doesn't lie about things like that."
Enzo doesn't answer, just keeps staring at the ceiling like he can see through it to something beyond.
I reach out with my hand hovering over the scar, not quite touching because I'm not sure I'm allowed.
"Does it hurt?"
"No."
"You're lying."
"Maybe."
