Faced with that direct, burning gaze, I instinctively wanted to look away. I must look terrible right now, right?
After hesitating, I met his eyes. "You lied to me again."
Enzo froze.
"You said you were leaving. You never left at all."
His lips moved, like he wanted to make excuses. But in the end, he didn't. He just admitted it.
"I didn't leave." His voice was so hoarse it sounded like his throat was full of broken glass. "I drove to the edge of town and stopped. Sat there for two hours. I told myself I should go. You told me to leave, and I promised you I would go. But I couldn't do it."
He looked down, staring at the scabbed-over wounds on the back of his hand.
"I turned around. Parked my car on the street across from your house, killed the lights, and just sat there wanting to be close to you. But then the storm came," his voice paused. "I had a bad feeling."
"So you broke down my door."
"So I broke down your door."
I looked at his face, my eyes burning. Dark circles under his eyes, cracked lips, stubble grown out again. He'd sat in that hard plastic chair all night without changing position, and the bandage on his left arm showed a fresh ring of pale pink seepage.
Besides those wounds—the gunshot wound on his left arm, theblood marks on his hands where I'd scratched him—there had to be more injuries I couldn't see, all from searching for me.
"I know I broke my word again," he said, "but I absolutely didn't want to hurt you."
I didn't respond. A few seconds of silence.
"I'd give up everything for you." Enzo's voice was very soft, as if afraid to wake the baby in the bassinet. "The Don title, wealth, even my life. Whatever you want, I'll give you. I'm just asking for a chance to atone."
"I can't give you that," I looked down, somehow unable to meet his eyes. "I can't forget what you did, Enzo. I still want you to leave. Now you've seen the baby. Please just go."
Enzo nodded. He slowly stood up, hands braced on his knees. When he rose, his back was bent, like he'd gone stiff. He took two steps toward the door.
I watched his retreating figure, feeling somehow heartsick.
In my mind, Enzo Falcone shouldn't be like this. He was always commanding, in control.
How did we end up like this?
But I still bit my lip and didn't say a word.
Just then, my phone rang. Enzo looked over at the same time.
The name on the screen made me pause.
Martha Bennett. My mother.
She almost never called me. After she'd literally sold me out, I couldn't imagine what bond remained between us.
But after hesitating, I answered.
The second the call connected, a shrill, ear-piercing curse blasted through the speaker.
"Chloe Bennett, you bitch! What did you do?"
The voice was so loud that even through the phone, I'm sure Enzo could hear it.
I covered the phone, rolled onto my side, trying to keep it away from the bassinet so Martha's voice wouldn't wake my daughter.
