Page 147 of Enzo

Except, Enzo is my person.

This is what life of wealth brings you. Nothing broken, nothing that needs fixing, nothing soiled. Everything clean, sleek and beautiful, as if it's out of a magazine.

Having given myself a quick tour of his apartment, I make a quick stir fry.

“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes,” I say.

“I’m not really hungry.”

“But you have to eat something. Just a little bit.”

He does, but over dinner he's turns pensive again. I don't push him. I don't ask. He said he needed to see his father about something and I sense that it’s weighing on him now.

He pushes away his half-eaten plate.

“Why don’t you go and visit your mom?” I suggest. He’s so close to her and, I suspect, carrying a boatload of guilt that she had to retreat to the US.

“I want to go see her, but I want you to come with me.”

He wants me to come along. I don’t even know what to say to that, so I reach across the table for his hand. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He goes quiet again, so I wait. “I hate that she’s being hounded because of me. It's always me. Always me.” He looks away, the words edged with a viciousness that startles me.

He gets up and walks away, shoving his hands into his pockets. I watch him.

“Always you?” I prompt.

“You don't know, Molly. You don't know what I’ve done.”

“Then tell me.”

He goes completely still.

For a moment, I think he won't. His jaw tightens and his gaze drops to the floor. “Secrets destroy people.”

I blink, trying to figure out what he means. “They can do,” I say, slowly.

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

“All my life I believed that secrets protect people, but they don't. They make things worse.”

I can guess what he’s getting to. What happened in this family’s past is the sort of news that would keep the media intrigued. I read about his father’s wife who died by suicide. I found an old clipping that reported about Isabella, Enzo’s mother, being a mistress.

I’m starting to see Paul Knight in another light. This man had another family all the way in Italy while his wife and children lived in the States.

“What’s weighing on your mind?” I ask, my eyes fixed on his face.

He stares at the floor. Frowning. Staying silent. Overthinking and analyzing, the way he always does.

“We do keep secrets,” I say softly, “but we keep them for a reason. Because we think we can't show that part of ourselves to others. And then when we do, we realize it wasn't so bad after all.”

He looks at me, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink.

“You listened to me when I told you about my past. Whatever this is, you can tell me too.”

He looks away and I’m scared that I’ve lost him again.

“Aurora died. She drove off a bridge.”