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Enzo wasn't the door locking kind of guy so I reached for the knob while taking my gun back out.
The inside of his place was neat, orderly, almost obsessively so. Maybe like a part of him rebelled against the filthiness of his lifestyle and overcompensated with chronic housekeeping. All his furniture was sleek and modern, a style that made my lip curl. I liked a home to look like a home, like a place you could sink into and feel comfortable. I figured it was just another way to make his place look all the more orderly.
The living and kitchen space was empty and I moved down the hall toward the master bedroom. The bed was made, tucked down in full-on military fashion. Just when I was turning in the direction of the bathroom door, it opened.
Enzo froze, back illuminated by the harsh fluorescent light in the small tile room. But as he took a step out and his face wasn't in shadow, I felt my raised gun fall a few inches.
This was because Enzo, just as big and built and unbreakable-looking as me, had been worked over. Meaning his face was busted: lip swollen and broken open, one eye swollen almost shut, the other bruised with small steri-strips holding a large gash closed. And if the way he was leaning toward his side and bulkiness under his shirt was any indication, he'd bruised or busted a rib or two as well.
"The fuck?" I heard myself ask, not sure I'd ever seen anyone get the drop on him, let alone keep him down long enough to do that kind of damage. It looked like he'd been jumped. It looked like...
"Yeah," Enzo said, nodding slightly like he knew what I had been thinking.
"You got a beat-out?" I asked, brows drawing together. First, because as long as I had been affiliated with the gang, the only way out was death or disappearance. Second, because shot-callers simply didn't get beat-out. That wasn't how it worked.
"What the fuck are you doing here with a gun on me again?" he asked, moving into the room and lowering himself down onto the foot of the bed, wincing hard as the movement, I imagined, sent a stabbing through his ribcage.
"Elsie," I growled, lowering the gun, but keeping it at my side. Looking like he looked, moving like he moved, I seriously doubted he could get across the room toward me before I could get the gun raised again if need be.
"Elsie?" he repeated, shaking his head like the name didn't ring a bell.
"My. Fucking. Woman," I seethed, not having the time or patience for the runaround.
To that, Enzo's battered face twisted up into what would be considered a smirk. "Woman? You got a woman? As in... one you do more than just fuck? You?"
"Don't have time for this, Enz," I said, shaking my head. "About a week and a half ago, she was being chased down the street by D and Trick. About an hour ago, she was leaving the gym and ran into D again. He choked her out and threw her in his trunk. Now I need to know what the fuck is going on. You got beat-out, that sucks for you. But that shit is fresh so you were still in control of things nine days ago when they pulled the chasing stunt. So I want to know what the fuck is going on."
Enzo held a hand out, shaking his head. "Didn't know shit about that. You can come in here, testosterone stinking up the joint, but that don't change the fact that my men have been working with someone else under my nose for a long while now, slowly stealing their loyalty and my power."
"Then why the fuck are you beat-out and not lying in an alley somewhere?"
"Whoever this new guy is, Paine, they ain't Third Street. They don't know how we work. Seems like they don't care to either. They have their own agenda. Fuck if I know what that is seeing as I seemed to be the only one out of the loop over there."
"You have no idea why they'd want Elsie? I know she was sniffing around your warehouse but..."
"We don't have a warehouse," Enzo cut me off.
"The one on Kennedy," I elaborated.
"The fuck could we use a warehouse for, bro? We deal smack and sell women. Ain't like we needed manufacturing or to hold stock."
"She was chased from that warehouse to my shop by Trick and D. So whoever this new guy is, he's got a warehouse on Kennedy for something. And if..." I trailed off as my phone vibrated in my pocket. I reached for it with my free hand, seeing an unknown number and swiping to answer. "Paine," I barked, too impatient to deal with some bullshit wrong number, but knowing I needed to answer because if there was even a slight chance that it was Elsie, I'd never forgive myself for missing it.
