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“It’s not an interesting story, bella.”
“It’s interesting to me,” I argue. “Tell me.”
He frowns, making me wonder if Enzo has ever let anyone get close to him. He keeps people at arm’s length, too afraid they’ll hurt him. And the fact that Ididhurt him makes me want to stab myself in the eye.
“Aftermia madreleft me on the steps, I was taken to theIstituto Sacro Cuore, where I was raised and went to school. Every day was prescheduled. I woke up at 7 AM for prayers. Would eat breakfast at 8, then start schooling at 8:30. After, I’d eat dinner and get one hour to say prayers before bed. Just to do it all over again the next day.”
There’s a thump from above, causing me to jump and sending my heart flying in my throat. Trinity is still crying, and it sounds like she’s beginning to grow angry.
“What about your father? He didn’t care that she left you?” I ask hesitantly, nervous the question will anger him.
“He died while she was pregnant with me. He was a fisherman. He and his crew got caught up in a severe storm one night. Waves got so high, it’s a miracle the boat didn’t go under. But there was one that sent six men overboard. There one second, gone the next.Mio padrewas among those men. It hasn’t slipped my notice that I nearly died the same way.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be. I never knew him, but at least he gave me my love for the sea.”
I nod slowly. “Did you have any friends in school, at least?”
There’s a slight grin. “I did. There were a few others that weren’t too keen on the lifestyle.”
“You got in a lot of trouble, didn’t you?” I gather, imagining a younger version of Enzo sneaking out at night, drinking liquor straight from the bottle, and slipping through the windows of blushing girls.
The last part makes me a little jealous, but I’m not sure if it’s because I didn’t know him then and he wasn’t slipping throughmywindow, or if it’s because I never got to experience things like that growing up.
Kevin never allowed me to have friends. He never allowed me to live.
“We did,” he says. “Not as much as I would’ve liked, though.”
“It sounds mundane.”
He hums, a deep, rumbling sound of amusement. “It was, which is exactly why I acted out. Everything is a sin in Catholicism. I was sexually repressed, but considering I refused to conform, I sure as hell wasn’t going to allow them to take pleasure from me, too. I attended confessions more times than I could count. I asked for forgiveness, but I never really wanted it.”
I snort. “I bet the nuns loved you,” I tease.
“They hated me,” he says with mirth. “Most of them, anyway.”
“Which one raised you? Or did they all?”
“They all played a part, butsuorCaterinawas who raised me primarily.”
“Did you have a good relationship with her?”
“She did her best with a child who didn’t want to be there and made it very well known. She was nice to me but distant. She wanted me to become something I wasn’t—to believe in someone I couldn’t understand. I frustrated her, and she… wasn’t my mother.”
Sadness pulls the corners of my mouth down, imagining a younger version of Enzo. Lost, sad, and angry because he couldn’t understand why he was there. Couldn’t understand why he wasn’t good enough for his mother.
He was never raised in an environment that showed him unconditional love and warmth, so the hole in his chest only deepened.
“You felt like a burden,” I surmise.
“I didn’t know how to be anything else,” he states plainly.
That’s a punch to the chest. I bite my lip and reach down, slipping my fingers into his and squeezing tightly. His hand is so much larger than mine, and I wish I could hold it forever.
So badly, I want to show him the warmth and love that he deserved. That hedeserves.
But I don’t want to hurt him more than I already have and give him something I don’t know he can keep.
