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I shouldn’t allow him to have this power over me.
With that thought in my mind, my eyes roam over him from head to toe, searching for something, anything, to push back at him with.
He’s been drinking.
I don’t know how much. He’s not completely inebriated, but his pupils are dilated and his balance seems a little unsure. It would also explain the state of his clothing compared to usual, along with the way his hair is sticking up in some spots too.
My body gives in and I lower the gun to my waist, pointing the end at the ground instead of at him. Relieved, both of our shoulders sag.
“What happened, Enzo? Are you okay? What about Vito and Matteo?” I keep my voice low as I look at him, his eyes downcast.
“Hmm, fine. They’re fine. I’m fine. Bloody… but that comes with killing people, doesn’t it?” The word has my gaze drawing to the dark spots on his blazer, the dried red marks on his hands and the slight splattering over his shirt. How had I not noticed them a moment ago?
“It does,” I breathe in response, slowly lowering my gun to the bed beside me. My fingers twitch with need, wanting to reach out to him, but I refrain as he takes a seat at the foot of the bed.
I continue to stand, holding my towel in place the best I can as I look down at him.
“Do you want to talk about it?” The words slip from my mouth before I can think better of it, and he shrugs in response.
“What’s the point?”
Shit. Something must have happened, but what?
Clearing my throat, I shuffle from foot to foot. “I don’t know, but someone told me once that talking about it can make a difference.”
It’s Enzo’s turn to scoff this time as he looks up from his hands in his lap to meet my gaze. “What difference is that going to make? Dead is still dead whether I talk about it or not. I couldn’t give a shit about the Russians we brought down today, or the backlash that may cause, but…” He trails off as he wipes a hand down his face, and my chest tightens.
Pushing my gun further up the bed, I take a seat beside him, releasing a heavy breath as I consider my next words.
“How many men did you lose today?”
“Three.”
His response is instant, and the tightness to his tone and the way his body stiffens tells me that’s where the pain lies for him right now.
“That must be hard,” I murmur, glancing away from him as these foreign words fall from my mouth. I don’t know how to do this… whatever this is… compassion? Fuck, I don’t know.
“The hardest part of it all is that one of the men we lost today was my closest friend outside of my brothers, and our most trusted guy.”
“Fuck, that’s not good.” I cringe at myself internally over my choice of words, but I’ve never had to handle the death of someone I’ve cared about. Which is probably because I’ve never actually cared about anyone.
“Yeah, fuck is right.” Enzo’s response drops the tension from my body, the surprising worry running through me that I had just pissed him off with my poor choice of words, but it goes unnoticed.
“I’m sorry that happened to him.” I rub my lips together, hoping I’m saying the right thing, and as much as he doesn’t seem mad, the pain in his eyes is unwavering.
“Me too. But we’ll take care of his family. We always do, and that’s what matters.”
My brows knit as I turn to look at him. “That doesn’t bring him back though.”
He looks down at his hands again, a slump to his shoulders as he replies, “I know. That’s why I decided to spend some time with my other friend instead.” Other friend? His eyes lift to mine, and he must see the question dancing across my face because he continues, “Tequila.”
Ahh. Quirking an eyebrow at him, I smirk. “It looks like you didn’t really have the best of times,” I admit, indicating the state of him.
“I’m past the stage of knowing.”
Silence descends over us for a moment, a heaviness surrounding the man that is usually so happy-go-lucky and vibrant.
Clearing my throat, I tuck my wet hair behind my ear as I nudge my shoulder against his. “I’m not very good at this whole consoling or being sympathetic thing,” I start, waving a finger between us. “But if you need anything from me, just say the word. I can shoot a motherfucker up close or with a sniper rifle, however you prefer,” I start, listing them off on my fingers. “I can beat someone to death and make it look purposeful or by accident, again, whatever your preference. Shit, I can go after them where it really hurts too—their money.”
