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Part of me wants to call my father.
Part of me wants to forget him.
It’s been a week since Enzo took me out to dinner. Since he first fucked me. Since everything changed between us. Somehow, in one single night, everything is different.
But I still want answers. Answers I know he won’t give me, but my father can.
Yet, he won’t. Refuses to. Outright lies to me about them.
I haven’t spoken to him since that first time. He hasn’t called me or texted me. I was worried he died. Enzo assured me he was alive, then looked at me with more pity than I’d like to admit.
Enzo cares about me. He may have taken me for payment, but he cares. He always has, and part of me believes he always will.
I used to think my father cared about me, and maybe he does in a strange way, but wouldn’t he want to tell me the truth?
Why are you so sure Enzo isn’t lying?
Why does this stupid little voice keep coming back? I hate doubting myself. Enzo isn’t lying. What he said makes sense. My father knows something he isn’t telling me. It just makes sense. Enzo wouldn’t lie to me. He has no reason to. He gets nothing from it.
With a heavy sigh, I drop the phone to the bed and run my hands through my hair.
I need a shower. That’s what I was going to do before my phone caught my attention and the idea of calling my father took over. Now I don’t want to shower. I don’t want to do anything but lie here. Why should I worry about him when he isn’t worried about me?
Because it isn’t about him. It’s about what he needs to tell me.
I let out a heavy sigh that turns into a growl, slamming my fists on the mattress.
I force myself up, leaving my phone on the bed, but I don’t head to the bathroom. I go out of my room, down the hall, past the stairs, and stop at Enzo’s office. The door is wide open, but I raise my hand to knock. He looks up, smiling when he sees me. It has my whole body lighting up like fireworks. The way he looks at me…
“Are you busy?” I question.
“No.” His tone tells me he is, and he’s also frustrated about something, but I don’t see any of it when I look in his eyes. He drops the pen in his hand, pushes his chair back, and pats his lap.
Enzo loves it when I sit on his lap. I love it too. It makes me feel safe. Protected.
“What are you doing?” I glance at the papers he was looking over. Not sure if I should or not, but he doesn’t tell me not to.
“Looking over my father’s finances.”
“He can’t do it himself?” I question, looking at him. I’d wondered about his father since I found out about him but had a feeling it was an off-limits topic.
He holds my gaze, shaking his head. “He’s sick.”
“That’s what Marco said.” He nods, like he’d forgotten I knew.
“It’s causing me and my brothers more problems than it should.”
“How?”
He kisses the back of my neck, slips his arms around my stomach, and hugs me to him. He’s warm, and he smells so good. Being wrapped in Enzo’s arms like this, him hugging me like I matter to him, it feels right.
“My family and three others follow a treaty. It keeps the peace between the families in the area. Has for years. It lays out what territory belongs to who, along with a list of rules, and as long as we all adhere to it, there are no problems. But one of the stipulations is the head of the family attends meetings, and father hasn’t been to one in over a year.”
“And the big bad mafia men don’t care it’s because he’s sick?” I say, as I shift to see him better.
He huffs out a laugh. “They don’t believe he’s sick. They think we’ve done something to him to fuck with the treaty. That we’re pulling the wool over their eyes to take over not only him, but them too.”
“Why would they think that? Can’t your father speak to them? Tell them he’s sick?”
