Page 81 of Enzo
“What the fuck?” Rio’s voice cut through the air like a whip, sharp and livid. He stormed across the garage, his face thundercloud-dark. “What the actual fuck was that?”
Doc turned, already defensive, but Rio didn’t give him the chance. He grabbed Doc’s arm and yanked, spun him halfway around—and then punched him. A clean hit to the jaw that sent Doc stumbling back a step, blinking as if he hadn’t seen it coming and then he chuckled. Low and rough, not amused but almost impressed.
“Damn, baby.”
Rio took another step forward. “Don’t fucking call me that! You think you get a pass? Get the fuck out. Now.”
Doc rubbed his jaw, still smirking, but he raised his hands. “I’m going. Jesus.” He glanced over his shoulder, gaze flicking toward me and Enzo. “You all take this shit way too seriously.”
“Try me again,” Rio growled. “See what happens.”
Doc backed out slowly, step by step, as if waiting for someone to stop him or call him back. No one did.
Right before he crossed the threshold, he turned with one last jab. “Don’t even think about fucking with my car, Rio.”
Rio didn’t even blink. “Don’t push me, asshole.”
Doc’s smirk faded a little as he stepped into the sunlight and disappeared down the drive.
For a second, the silence felt like a vacuum. My breathing was ragged, my fists still shaking, my body half pressed into Enzo’s chest. No one moved. No one spoke.
And then Rio exhaled hard, shaking out the hand he’d used to punch Doc. “Shit,” he muttered. “I think I broke my knuckle.”
Jamie grunted. “Worth it.”
And I stood there, shaking, humiliated. My fists still clenched, but now it wasn’t anger, it was to stop the trembling. I could feel Enzo behind me, his chest rising and falling fast against my back, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t move.
I didn’t know if I wanted him to.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Enzo
Robbie didn’t comeout of his room the rest of the day although I knocked and told him everything was okay.
I couldn’t work—none of us could. So I focused on making sure Jamie didn’t punch a wall. Sat him down with an ice pack and a beer. Rio stormed around for a while, muttering about Doc and promising to get his own stitches if it meant not seeing the asshole again. I let him vent, didn’t say much. But I kept staring at that closed door. I wanted to knock. Say something. But every time I got close, I stopped. What if he didn’t want to see me? What if I made it worse? Fucking Doc and his chaos and his inability to feel anything like compassion. Fucking Doc. God, I respected the hell out of the man’s skills—I’d seen him pull people back from the edge, watched him do things with a needle and calm hands that should’ve been impossible. He was brilliant. A miracle worker. We owed lives to him, including Robbie’s. But none of that mattered when I thought about what he’d said to Robbie. The horror on Robbie’s face. Doc didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t even seem to notice what he’d done. Just cold, clinical detachment as if Robbie were a file to be closed, a nuisance. He might save lives with his hands, but with his words destroyed things.
And today, he’d taken Robbie’s light and snuffed it out, like it was easy. Like it meant nothing.
I hated him for that.
When everyone left, Jamie still on edge, Rio snarling and snapping, and Logan trying to calm us all, the silence pressed on me. My belly rumbled, and it occurred to me I hadn’t eaten for a long time, and neither had Robbie. I found myself in the kitchen. Opened the fridge without thinking. And there it was—lasagna. Covered in foil, marker scrawl on top in Robbie’s handwriting:Tuesday. 375°F. 30 mins. He’d made it two nights ago, back when things had felt almost… normal.
I turned on the oven and slid it in, standing there long after I needed to, just watching the glow behind the glass. Then I snapped out of it and headed to his room, knocking. “Dinner’s ready,” I said, my voice low. “You wanna come out?”
Silence.
Then, muffled, “I can’t.”
His voice cracked. God. I pressed my forehead to the door. “You can,” I said. “I just… want to sit with you. Even if we don’t talk.”
“I can’t,” he repeated on a sob. “I’m all broken into bits.”
“Robbie—”
“You can’t want someone like me.”
“I do,” I said.
