Page 26 of Enzo

Or at least, that was what I kept telling myself; I believed it for a moment. Yesterday after everyone had gone home, and Enzo was taking a parcel to Logan, I’d stepped outside—just long enough to feel the evening breeze on my face, cool and sharp on my skin. For a second, I let myself believe I was okay, that I could do this. But then the familiar panic crept in, tightening my chest and knotting my stomach. My breathing hitched, and it took every ounce of willpower not to bolt like a scared animal. My fingers trembled as I gripped the doorframe, forcing myself to stay still.

Of course, I’d unintentionally set off a door alarm. Enzo and Rio arrived in minutes, their faces tense. I barely managed to stammer out an apology before Enzo launched into a tirade about me not knowing who could be outside the door, and only stopping when I began to cry, and he apologized, and I sat on his lap like a sniveling kid for an hour. Rio didn’t say much—just paced back and forth, as if he couldn’t decide if he was angry or worried. And when Jamie arrived soon after, a baseball bat clutched tightly in his hand, ready to defend Redcars—and me—it felt like I’d dragged them all into my mess. I promised I wouldn’t do it again. I promised I was sorry. I meant it too. But I hated that I kept needing to.

Despite the embarrassment of being an idiot, it had felt like a victory, even if my hands had been shaking afterward. Small and insignificant, maybe, but real. And tonight, sitting in the quiet garage trying to read my book, waiting for Enzo to come back in I clung to that feeling, faking confidence until it might become the truth.

When Enzo still wasn’t back, I couldn’t settle, so I headed into my room. Since moving in there, I now had a tiny closet with my own clothes, a desk with a chair, and bookshelves. No one asked if I wanted them; they’d set them up and let me drag them inside, allowed me to have my space without making a big deal about it. The filing cabinets stayed, pushed against the walls, but now they weren’t storage for mess—they were part of my space, my place.

No one else came in here but me. I had a lock on the door, and it was mine. It wasn’t much, but it was safe. That mattered more than size or comfort. I didn’t need a window—I didn’t want one. What Ineededwas the panic button installed inside the door, which gave me the illusion of control and security. Maybe neither were real, but I clung to it anyway, the same as I clung to this space, to the tiny piece of Redcars that belonged to me alone.

I tidied up, pottered around, and straightened the covers on my bed, smoothing out invisible creases as if order could settle the restlessness inside me. My gaze landed on the calendar tacked to the wall—showing July from some fifteen years ago, abandoned in here, an image sunset over the ocean, the colors soft and blurred at the edges, with some classic car front and center. It had been there when I arrived, part of the room before it became mine, left in the clutter and space.

I reached out and adjusted it, nudging it a fraction so it sat perfectly straight. It was a small thing, but it mattered—the same way it did to keep my books, or smoothed the quilt flat on the bed until every corner aligned, or the way I hid my newest book beneath the worn, dog-eared copy ofThe Hobbit.

I’d spent years with John reading nothing but accounts, until I could barely remember what it felt like to get lost in a story. Now, reading had become my escape—my safe space, as much as being here with the men of Redcars.

The new book was from Enzo—something about counseling and post-traumatic recovery, thick with advice that made my heart ache and my head spin. I hadn’t gotten far. The words felt like knives some days. Not sharp enough to draw blood, but enough to make me flinch.The Hobbitwas safer. I knew where that journey ended.

But that didn’t mean I wasn’t trying.

My shelves were a mismatched blend of whatever the guys found for me. A stack of law textbooks sat on the far end and I’d started reading them because I’d run out of things to read, and then I couldn’t stop. Criminal law, constitutional frameworks, even one on ethics that made no sense to me, given the world I’d escaped from. Where were the ethics in imprisoning someone, abusing them, handing them over to other men like it was okay. I could quote whole sections word for word, not because I wanted to remember, but because my brain wouldn’t let go.

That was the thing about eidetic memory—it didn’t ask what I wanted. It just took. Every phrase, every case citation, every ugly little footnote. I’d memorized whole pages without meaning to, the words bleeding into me. And now they were part of me, whether I liked it or not. I didn’t want long-term memories. Not really. Not the kind that took root and grew and reminded me of things I wasn’t strong enough to face. But my brain hoarded them anyway and it wasn’t fair, the way it worked—that I could remember stupid facts like the exact legal definition of constructive manslaughter.

Still, I read. I couldn’t help it.

A forensic psychology textbook made me nauseous, particularly page 147 with its graphic explanation of conditioned compliance and the grooming cycle—how abusers break someone down with kindness before they ever lay a hand on them. How control can look like love. How silence can be manufactured.

I’d lived that. I didn’t need to read it.

Logan and Enzo both said they’d arrange it if I wanted to talk to someone, but both of them understood if I talked to a counselor about what happened then A, it would be the first time anyone else would know my shame and horror, and B, people outside of Redcars would know I was here.

John might know I was here.

Where is Enzo? Should I start dinner? Is he coming back? Will we watch a movie again tonight?

I should have asked how long he would be because now my thoughts ran in circles. An anxious knot tightened in my stomach as I berated myself for not getting a straight answer before he’d left. Fuck. I hated how quickly uncertainty could set me on edge and how easily my thoughts could spiral into worst-case scenarios. The counseling books I’d read told me it was normal—PTSD, they called it. My mind was still stuck in survival mode, hypervigilant, always looking for danger, always expecting the worst. It didn’t matter how safe I was in; my body hadn’t figured that part out yet.

There were nights I couldn’t sleep because I was sure I wouldn’t wake up again. My heart would race, pounding so hard I’d press a hand there just to feel the rhythm and convince myself I was still breathing. The fear of dying would creep in like a cold draft under a door, turning my stomach inside out. I’d remember John’s threats, the way he’d cornered me, the bruises. The money that changed hands. The pain. Even now, in the quiet of Redcars, those memories clung to me like smoke, impossible to shake off.

The books said itcouldget better—I could train my mind to push past the panic. Some days, I believed that. Other days, I wasn’t so sure.

Like now.

Where is Enzo?

I don’t like being on my own.

This is fucking ridiculous.

I’m a fucking idiot!

I exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over my face, then forced myself to move. Sitting here overthinking, wouldn’t help. I headed toward the kitchen at the back of the garage, past the office and storage area, my footsteps echoing in the stillness. The space was small, tucked away, but functional—Logan had ensured that. A stove, a sink, a well-stocked pantry, and enough counter space for me to work. It wasn’t fancy, but it was mine.

Cooking helped. It kept my hands busy and gave me something to focus on that wasn’t the nagging worry twisting inside me. I reached for a pot, filled it with water, and set it on the stove, watching as tiny bubbles formed at the bottom. The routine steadied me, and if Enzo came back, dinner would be ready. If he didn’t… I’d deal with that later.

Please come back.

I was stirring the pot of Mac and Cheese when I heard the door unlock and footsteps. At the first click of the lock, my muscles tensed before my brain caught up, my grip on the spatula tightened, and my heartbeat thudded. Years of instinct, fear, and adrenaline coiled tight inside me like a spring ready to snap. No one got into Redcars after hours without knowing both codes, and only a handful of people had them. I shouldn’t have been startled. But still, the way my pulse had spiked reminded me that I was always on edge, always expecting the worst.

---