Page 42 of Enzo

“Let me have a go.” Angry, short, blond hair, nauseating scent.

“Don’t fucking break his head!” John.

“It’s my turn.” Gruff voice, tall, dark hair skinny, old.

“Stop fucking crying!” Angry, short, blond hair, nauseating scent.

I was in the room again.

Four walls. No windows. Three men. The stale smell of cigarettes and cheap whiskey in the air. The bulb flickered above me, casting twisted shadows across the concrete floor. A chair. A desk. A safe in the corner. And him. Always him.

The other two disappear, like smoke and it’s just John.

His presence looms behind me, but I don’t turn. I know better.

“Tell me,” he asks, his voice calm, expectant. “If they find out, we’re dead, you fucking shit!”

“Let me go! I won’t tell you,” I plead, wishing I could wake up. Nightmare-John is pulling at my clothes, ripping them until I’m naked, and I can’t fight him.

“If I didn’t need you, kid, you’d be in pieces on this floor!”

My stomach twists. No. Please, not this. Not again.

I try to hold the numbers I’d found back. To keep them locked away. But he grabs the back of my neck, his fingers digging in, forcing me still—my breath stutters, my pulse hammers so hard my vision blurs.

“Don’t make me ask twice.”

He pushes inside me, nothing to ease the way, pressing my face to the tile, but I know better than to scream. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to ground myself, trying to free myself. But the nightmare holds me tight, and he’s warning me that I don’t get to wake up yet.

The pain comes sharp and fast—a warning. Not enough to damage, just enough to remind me that he could. That he would. He shoves tablets in my throat, I can’t breathe, I have to swallow.

I gasp, and some of the routing codes and a mess of numbers fall from my lips before I can stop them. John snarls at me, digs his fingers in, and ruts against me, knowing I have more locked inside my head.

It’s the only reason I’m still alive.

“Good,” John murmurs, almost pleased. He finishes, shoves me away, and smooths a hand over my hair like I was some pet. “I want more now.”

I want to fight. I want to scream. But I can’t because I know what happens when I refuse.

I can’t tell John everything… he’ll kill me.

Please kill me!

I woke up—gasping, choking, tangled in sweat-damp sheets. My fingers scraped at the blankets, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. The room swam, too dark, too close.

I screamed. “Please kill me!”

I pressed a shaking hand over my heart, trying to calm the wild panic clawing up my throat. My mind was still tangled in the dream, in John’s voice, in the cold grip of knowing if he ever found out I still remembered numbers I should never have seen—if he even suspected how much I’d taken from him?—

I was dead.

“Robbie?” Enzo called, knocking once. “Are you okay?”

I swallowed hard, staring at the far wall, trying to force my pulse to slow. A thousand thoughts tumbled through my mind, tangled and heavy. I wanted Enzo to come in and wrap his arms around me, grounding me with his steady presence. But that wasn’t how I handled things. Instead, frustration rose in my chest, thick and suffocating, turning inward until it boiled into anger—at myself and how easily I’d lost confidence. All it took was one asshole calling me a twink and I lost my shit.

“Robbie? I can’t hear you. I’m coming in if you don’t talk.”

“No! Stay outside!”

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