Page 6 of Enzo

“It’s okay,” I whispered again, then glanced at the drip. “I need to change your meds. Are you in pain?”

He was surprised at the question, his brow furrowing as if he hadn’t considered it. Maybe the meds were doing their job, numbing everything except the cold, clawing panic lingering in his chest. He blinked, confused, as if he were trying to search his body for an answer, and kept coming up blank. For a moment, his fingers twitched on the sheet, almost like he was testing for pain—waiting for it to flare.

“I… I don’t know,” he whispered, voice thin and cracked. “I can’t… nothing.”

“You’re safe here with us. No one will hurt you.”

A thin and fragile hope flared in his expression but quickly died as his gaze dropped.

“That’s what he said,” the kid murmured. His voice cracked on the last word.

“Who?” I asked, voice sharper than I intended. Fuck, I wanted a name. I needed someone to blame for what had been done to him. Someone to hurt.

I could be out there right now, tracking the bastard down. Hunting him. I’d find him, drag him out of whatever hole he thought kept him safe, and show him what real fear felt like. All those things I’d buried, all those skills I’d promised never to use again—I’d dust them off without hesitation. I’d make him scream, make him beg. I wouldn’t stop. Not until he knew, in the very last second, what it felt like to be powerless, to be broken. I’d do a million times worse than what he’d done. And I wouldn’t lose a second of sleep.

He shook his head.

“I get it,” I muttered, swallowing my frustration. Pushing him right now wouldn’t help. I’d wait. However long it took. “What’s your name?” I asked after a beat, keeping my tone calm, careful not to spook him.

“R—Ro—Robert—Robbie—” he blurted, fast and shaky as if he’d grabbed the first name he could think of. His eyes flicked away as soon as he said it, guilt rippling across his face. The name didn’t sit right, but I let it go. He wasn’t ready to tell me the truth yet, which was fine. Whatever he’d been through, trust was going to take time.

“Hey Robbie. I’m Lorenzo, but everyone calls me Enzo. My friend Rio and I found you out back.”

“Enzo,” he whispered, as if saying my name out loud made it more real. He focused on my face, and his expression shifted to my face and the scratches. “I hurt you.” His knuckles whitened as he gripped the blanket, and his breath hitched. He remembered—remembered clawing at me in his panic, recalled that those scratches were his doing.

“It’s okay,” I said quietly. “You were scared.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” tears ran down his face. “I didn’t mean?—”

“I know,” I cut in. “You were trying to survive. Don’t worry about it.”

His grip stayed tight on the blanket, but his face slackened, some tension draining.

“Where… where am I?” he asked, his voice thin and dry. He sounded sleepy, and I assumed the meds were kicking in again.

“You’re safe,” I promised. “We don’t ask questions here; no one here’s gonna hurt you.” I couldn’t guarantee that no one would come looking for him or that whatever had broken him wouldn’t return to finish the job. I needed to believe I could keep him safe, but the uncertainty twisted like a knife in my gut. I wanted to kill someone. I wanted to rip someone apart.

If they came here… I would.

“How old are you, Robbie?” I asked, keeping my voice gentle.

He blinked as the question caught him off guard as if no one had asked him something so simple in a long time. His brow furrowed, and he swallowed hard, fingers still tangled in the blanket.

“I... I don’t know,” he said at last, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Eighteen?” He didn’t look much older than that, so damn skinny and sleepy.

He yawned and winced. “No… I think… twenty-two? Maybe twenty-three now?”

I nodded, trying not to let the ache I felt show on my face. He wasn’t a kid, but he was still too young to have seen whatever hell he’d crawled out of. He closed his eyes then, exhausted, and was sleeping in seconds as the cloudy contents of the second drip finally did their work. I didn’t know what was in it and didn’t care—I had to trust Doc.

Jamie was up next, bringing me a jacket. Like Rio, he didn’t say much, but then he never did. He also placed an envelope at my side, stuffed with cash to cover the next visits from Doc. We exchanged nods, and then he left.

When Rio and Jamie arrived together, just after I’d called Doc to tell him to return, they stood opposite the bed and stared at Robbie lying unconscious. We’d tried to change as many of the covers as we could, not so much blood staining, but the scent of pain lingered, and he looked like shit warmed up.

“I called Logan,” Rio admitted, as if he’d done something wrong.

“Wecalled Logan,” Jamie corrected.

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