Page 76 of Enzo

I froze, every muscle locking tight. My breath caught in my throat as unwanted memories flashed behind my eyes—hands touching me, but not these hands, not gentle ones. The world narrowed to just that point of contact—his hand on my bare skin—and I couldn’t breathe.

“Robbie?” Enzo pulled back, confusion clouding his eyes. His hands stilled on my skin. “What’s wrong?”

“Me! I’m so fucking wrong—” My voice cracked. I scrambled off his lap, nearly tripping in my haste. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, reaching for me. Talk to me, Robbie. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“No! You don’t know what I did! What they made me do!” I stumbled back and away and shut myself in my room, shoving my chair under the handle.

Curling into a ball on my bed, I was stuck between the urge to cry and the frustrating numbness that prevented any tears from falling.

“Robbie?” Enzo asked outside the door. “I’m just gonna sit here.”

I just wish…

I wish I was normal.

TWENTY-SIX

Enzo

I satwith my back to his door, gutted that I’d messed up, and that the past had intruded. Guilt consumed me that I’d touched him.

But he wanted to be touched.

I hated it that Robbie thought he wasn’t deserving, that somehow he was worse than us, but he didn’t know what we’d done, and I didn’t want to tell him. Not because I didn’t trust him, but because the weight of my past was like a stone in my chest. I’d spent years convincing myself I was different now, that I’d built something better, something solid, a life that wasn’t defined by violence or survival.

I couldn’t shake the fear that if I told Robbie everything, I’d lose him too.

I’d scared him, told him he was small and perfect, and maybe that was a trigger. I swallowed hard, feeling the words’ weight before speaking them. For a moment, memories swelled—Luis calling my name, the cold pavement under my knees, the slick warmth of blood on my hands. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself back to the present. “I’ve killed people,” I said, and leaned my head on his door. Had he heard me? He knew we’d all done time—it wasn’t a secret, but Robbie had never asked. It was quiet from inside and I waited a beat longer. “Robbie?”

“Who?” he asked, his voice distant.

I imagined him on his bed, lost, all because I’d fucked up somehow. How could he feel strong when he never saw that he was better than us in a lot of ways? Surviving what he had and still finding the courage to trust—to reach for something better—took a strength most of us didn’t have. We knew how to fight, sure, but Robbie? He knew how to heal. That kind of strength, the kind that chooses softness after pain, was rarer than anything I’d ever known.

“That’s not where the story starts,” I said, and turned to face the door, legs crossed on the cold floor, resting a hand on the wood. “When I was in…”

“In where?”

“They called themselves Stone Cross, a gang, drugs, guns, intimidation, that was me… I was one of them.”

“Okay?”

“Jesus, I don’t know where to begin this.” I cursed in my head. “The last time I guess. The violence was already spiraling before I even got there,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be, and I cleared my throat and raised the volume a little. “I could hear it before I saw it—the shouts, the sound of fists hitting flesh. The kind of fight where you already know someone’s not walking away the same, and I’d seen it so many times, because that was life where I grew up.”

I paused a moment. Silence.

So I carried on. “The gang was my family. I didn’t have a father. He could be dead. Could be alive. Who the hell knew? My mom, though… her addiction ended up killing her.”

“How old were you when your mom passed?”

That was what he wanted to focus on? What about my admission that I’d killed people?

“I was nine? Ten, maybe? I don’t even know if I remember right,” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Luis was my older brother by three years or so. We didn’t have a home anymore, and we were separated and farmed out to families. Luis had a run of shitty families, and as soon as he aged out of foster care, he fell through the cracks. Maybe deliberately. Maybe no one wanted to see him.” I exhaled. “He got pulled into the Stone Cross, took running jobs, delivering product, watching on corners, that kind of shit. The SC were the only solution for people who couldn’t get out, like Luis, and my best friend Mateo. For them, joining the SC wasn’t just survival, it was protection, a way to have family.” I heard movement inside and athudagainst the door—was he sitting the other side of the door to listen?

“But you didn’t join this SC gang?” he asked, and yeah, he was so close to me that if the door wasn’t there, I could touch him. I’d always told everyone I’d had no choice but join, but that wasn’t entirely true.

“Not at first. My caseworker found me a good family—the Alvarez family—who took me in, not just for the money but because they genuinely cared. I fought every step of the way, wanted the respect it seemed my brother had. You know, I did shit. Hurt people, used my size, my brother as back up. Killed a couple for disrespect and… shit… I wasn’t a good person. I’m not a good person.” I stopped, what else could I say? I didn’t want him to think I’d hurt him. “The Alvarez family was on the periphery of my life from fourteen to eighteen, pushing me to finish school, work hard, and believe I could be more than my past if I worked hard. Hell, sometimes I even tried, but the freedom, the cars I could boost, and the protection stuff I did, hell the money was more in one job than I could make in a month washing dishes… Momma and Papa Alvarez wanted normal life to work for me, but Luis was my brother, and my best friend was in the life, and I wanted what they had.”