Page 8 of Enzo

THREE

Robbie

The dream started with pain—sharp,burning, and immediate. Fear hit me just as hard, a cold rush that made my skin crawl. I knew I was dreaming. I told myself that repeatedly, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. My ribs ached, my fingers throbbed, and the numbers—those endless, looping numbers—filled my head. I clawed at the air, reaching for something, someone, desperate to break free. But the numbers kept coming. 5… 13… 22… E… M… V… again and again until I thought my skull might split open.

A trio of shadowed men, John front and center, grinning at me.

He’s good.

He’s mine.

You can share!

With each repetition of numbers came the memory of pain. Cold metal on my skin. A fist. The sharp bite of a boot to my ribs. Flashes of John’s expression meant the fear was visceral, lodged deep in my chest. His face emerged from the blur—sharp, cold, and familiar. He was there in my nightmare, holding me down, his fingers digging painfully into my arm. “Tell me,” he hissed, his breath hot against my ear. “Tell me everything you heard.” I knew then — I was a prisoner, a bargaining chip.

The wallet password is nothing without the seed phrase.

I knew everything, and that made me dangerous. John’s face twisted in frustration when I said nothing, and the numbers pounded louder in my skull. Password…

5… 13… 22… E… M… V…

I woke with a strangled gasp, clawing for air and reaching out for help, and someone gripped my hand, warm and rough, fingers wrapped around mine.

Enzo.

The man who’d carried me.

His dark eyes were bloodshot and his short beard framed a face that should have been intimidating but wasn’t as he half smiled. His hair was short but wild as if he’d given up trying to tame it. His skin was warm-toned and his lips were too soft for someone so hard.

There was a kindness in his gaze that felt foreign and almost impossible to believe. Kindness wasn’t something I understood. Not real kindness, the kind that didn’t come with a price. In my world, kindness had always been a mask—a trick to lure me in before someone hurt me or took something I couldn’t afford to lose. John’s voice echoed in my head, the sick sweetness of his promises twisting in my memory. But Enzo’s gaze didn’t hold that same gleam. It was steady, quiet, and scared me just as much as John ever had. Because if I believed and it wasn’t real, it would destroy me all over again. I didn’t remember compassion that didn’t come with strings or expectations. My memories were sharp and jagged—snarled words, clenched fists, and cold, calculating eyes. Trust was a dangerous thing, and yet… there it was in his eyes.

Tattoos wound down his arms—his neck and face were clear, the bold patterns on his skin hinting at stories untold. He stared at me with an intensity that should have scared me. It didn’t. Instead, I shifted closer, drawn to him as he held my hand.

My gaze focused on the dark corners of the room. Shadows stretched long and deep, swallowing the edges of the space. I hated that I couldn’t see what was there—what might be hidden. My heart pounded, the phantom sting of old bruises flaring back to life. John was always there, in the places I couldn’t see, watching. Waiting.

He’d done this before—twisted my mind, chipped away at what little hope I had left. A smile, a promise, a warm hand on my shoulder —and then pain. He’d once dragged me from a freezing alley into a dimly lit room, pressing a steaming mug of coffee into my hand, telling me everything would be okay and that I was safe. That he was going to help. I believed him—for maybe five minutes—until the questions started—sharp, urgent demands cloaked in calm words. “Tell me what you know,” he’d said. “Tell me what they told you.” I’d tried to say nothing, to hold my silence, but he’d pushed harder, his fingers curling around my arm like a vice.

Then came the beating. He’d kept me barely conscious, barely conscious enough to know that the kindness had never been real—that he’d only given me warmth so he could tear it away again.

I couldn’t trust this place, couldn’t trust Enzo, even if I wanted to. Because what if John had planned this too? What if this warmth and safety was a trap—hope dangled in front of me only to be ripped away the second I reached for it?

My chest tightened. John had made me paranoid, but this space was too big—too open. The air felt thin and sharp, and the shadows seemed to stretch and crawl. I could feel him, or thought I could—the cold pressure of fingers digging into my arm, the rasp of his breath at my ear. Memories blurred with reality, and I swore I heard his voice whispering in the dark, coaxing me to trust. My pulse hammered, and my skin prickled with a cold sweat. I needed something smaller—a box where I could feel the sides, shut the lid, and disappear.

Was John here? Had he found me?

I didn’t know how far I’d run, desperation fueling every stumble and when I finally stopped, gasping for breath in the cold night air, I had no idea where I was. But the warehouse couldn’t be more than ten blocks from here. Ten blocks. Separated by a highway, but still too close. If he was there anymore. He had a lot of places and had told me that himself, boasting about his reach, about how he could disappear when he needed to. But that wasn’t the only thing keeping my mind tangled up in knots.

I had numbers in my head—rental amounts, bank accounts, and payments that had filtered through under fake names. Information I had memorized without meaning to, details that might have been useful once but now felt like a dead weight. I told myself it didn’t matter, that it was meaningless noise. But the thought gnawed at me. John had always been careful, but I’d pieced together fragments of the life he had built. And if I could do that, what if he had done the same with me? What if he knew where I was? What if he was waiting?

I was already tight with anxiety when footsteps sounded from the hall, heavy and deliberate, each one striking a chord of panic deep inside me. The door creaked open, and a shadow filled the space. I was startled, heart racing, instinct yanking me back. My breath hitched, and I wriggled closer to the big man—Enzo, my mind supplied—as if he could shield me. His hand squeezed mine tighter, grounding me when I felt I might unravel.

“It’s just Doc,” Enzo said, his voice gravelly and low.

The man in the doorway was tall and lean, with dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail. His stubble shadowed sharp cheekbones, and a jagged scar ran from his hairline to his chin, pulling the corner of his mouth into a permanent quirk that made him look like he was one wrong word away from violence. His gaze locked onto me—intense, assessing—and I swore I felt my skin crawl.

“He’s here to help,” Enzo added, his fingers still firm around mine.

I wasn’t sure I believed that. But right now, Enzo’s hand in mine was the only thing keeping me grounded. So I stayed close, and I didn’t let go.

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