Page 88 of Enzo

“What parts?”

“A ‘68 Firebird water pump and some seals.”

“I don’t have that purchase order.”

“I’ll make sure to leave it on your desk.”

“‘kay,” he hummed, already drifting again.

“Jamie’s downstairs,” I leaned in, kissed the tip of his nose, then his lips. “Go back to sleep. Love you.”

“Love you,” Robbie whispered back, already halfway to dreaming again. His breathing slowed, deepened.

When I got downstairs, Jamie was sitting in his usual spot, a baseball bat hanging loosely between his knees. “Enzo,” he acknowledged.

“We got a line on where Vinnie might be,” Rio said, his voice low.

“Logan isn’t here, I’m going into lockdown once you’ve left,” Jamie kept things to the point, and I threw him a nod in thanks. As soon as we were outside and climbing into Rio’s beaten-up truck, he glanced at me sideways, engine still rumbling under our boots.

“Message from a friend, Vinnie was at the old warehouse strip six blocks down.”

Fuck. If Vinnie was that close, it meant trouble wasn’t coming—it was already here.

“What ‘friend’?.”

Rio shrugged, and I wasn’t pushing for answers. I didn’t care if it meant we got to talk to Vinnie and find out what he wanted and more importantly, who for.

The wind rushed in through the cracked window. I sat there thinking about Robbie asleep in my bed, breathing easy. Safe. For now.

We reached the area—anabandoned textile warehouse at the edge of the district, paint peeling from corrugated metal walls, weeds clawing through the cracked concrete. Windows were either boarded-up or smeared with grime, and graffiti twisted like scars across the back wall. It smelled like old oil, piss, and garbage.

We parked out of sight and circled to the rear, where the loading dock sagged from rust. Rio jerked his chin, signaling we’d split—him left, me right.

I crept toward the back entrance, my footsteps soft, my eyes sweeping for movement. As I reached the door, it creaked open, and a man stepped out. He was built like a fridge and just as expressive, easily recognized—Goon Number One, Mateo’s man.

“Boss wants to see you,” he said, voice low and flat.

He stepped aside.

I hesitated for a second before slipping past him. I heard Rio shift directions behind me, adjusting course to fall in step.

Inside, it was dim. The place stank of mildew and rot, shafts of sunlight struggling through the grimy windows to land in dusty pools across the concrete floor.

Goon Number Two stood in the shadows, weapon drawn but angled toward the floor, eyes sharp and narrow. He gave us a once-over and an up-nod.

We stepped into the main room, and my breath caught.

Vinnie was tied to a chair—head slumped, face a mess of blood and bruises. Mateo stood behind him, gripping either side of the chair.

“Took you long enough,” Mateo said, staring right at me.

“I’m here now.”

Vinnie stared at Rio. “What the fuck you doing here?” he said, voice thin and brittle, like a man who hadn’t slept and knew he wouldn’t again anytime soon. There was something slippery behind his eyes, the way he looked from me to Rio and back again, calculating. “You owe me Rio. Get me out of here.”

“I don’t owe you shit,” Rio snarled.

“Why do you want Robbie?” I asked, keeping my voice level. The only thing I let show was the threat simmering beneath it.

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