Page 9 of Enzo

“Well, look who’s still alive,” Doc said, his voice dry and cutting. “Gotta say I’m surprised.”

Enzo stiffened beside me, his hand tightening around mine as if warning Doc to back off—or maybe reassuring me that I wasn’t alone. I clung to that touch like a lifeline.

“I need to check a few things—you got the cash?” he asked, and Enzo nodded to somewhere in the room. Doc lifted an envelope and pocketed it, the crinkle of paper loud in the silence. “Okay, then. Hold still.”

I tried, but Doc’s hands were rough and impersonal, fingers pressing on bruises I didn’t know I had, poking and prodding as if I were nothing more than a bundle of parts. I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper, forcing myself not to cry because crying never helped. The worst part wasn’t the pain—it was when Enzo had to let go of my hand. His warmth vanished, leaving me cold and unsteady. Without his hand gripping mine, I felt brittle—as if I might shatter if Doc pressed too hard. I tried to focus on Enzo’s face and how his dark eyes never left mine, but it wasn’t enough.

The numbers whispered in the back of my mind, insistent and relentless. 5… 13… 22… E… M… V…

“Okay, not bad,” Doc muttered, his tone gruff as he wiped his hands on a rag pulled from his pocket. “You’re tougher than you look.” He glanced at Enzo, giving a curt nod. “He’ll make it, but he’s gonna need proper rest.” He paused, eyes flicking back to me. “He needs quiet, warmth—and someone watching him. He’s not out of the woods yet.” Doc’s gaze relaxed a fraction. “Might not look like much, but he’s still breathing. That’s gotta count for something.”

“You feel like some food?” Enzo asked me.

No, I thought. No, I didn’t. I felt empty—hollowed out and raw. The idea of eating turned my stomach, but I didn’t say that. Instead, I shook my head weakly.

Enzo shuffled closer, his voice quieter this time. “I have some soup,” he said. “Rio got it. Wanna try?”

Rio. Tall guy, big, kinda loud. Jamie, blond, blue eyes, manic energy.

Enzo. Big-muscled, warm-colored skin. Too good to be true.

No, I thought again. But I opened my mouth and let him guide a spoon to my lips. The lukewarm liquid hit my tongue, and my throat tightened, instinct trying to force it back up. I swallowed, gagged, swallowed again. This time, it stayed down. I could imagine the path it was taking—slow and deliberate and fighting my body’s instinct to purge itself right now I felt the warmth pool in my stomach, faint and distant, and I clung to that sensation as if it might anchor me.

“Okay?” Enzo asked.

I nodded, swallowing a second spoonful, gesturing that I didn’t want anymore. My stomach felt like it hadn’t registered what I’d eaten, the warmth curling inside me, but I knew if I pushed it, I’d be sick.

“Where am I?” I asked as soon as he set the soup down, my voice hoarse and thin.

“Redcars,” Enzo said with pride, as if that should mean something.

It didn’t. I frowned, confusion tightening my features. The name bounced around my mind as if it were meant to stick, but I couldn’t understand it. Redcars… a place? A group? Something worse? My puzzlement must have shown; either that or Enzo had already planned to.

“So Redcars is a garage,” Enzo said. “We deal mostly with high-value stuff, muscle cars, the odd Porsche or Ferrari. But it’s more than that. It’s… a place that gives second chances.” He paused, his gaze shifting past me as though he was sorting through memories. “Rio, Jamie, Logan, and I are all ex-cons.” He waited for me to react, but my head was full of clouds, and although I tried to be afraid, my body wouldn’t let me. “You’ve met Rio and Jamie, but not Logan because he’s out for a couple of days with his daughter. Logan runs the place now that Tudor has made him boss.” He stared into the far distance as if in thought.

“Tudor,” I murmured. That was a weird name, a word that made no sense in my head.

“Tudor inherited Redcars from his dad. He brought us in and gave us a shot when no one else probably would. He’s retired now, handed the whole thing to Logan… Look, all I’m saying is that you don’t need to worry about anyone else because this is a safe space,” he added. “No judgment. No questions. Just a place to get your head on straight.” He shifted on the mattress beside me, his fingers twitching like he wanted to grab my hand again. I wished he would. “The apartment you’re in is always ready for anyone needing it.”

I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and he helped me with the blankets, and somehow just him being there meant all the ghosts in the corners were chased away.

And I slept.

* * *

The nightmare came back,and I reached for Enzo’s hand.

But there was no one there.

Panic flared hot in my chest. I rolled to the side of the bed too fast and hit the floor hard, landing on my knees, my cannula catching in the covers. I wasn’t on the drip now, thank god, and my breath stuttered, and for a moment, all I could hear was my pulse pounding. Where was Enzo? Where was anyone?

I didn’t want to be here—not alone. My head spun, the room tilting and shifting, and the light above felt too bright, stabbing through my skull. The air smelled stale and wrong, like oil and sweat and something sharp beneath it. My stomach twisted, and I knew I needed to go. Now. Before John came back. Before the other two got there.

Before something worse happened.

I crawled toward what I hoped was the doorway, my hands scraping across cold, grimy floorboards. My fingers found the frame, then nothing—space, air—a yawning black chasm that turned out to be stairs. A flight of them dropped away, and I swallowed hard, bracing myself. I had to get down. No choice. Ignore the pain. Ignore everything. Find a door. Find a way out.

I managed to get down, fall, slip, and slide to the bottom. My knees hit the floor hard, jarring pain shooting up my legs, but I didn’t stop. A shout cut through the haze—my name. Enzo’s name. I had to hide. I couldn’t trust anyone.

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