Page 46 of Ruined By Blood
Sienna stares back for a long moment before looking away. "Cards, I think. Start simple."
I nod and stand, heading for the kitchen drawer where we keep a worn deck.
Iwatch as Enzo rummages through the lower cabinets in the living room, pushing aside leather-bound books and old magazines. His broad shoulders flex beneath his t-shirt as he stretches to reach the back corner.
"Here we go." He pulls out a stack of boxes triumphantly. "Monopoly, chess, checkers... and Uno." He holds up a worn deck in a faded box. "Ever played?"
I shake my head. "I don't think so." He gives me a glance saying that this is not possible, but he doesn't say it.
"Perfect. It's simple enough." Enzo settles across from me at the coffee table, shuffling the colorful cards with practiced ease. His fingers move with surprising grace for hands I've seen crack knuckles before violence. "The goal is to get rid of all your cards first. You match either the number or the color of the card on the pile."
As he explains the rules—draw fours, skips, reverses, and wild cards—I find myself actually paying attention.
"And when you're down to your last card, you have to say 'Uno' or I can make you draw more cards." His eyes lockwith mine, a playful challenge replacing the usual intensity. "Ready to lose, piccola?"
"We'll see about that," I say.
The first round starts slowly as I learn the mechanics, but by the second game, I'm dropping cards strategically, saving my special cards for when they'll hurt him most.
"Draw four," I say, placing down my third wild card in a row.
"Cazzo," he growls, snatching four cards from the pile. "Where did you learn to be this ruthless?"
"I'm a quick study." I bite back a smile.
By the fifth game, I've won three times, and Enzo's competitive side is fully awakened. He narrows his eyes when I make him draw again.
"You're hustling me," he accuses, studying his growing hand of cards. "Did you secretly play this before?"
I laugh—actually laugh—and the sound startles us both. "I promise I haven't."
"Then you're just naturally cruel," he says, but his lips twitch upward.
We play for what must be an hour. Each time I win, Enzo's reactions grow more dramatic—running his hand through his hair, tossing cards down with exaggerated force, making empty threats about hiding the deck.
When I beat him for the sixth consecutive time, he throws his remaining cards into the air.
"Impossibile! I've played this game for years! How are you doing this?"
I can't help it—I double over laughing.
"Your face," I gasp between fits of giggles. "You look so offended."
For a moment, Enzo just watches me laugh, somethingunreadable passing across his features before his own smile breaks through.
"I demand a rematch," he insists, gathering the scattered cards. "Different game."
As my laughter subsides, a strange hollow feeling replaces it. Sitting in a warm room, playing cards, laughing freely feels like something from another life. Something I might have had if things had been different. If my mother was there. If my father hadn't been a monster.
"What's wrong?" Enzo asks, his voice gone soft.
I look down at the colorful cards in my hands. "Nothing. I just can't remember the last time I played a game. Or laughed like that."
The admission hangs between us, more intimate somehow than showing him my scars.
Enzo gathers the cards, a mock scowl on his face as he slides them back into their worn box. "You know what? I think you're cheating somehow."
"How could I possibly cheat?" I ask, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.
