Page 12 of Second in Command
The waitress comes up to us and takes our orders. We both stuck with something simple like pastini with cheese, and Enzo ordered a bottle of wine.
“So,” he lets out a breath rubbing his forehead, “let me again apologize . . . what I did was . . . stupid.”
“It was, very much so,” I tease, “what made you say that?”
Enzo hesitates, tipping his drinking into his mouth.
“Do I really have to answer that?” He sheepishly scratches the back of his neck with a single finger and I giggle.
“I’ll just keep my assumptions then.”
“And what were your assumptions, exactly?”
“That you were jealous,” I lean forward on the table with both hands, and Enzo blows out a breath. Our eye contact lasts for more than thirty-seconds, and nothing was said between us.
“You’re right,” he finally says. But it didn’t bring me prideful satisfaction, no, it just sent a pang between my legs.
I clear my throat as the food arrives.
“I feel like you already know so much about me, being my father’s guard and all . . . I’d like to know about you.”
“I’m afraid there isn’t anything interesting to tell.”
“It doesn’t have to be interesting . . . honestly with the flower cart, I’m really just trying to get to know that side of Enzo.”
Enzo offers a small smile, his fingers aimlessly drumming on the table.
“I was born and raised here, my parents are . . . Deceased, and I don’t have any siblings. For as long as I’ve lived, your father is practically all I've known. He’s taken care of me, in more ways than one—although your mother didn’t particularly favor me.”
I raise both eyebrows, “You knew my mother?”
“No,” Enzo shakes his head, chuckling, “I didn’tknow-herknow her, but when I started to work for your father at seventeen, she always made me feel like I was a menace in her eyes. She would tolerate me, but . . . I could tell that she wished she didn’t have to.”
“Huh,” I hum, “I’m sorry about that.”
“And why are you sorry? You were living in your own world mostly that’s why it didn’t exactly shock me to find out you had your own business going on.”
“Going on, and going on strong.”
“Do you think it’s something you’ll pursue forever?”
“Definitely,” I nod, “I don’t see myself doing anything else. I wanna expand soon, to different areas, maybe even countries.”
Enzo whistles, “Your father seems to believe that it’s something you’ll get bored of.”
“I know he does,” I sigh, “my father wants me to live his life. He wants me to grow up and get married, become a Mafia wife, but that’s not even on any of my lists. I wish I could just get away from it all . . . the bakery gives me that . . . independence as you said.”
“I’m happy that you followed that dream . . . that you made yourself happy.”
“I wouldn’t say happy,” I scoff, letting out a little laugh as I sip on the wine, “but I definitely feel like I’m getting somewhere.”
The pasta tasted amazing as always. There was just something about extra cheese that made the whole dish complete.
“Do you ever wish to get out? To get away from all the violence?”
Enzo ponders for a moment, his fork held upright, “I don’t . . . Because that would mean leaving Mr. Donato behind . . . And I could never do that.”
I stare at him as he continues to eat, his devoted loyalty to my father more than apparent. But Enzo was only twenty-nine years old, and here he was living his life for someone else.
