CHAPTER EIGHT: WINTER
Workwasuneventfultonight and I suppose I should appreciate that. There weren't any shootings or cartel members showing up. None of the other workers spent most of their shift running from me. And Giovanni didn't make an appearance, which he tends to do randomly.
So again, uneventful.
Enzo has the heater in the car going, the beginning of spring still not warm enough to wash away the coldness of winter. It'll probably be a few more weeks before things really start to warm up. I pull my jacket a little tighter around my body, leaning my head back and closing my eyes, relaxing.
The drive to the mansion never takes long and it's always like this: quiet.
Enzo doesn’t speak to me and I don’t speak to him.
It’s one of the only times I don’t have to worry about someone barking out instructions at me.
The shrill ring of Enzo's phone cuts off my thoughts but I don't open my eyes. It's probably just Giovanni, calling to see where we are and how long it'll be before we get to the compound.
Enzo's low voice is a rumble. There’s a long pause before the car gives a vicious jerk, sending me forward slightly. This time I do open my eyes.
I stare at the back of Enzo’s frame. His shoulders are pulled tight, his phone still pressed against the side of his head. The grip on it makes me think he's only seconds away from breaking it in half.
I lean forward in my seat, my brows pulled together. Something is wrong and while I'm not privy to family information, I'm not sure I want Enzo to wreck-
"Vito's been shot?" he asks sharply.
I suck in a deep breath. Vito? Shot?
How?
I open my mouth, unsure of what I'm going to ask since I shouldn't be eavesdropping. But anything I was going to say is quickly cut off as Enzo takes an abrupt turn and I go flying sideways. My shoulder smacks into the door, pain shooting through it and I blink, watching as the streetlights blur around us. Enzo is still speaking, his words too quick and low for me to understand.
When he takes another wild turn that has me flying to the other side of the car, I grab my seatbelt, clicking it into place.
Enzo tosses his phone in the passenger seat, his eyes fully focused on the road as he continues to race like a bat out of hell.
It feels like something is stuck in my throat and there's a slight pang in my chest that I rub at.
Vito is shot? If he's dead, then who's going to protect me?
The thought is completely selfish but not unwarranted.
Vito is the one who stopped Maximo from coming for me again, the only person who seems unafraid of the mad man. He was the one who made sure I was okay after I was kidnapped, running his hands over me to check for injuries. The one whose bright eyes shimmered as he brought me pleasure and asked for nothing in return, the first time something like that has ever happened to me.
He can't be dead.
"En-Enzo?"
"Not now, Winter." His voice isn't harsh, but more resigned, defeated.
He has to be dead if Enzo sounds like that. The two aren't exactly friends, Enzo seeming to be on Maximo's side in whatever silent war Maximo and Vito have going on.
The car comes to a sudden stop and I look up, finding myself in an unfamiliar area. The streetlights are on, casting a glow onto the street and the buildings sitting on it. The first one that draws my attention is a little Mexican restaurant. And I finally realize where we are.
My brother, Richard, used to bring me here when we were kids whenever he could scrape up the money to feed us something nice. It was our comfort food. He brought me here after mom killed herself and after I'd tried to do the same. And when he promised to get clean the first time, we came here.
It's been years since we've been to the restaurant, but I remember it enough to know this is not what it looked like the last time I was here. There was a bright neon sign reading El Coyote and a bright red open sign. None of them are lit now, and most of the glass windows surrounding the restaurant are shattered, a few with bullet holes that tell me all I need to know.
There was a shootout.
One that Vito died in?