Wait. Do I? I find myself staring at him as he pulls out his laptop and starts tapping away.
"What are you doing? Locating our enemies?”
“Ordering some breakfast delivery,” he says. “Emilio's handling the enemy locating. You need to eat. We both do.”
He looks hot as hell in the morning light, sitting up in bed shirtless, his features sharpened with concentration as he decides what we’re going to eat. His hair is messy, a dark lock falling toward his eyes. It feels different between us. Barriers that were there are now gone. He doesn't feel like a bodyguard, definitely not a professor, or someone being imposed on me by the outside world. He feels like someone I've chosen for myself. He feels like mine.
“What are you thinking, beautiful?” He glances over at me with those dark eyes.
“What did you do with the pictures?””
“They’re safe.”
“Is Davo safe?”
Enzo looks at me, and I can tell he's trying to work out how much to say.
“Tell me the truth.”
“He was probably dead before we got the pictures," Enzo says.
My stomach lurches. Enzo talks about brutality so casually, and I know that is because he has indulged in so much of it himself. Mafia life on the front lines is kill or be killed. Men in his line of work don’t live as long as he has without killing.
“I’m not hungry,” I say. “I’m going to take a shower."
“Mhm.” He's not quite listening. I hear his stomach growl. He’s hungry, and when that man is hungry for something, he gets what he wants.
I grab a couple of things and slip off to the bathroom. I need a shower.
The memory of everything which went before plays through my mind. It was hot as hell. It was everything I thought it would be and so much more. This is what I wanted, right? I begged for it.
“What the fuck are you doing, Mia?” I murmur the question to myself as I stare into the mirror.
My eyes seem vacant. They should be glowing with the joy of new love, or at least soaked with lust, but even I’m not selfish enough to completely forget about a friend. There’s something very bad happening, and I think it's all my fault.
I pull my phone out of my bag and dial Davo's number. I don't know what I'm expecting. It's not like he's going to pick up. Right?
It's ringing. I turn the shower on to cover the sound. I know Enzo wouldn’t like me doing this. He hasn't explicitly forbidden it, but I know in my gut that I’m not allowed to.
“Yeah? Who is this?”
The voice at the other end of the line does not belong to Davo. It does, however, have a heavy Spanish accent.
“Where’s Davo?”
“Who wants to know?”
I only have one card to play. I can lie about my name, but they're not interested in some random girl. They want Mia Russo. And there's every chance that they already know it is me. I don't know if Davo has me programmed into his phone, but it could be that my full name just flashed up on the screen. Probably not, but maybe.
“You know who I am,” I say, taking the risk. “Where's Davo?”
“You want him? Come find him. Warehouse 42 down on the docks. Come alone.”
They hang up on me.
I'm trembling as I put the phone down. I’ve never talked to anyone on the other side of the line before. Dangerous, vicious men are one thing when they’re on your side. They’re something else when they want to kill you.
I get into the shower to take refuge from all that is happening, and all that is yet to happen. I can't go to a warehouse by myself, obviously. I could tell Enzo about the call. He’d be angry, but it would be the safer option. But they told me to come alone. If I tell Enzo, I could be sealing Davo's fate. But if I go alone, they’ll kidnap and ransom me.
I hate how powerless I am. My father could destroy all of them with a word, but here I am, hiding in the shower, wondering what to do. Do I pretend I never had the conversation? Never made the call? Do I let Davo fucking die? I know Enzo will. He doesn’t care about Davo.
Do I? I don't know. I know I want to care. I want to be the one who does something good and powerful. I want to be a good person. I want to save a life. That’s why I came to college. To find myself. To do something for myself. Instead, I've dragged my friends into being tortured and maybe killed.
Leaning back against the shower wall, I let water run over my body, turning the heat up every time it starts to feel cold until my skin is hot pink and I can't take it anymore. This is what I thought I was going to avoid. But I can't avoid it, can I? This is my life.