ENZO
AMELIA WAS STILL fixing her dress when I poured the whiskey. Cheap silk, red. Her perfume clung to the air like it was trying too hard. She’d been loud, all nails and fake moans, and I’d let her. It was supposed to take the edge off.
It didn’t.
“You’ve never called for me twice, Enzo,” she said, adjusting her dress.
I glanced at her with a sigh. “Don’t make it sound like an honor.”
She chuckled, the kind of fake sweet that belonged in cheap bars, and left, stilettos clicking down the hall. I stayed in the chair, glass in hand, shirt hanging open. My head should’ve been clear. It wasn’t.
That damn kid’s face kept bleeding through, uninvited. The look in his eyes when I’d had him by the throat. I told myself it was because he needed breaking in, that I was just making sure he reme
