Hexed (Never After #6)

36. Enzo

THIRTY-SIX

ENZO

My dad’s house doesn’t feel like home.

Not that it should. He’s only lived here for the past ten years, and I’ve been out on my own since I was seventeen, long before our small two-bedroom apartment turned into sprawling landscaped lawns and bathrooms with heated marble floors.

This house feels like an acquaintance. There’s no nostalgia, no memories of bologna sandwiches and quarter waters from the corner store.

Maybe that’s for the best.

Now that I’ve been to South Carolina, it’s easy to see the resemblance between where my pops lives and the Kingston estate. Both are flashy with wealth and tucked away from civilization, and just like with Trent, for the first time, I wonder how out of touch Pops is with the streets he runs, since he doesn’t live and breathe them.

I’ve only spent a few years as part of the administration instead of being out there with my crew, but already even I feel the heartbeat of everything dulling. It used to pound feverishly in my ears, pump through my blood like the city’s soul was flooding my veins, and now it’s just a whisper.

Nothing is like it was.

I know Pops is here today, although when I walk in the front door, the emptiness echoes through the white marble foyer and resonates in my chest.

I bypass the kitchen and head to his office in the back hallway of the right wing. I’m surprised when I peek my head in and he isn’t there, and I wander around, trying to find him.

Every minute since I’ve left Atlantic Cove, my mind has been whirring, uncovering red flags from the people in my life like an archaeologist digging up fossils.

I have questions. Lots of them. And I’m not sure if my father had any part of creating the mystery or if he’s just as in the dark, but this is a game of chess, not checkers.

There’s noise filtering from the den, and I make my way there, surprised when I hear voices.

No fucking way he’s got people here.

Something smacks me in the chest and jump-starts my heart, making it twitch in anticipation, and I follow the noise.

The den itself is dark when I walk in, shades drawn and nothing but a small lamp with low yellow lighting casting across the burgundy leather sofa and shining on Pops’s face. He’s staring at the TV and absent-mindedly swirling a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. He moves the glass around and around, his eyes fixated on the television. I follow his gaze, and that vise clutching my middle squeezes tighter.

He’s watching home videos.

Most of which he wasn’t ever home to actually be in, but I guess that’s why we record things: so we can experience memories we were never truly part of.

“Pops,” I say to him as I walk into the room.

He doesn’t reply, just keeps his eyes steady on the television, the crystal glass in his hand still swirling. The fireplace heats the side of my body when I walk by it, the crackling sending small sparks off the brick walls of the hearth, but there’s an odd tension in the air that keeps my skin chilled. I move around the mahogany coffee table and sit on the other side of the couch, sighing when I lean back to take in what he’s watching.

It’s a tape of Peppino from after high school graduation, in the driveway of our old house, loading up the last of his suitcases on his way to Yale. Ma is standing off to the side, and the sight of her makes my throat swell. Her arms are wrapped around her small frame while she tries to hold back her tears, but she isn’t successful. She never was good at hiding her emotions, especially when it came to us.

I remember this day.

“Pops,” I try again.

Finally, I get his attention, his hazy, bloodshot gaze swinging from the screen over to me. There’s a heavy feeling in the air, a melancholy look covering his face, and I know without having to ask what’s going through his head. Right now, Pops is an open book while he mourns his murdered child, the one who was supposed to raise us to new heights in a way I never could.

I blow out a heavy breath, run a hand through my hair, and look over at him. “How long have you been in here watching these?”

He grunts but doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches beside him, places his drink down, and picks up an empty glass and his crystal decanter. He pours before passing it to me without a word.

And that’s how we spend the next few minutes, sitting in silence, swirling our drinks, me pretending the burn in my chest is from the whiskey and not from the sound and sights of my dead family on the screen.

Or the woman I met and left behind in South Carolina.

Just as I’ve gotten used to the silence, the alcohol pumping through my veins and dulling the sharp edges, Pops speaks.

He takes a sip and then swallows. “You’re back.”

I nod and take another drink, suddenly grateful for the balm to this talk.

He glances around. “And did you bring your pretty fiancée?”

I lick my lips and place my glass down on the table, my heart pounding from the conversation I’m about to have. “No.”

Now he looks at me fully. “So explain to me why you’re here.”

“That’s a long story.”

His bushy brow, tinged with gray, rises in question. “That’s funny. Trent Kingston was able to tell it in mere minutes.”

My father’s jaw clenches, a brief flash of mistrust on his face. It’s the same look he’s been getting increasingly over the past five years, since he murdered half the commission and demanded subservience from the rest.

Corruption. Greed. Power.

I tried to warn Peppino that Pops was losing his mind, but he never listened, and he ended up clipped.

I’m not out here about to make the same mistakes that he made.

“Trent’s version of events is skewed,” I say.

“Ah, again, similar to what he said. Coincidence, no?”

I shake my head. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

He smirks then. “ Bene .” He takes another sip of his drink before setting it down. “So you got caught dipping your dick in the wrong puttana and then ran away instead of being a man. A Marino .”

I strongly disagree. “You shouldn’t trust anything Trent Kingston says. He’s a fucking snake, and so is his daughter. You believe him, and you’re giving him control he doesn’t deserve. Control over me .”

“You don’t know what control is , figlio mio .” He chuckles in an empty, menacing way that sends a chill up my spine. “Control is quiet. It’s masterful. It doesn’t need to make a show or take up space because it is the space, and it allows everyone to exist within it. If you think Trent fucking Kingston can take control from you, then you never had it to begin with.”

I swallow and lick my lips one more time, trying to figure out what exactly it is he wants me to do.

“The wedding is off,” he finishes calmly. “Congratulations.”

He looks at me with disappointment shining in his gaze, but all I can feel is relief.

Maybe I don’t have to do what I feared. Maybe things can go back to the way they were before.

Maybe…

“And Aria?” I ask.

“Aria Kingston is no longer your concern.” He points a finger at me. “Your brother never would have failed the family this way.”

Nodding in agreement, I pick up my drink and take another sip, respite rushing through me like a waterfall.

Suddenly a glass crashes as Pops throws his crystal tumbler across the room, the shards smacking against the fireplace and skittering on the floor.

My body jolts from the sudden noise, the hairs on my arms standing on end.

“You have nothing to say?” he hisses. “You should be on your knees begging for my forgiveness.”

Swallowing around the sudden dryness in my throat, I gingerly set down my own glass, making sure to keep it on my side of the table.

“You, Enzo Marino, are the worst kind of failure. I gave you one job. I ask this of you, to marry that stupid girl and make me proud. An easy task, no? Yet here you are, coming to me like a bitch with your tail tucked between your legs.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry,” he repeats, the word rolling off his tongue like he’s savoring the taste. His body shoots forward suddenly, his gun appearing like it came from thin air. He shoves it against my temple.

My heart kicks against my ribs, but I keep a blank face. Reacting to his outburst will only make it worse. Briefly, my mind flits to Venesa and all the years she spent learning to not react. For some reason, thinking of her gives me strength in this moment.

“Maybe I should kill you,” he whispers. “Are you trying to fuck with me on purpose? Working with someone else?”

Blood pounds through my ears. “I would never do that, Papá.”

The gun clicks as he unlatches the safety, the metal cold against my temple. “How do I know I can trust you, figlio mio ? After all, a simple pussy can sway you from your duties.”

My chin stiffens. “If you want to kill me to make sure I don’t betray you, then do it. I won’t resist,” I lie. “But if I’m gone, no one else will have your back.”

It’s a risk, stoking the flames of his paranoia this way, but I’d rather he focus on how he needs me versus all the reasons he doesn’t.

Pops’s hand is trembling. It’s slight, but it’s there, and I wonder if it’s a constant tremor or if maybe he’s not as unruffled as he’s trying to appear. If maybe…he does actually care whether I live or die.

“Put the gun down, Papá,” I say with a soothing tone. “I’m sorry I fucked up. It won’t happen again.”

A second goes by.

A minute.

Two.

Finally, he drops the weapon, placing it on the table in front of us and leaning back on the couch, his eyes going to the TV as though nothing happened at all.

Peppino’s smiling face is mocking me from the screen.

I sit back, my lungs aching for a deep breath and my heart crashing against my sternum.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask, clearing my throat.

“Now you forget the Kingstons ever existed, go back to work, and I try to forget the way you brought shame to our name.”

His voice is monotonous, and his words are meant to cut, but they don’t hit like they used to.

I don’t believe he’s over this for a second.

And I may have disappointed my father, but he’s out of his fucking mind if he thinks I’m going to just forget everything I overheard Trent and Aria talk about.

Starting with figuring out what happened the night someone tried to kill me.

Because if Aria wasn’t the one who saved me, then who the fuck was?