“Good?” I ask, even though I can see the answer.
“Really good.” He takes another bite. “You stress-bake?”
“How did you know that?”
“There’s like four dozen cookies cooling on your counter and you’re wearing an apron at 9 PM.” He gestures with the cookie. “Either you stress-bake or you’re prepping for the world’s saddest bake sale.”
“Fair point.”
I sit across from him. Though his lap looks more inviting. Watch him eat my cookies and try not to think about his hands. Or his mouth. Or the way his throat works when he swallows.
I shouldn’t be wondering how that motion would feel against my tongue. I absolutely am.
Get it together, Stevie. He’s here on mob business. This is not a date.
“So,” I say. “Did they send you to threaten me? Rough me up? Convince me not to testify?”
He pauses mid-bite. Sets the cookie down carefully. “Would it work if they did?”
“No.”
“Then why would I waste my time?” He picks up his milk. Takes a sip. “I’m here to make sure you understand what you’re stepping into. What testifying means. For you and for Dario.”
“I know what it means.”
“Do you?” His caramel eyes lock on mine. “You saw something you shouldn’t have. You gave a statement that’s going to put him away for twenty years, minimum. And you think the family’s just going to... let that go?”
The dozen cookies I ate churn in my gut.
“You’re here to scare me.”
“I’m here to be honest with you.” He leans forward. Not threatening, just... present. “You keep living your normal life, going to work, baking cookies. And they keep watching. Waiting. Figuring out if you’re worth the trouble.”
My pulse spikes. My body reacts like this is foreplay, and I want to scream at it to get its priorities straight.
“Am I? Worth the trouble?”
He looks at me for a long moment. “That depends on whether you testify or not.”
The implication hangs in the air between us.
I should be terrified. Should be calling the police, hitting him with a cookie sheet and not noticing the way his hands dwarf the milk glass. Or wondering whether his hair is as soft as it looks. Or thinking about tracing his neck tattoo with my tongue.
“Can you...” I swallow. “Can you tell Dario something for me?”
Enzo raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“That I’m sorry. That I wish things were different.” The words come out rushed. “That he was kind to me when he didn’t have to be, and I won’t forget that.”
He’s staring at me like I’ve just complicated things.
Join the club, buddy. I’ve been doing that to myself for twenty-eight years.
“You want me to tell the man you’re sending to prison that you’re... sorry?”
“Yes.”
“And that he was kind?”
