“Enzo.” Dario’s voice cuts through. “Let him go.”
“Why should I?”
“Because he came here. To us. To figure out how to share her instead of keep her.”
Enzo goes still. His grip loosens slightly. He looks from Dario to me. “Share her?” He laughs.
“That’s why I’m here,” I say. “Not to fight. Not to stake claim. To figure out if there’s a way we can all.” I stop. “If there’s a way she can have all of us.”
He releases me. Steps back. “You’re serious.”
“I’m serious.”
His eyes search my face. “You have her. You could keep her to yourself. Why bring us into it?”
“Because she’s not whole without you.” The admission costs me. “Because I love her enough to want her happy more than I want her exclusively mine.”
Enzo stares at me for a long moment. Then he turns away. Paces. “You’d share her.”
“I’d do anything for her. Even this.”
“Even watch her love me the way she loves you? Or more?”
“If that’s what she needs.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “You’re either the most selfless man I’ve ever met,” he says finally, “or a fucking idiot.”
“Probably both.”
“Probably.” Dario agrees and moves to the bar. Pours two drinks. Holds one out to me. “I don’t trust you.”
“I don’t trust you either. Both of you,” I say.
“Good. We understand each other.” Dario raises his glass. “To Stevie. And to whatever the hell this is.”
I take the drink. Don’t toast. Just down it in one swallow, letting the burn replace the ache in my chest.
“I haven’t agreed to anything,” I say, setting down the glass. “And neither has she. I came here to talk. To see if there’s any world where this isn’t a complete disaster.”
“And?” Dario asks.
“And I still don’t know.” I look between them. “But I’m willing to try. If you are.”
Enzo’s quiet. Dario watches him.
Whatever happens next, whatever they decide, I’m not the man in control anymore. I’m just standing in the blast radius.
Dario moves to pour another round. I watch Enzo’s face and wonder if he’s capable of the kind of surrender this requires.
Chapter Thirty-One
ENZO
My mind is spinning in a hundred directions and these motherfuckers are toasting?
Glass clinks. Liquor flashes. For a second I swear I’m back at a table where men make toasts right before they order someone’s death. My skin goes tight over my bones.
This isn’t celebration. It’s negotiation dressed up like civility.
