“He was.”
Enzo scrubs a hand over his face. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told.”
“No, I mean...” He laughs. Rough and surprised. “You witnessed a murder. You’re about to testify against a made man. And you’re worried about hurting his feelings.”
When he puts it like that, it does sound ridiculous.
“I notice things,” I say defensively. “People. The way they are underneath. And he wasn’t... he wasn’t a monster in that moment. He was just someone trying to make sure I didn’t have a panic attack.”
“He killed a man.”
“I know.”
“In front of you.”
“I know.” I stand. Start grabbing tupperware. “But he also stayed when he could have run. And I can hold both those things at the same time.”
I start loading cookies into a container. Snap the lid on. Write FOR DARIO on a piece of tape.
“Here.” I hold it out. “Take these to him. Tell him they’re from me.”
Something about the idea of him eating something I made settles hot and territorial in my chest.
Enzo takes the container slowly. Like I handed him a dildo and not a box of cookies.
“You’re sending the guy you’re testifying against cookies,” he says flatly.
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“Maybe.” I meet his eyes. “But I owe him something. Even if it’s just cookies and an apology he’ll never accept.”
We stand in my tiny kitchen. Him holding cookies for his boss. Me in my stress-baking apron, committed to this absolutely unhinged course of action.
“They’re going to send me back,” he says finally. “Or send someone else. Someone who won’t ask nicely.”
Shit. Okay.
“Will they hurt me? Like you were supposed to?”
“I don’t know.” He looks genuinely troubled. “I don’t want them to. But I can’t promise they won’t send someone who doesn’t care that you make really good cookies and worry about people you shouldn’t.”
“Can you ask them not to?” I sound like a kid begging for a sleepover. “Just… don’t send someone mean. Send you.”
His expression softens. “I’ll try. But, Stevie?”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“You need to understand,” he says gently, which somehow makes it worse. “What testifying against Dario means. Not just for him. For you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do.”
We look at each other across my small kitchen table, and I see it in his eyes. He’s not trying to scare me. He’s trying to warn me.
