"La pazienza è forza." (Patience is strength.)

Isabella Visconti

Enzo

Rem roams around the house, snooping. Mark has fallen asleep on the couch, and Jace decides to stay in his room after a shower and a change of his blood-covered clothes and sheets. After helping him, I’m ready to go, but that woman still hasn’t come out of her room.

I told her to get ready like forty minutes ago. What the hell is taking her so long? I walk up to her door and knock. Once. Nothing. I wait a few seconds and knock again. Still nothing. Third time, I knock harder. The door swings open suddenly.

“We have to go,” I say.

“I just need a minute.” She turns around, and curiosity gets the better of me. I glance past her into her room.

I… wasn’t expecting this. I’m starting to believe this house is some kind of Frankenstein creature, because someone carved a room out of a Victorian Gothic manor and dropped it in here. Black wood furniture, each piece etched with exquisite, intricate carvings.

I hesitate but push the door open a little more to take in the details. The space is huge.

Her eyes catch mine in the mirror as she continues brushing her hair. She doesn’t frown at my invasion, but there’s a shift in her gaze as a silent warning: she doesn’t like what I’m doing. After a few seconds, she speaks.

“Can I ask you a favor?” she says calmly.

“Do you think you’re in a position to ask for one?” I ask, meeting her gaze through the mirror.

“Yes,” she answers simply.

“So?”

“If you ever have to… get rid of me, could you avoid damaging the house? It was very difficult for me to get it.” There’s no trace of the woman who stood her ground yesterday. Just a faint, almost hollow tone in her voice. Then she continues: “If any of you plan to force yourselves on me, I’d rather you just kill me now.”

I close my eyes for a second. Something tight and ugly curls in my stomach.

“I’m not going to do anything to you,” I say quietly. “I was just curious about your room.”

I can’t hold her stare anymore, so I turn to take in the space. A California king size bed with a black wooden canopy, tulle curtains, and pointed posts like it’s ready to impale a dark tale. The bed of a queen. A big TV on the wall opposite the bed plays a music video, the soft melody filling the place. Tall black shelves cover the wall next to the door, filled with books, one lying open and forgotten on a dark red couch beside them.

A desk on the opposite side is cluttered with sketches, notes, and photos of her family and friends, I assume they are.

She says nothing. But I swear she watches me with clinical precision.

“So what are you? Hired assassins? Bounty hunters? Mercenaries?” Her voice cuts through the space.

“Depends who’s asking,” I mutter, distracted. Her room is full of details that might help me figure her out. These last years… where has she been?

“The other guy… is he always annoying like that?”

“Rem?” I scoff. “Most of the time, yeah.”

She finishes putting on her mascara and hums along with the song.

“Okay, let’s go,” she says, grabbing a purse and leading the way out of the room.

It’s hard to ignore her when she walks past me.

She’s wearing black leather ankle boots with pointed toes, jeans that fit her too damn well—tight around her thick thighs and perfect ass. Her hips sway with each step, deliberately tempting.

I force my eyes upward. She’s in a long-sleeved lace crop top, just like I thought. Her right arm is covered in tattoos, and where the fabric lifts slightly at her waist, I catch glimpses of more ink hidden beneath.

I follow her in silence until we reach the garage door at the end of the hallway, stepping into a space that feels more like a private exhibition than a garage.

The lighting is dim, deliberate, casting soft shadows over the polished surfaces of two cars parked side by side. One’s a tuned, jet-black BMW M8. The other, a smoke-grey ’69 Mustang.

There’s an empty space where the SUV she used for the delivery should be.

She takes the keys to the BMW from a glass display case, where the sets hang like trophies. I follow, pretending I’m not impressed by her taste, and move toward the passenger side, opening the door for her.

She laughs. “What a gentleman, but wrong door.” She slides into the driver’s seat.

I sigh and take the passenger side instead. The moment she starts the engine, the speakers explode with music, making me jump in my seat. She bursts out laughing and turns the volume down.

“Sorry. I usually drive alone. I’m used to it.”

“You enjoy shattering your own eardrums?” I say, my heartbeat spiking.

“Yes.”

Suddenly, I feel the urge to smoke. My heart’s still trying to calm down from the shock.

“Can I smoke in here?” I ask, cracking the window.

“Yeah, but if you burn the leather, you’re paying for it.”

I light the cigarette and let the nicotine do its job. Once I’m calmer, I glance at her. The neckline of her top reveals part of a red tattoo between her breasts, and the seatbelt hugs her curves like the car itself wants to hold her.

I try to look away before I drown in the pull of her body swaying, voice teasing, everything about her dragging me under. I focus on the song instead, a huge mistake. Of course she’s listening to a fucking dirty song. I shift in my seat.

“There’s no way you actually enjoy these kinds of songs.”

“I do,” she says simply.

She extends her right hand without even glancing at me. I stare at it for a beat, then hand her the cigarette.

With a swift, graceful motion, she takes it between her lips like we’ve done this a thousand times. She inhales deep and exhales slowly, the smoke drifting out the window.

We stop at a red light, and a car pulls up alongside us, engine roaring, breaking the spell.

“You know how to drive, doll?” a guy I can’t see says, revving his engine like a challenge.

She exhales the smoke slowly and turns to him without a word, then back to the empty street ahead. She doesn’t seem like the kind who’ll fall for a stupid provocation.

But then she gives me a sideways glance. Her grip on the wheel tightens, lips curling into the faintest smirk.

“Don’t you dare—” I start, but don’t finish.

Because the moment the light changes, she tosses the cigarette right inside his car and slams the gas. The roar and whistle of the engine invade the space, my body pressed hard against the seat. I barely hear the guy curse before he starts chasing us.

“Are you crazy?!” I yell, my heart racing as the speed blurs everything around us.

She just laughs, then we’re suddenly heading into a curve.

“Stop!” I shout. She gives me a quick look, her eyes gleaming, as she spins the wheel and drifts through the turn.

My heart nearly jumps out of my mouth. She finishes the curve and slams on the brakes. I unbuckle and get out of the damn car.

“What?” she laughs, her voice muffled inside the car.

I walk around and stand next to her door.

“Get out,” I command.

“No. I’m sorry if it affected your weak heart,” she says with a smirk. Infuriating.

“Get out,” I repeat, firm and impatient.

“No,” she replies, calm and resolute.

I could make her. Easily. But I won’t, so I take a breath and run a hand through my hair. She wins. I get back in the passenger seat. She smiles like she just won a war.

What a pain in the ass. I stay silent for the rest of the drive, unlike her, who sings along to every damn song.

When we finally arrive at the place, she wastes no time getting out of the car and walking toward a man working on a truck. But her phone rings halfway there, and she stops in her tracks to answer.

“G.” The same name from the call she got last night. I can’t make out what the other side says, but it’s a man’s voice, teasing and smooth. “Oh, but it suits you so well,” she replies, playful.

Okay, okay, I don’t want your pride to be hurt… Tonight? I can’t—” She pauses. “No, I won’t save you. Go to dinner with your father… Really, I’m fine. Don’t worry. Bye.”

“Your boyfriend?” The question escapes me before I can shut it down.

“No. And I don’t have one, if you’re wondering.” She gives me a side look. I don’t take the bait and just start walking next to her again, in silence.

The man notices her and steps out from behind the truck. Late sixties, in damn good shape. Broad, intimidating build, thick long beard, and a hard expression, but he greets her with a warm smile.

“Gus,” she says in a warm tone.

“How are you, kid?” His voice is rough but kind. “I wasn’t here yesterday. What the hell happened?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” She waves him off. “I forgot something inside, so I came to get it.” Then the man notices me. His eyes narrow.

“Who’s this?” His demeanor shifts in an instant. He sizes me up like he’s ready to throw me through the windshield if I blink wrong.

She turns to me with a playful smile. “Just a stray dog I found. Might keep it.”

The man relaxes, wipes his right hand on a rag, and extends it. 

“I’m Gus. My condolences for getting in her way.” I give him a quick shake.

“You’re an ass,” she tells him, rolling her eyes.

“But look at his face, you’re making it hard for him.”

“I saved his life, so I don’t think so.”

I stare at them. There’s no physical similarity… and yet their interaction is close. Are they relatives?

“You’re doomed then. She always collects. Just ask the last guy,” he says, looking my way.

I frown. What the hell does that mean? How do I answer to that? I decide to just follow her to the back of the workshop.

She moves through the place like she owns it. Doesn’t wait for the man to guide her, heads straight to her black SUV and gets in.

The windshield has at least five bullet marks, and a few more scar the hood. Jennifer drove straight into the line of fire without hesitation. If the car hadn’t been bulletproof, she’d be dead. A strange feeling crawls down my spine.

“I got it,” she says, stepping out of the truck.

“Gus, do you have the budget for this?” she asks.

“Yes. I’ll be right back,” he replies, disappearing through a door I assume is his office.

“Is he a relative?” I ask.

“Something like that.”

That’s all she gives me, cutting the thread before I can pull on it. The man returns with a paper in hand.

“Here. It’ll be ready in two weeks.”

“Okay. I’m not in a hurry. Thanks, Gus.”

“Stay out of trouble, kid.” He pats her back gently.

“Yes, yes.” She turns and heads toward the exit.

The man offers me a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you,” I say. His grip tightens, and he pulls me closer. My body tenses in alert, and by instinct, my other hand goes to the gun at my back.

“I know who you are, Enzo. We’re in the same kind of business. If something happens to her, you’ll have a few problems around here.”

I relax and keep my tone light. “You should keep her safe then.”

His hand relaxes, and he lets out a laugh. “As if I could make her listen to me.” Then he turns back to work nonchalantly, like he didn’t just threaten me.

“Here.” Jennifer hands me an SD card and a folded piece of paper when I get in the car. I open it and read. A repair budget. Bodywork… paint… My brows knit.

“What is this?”

“The repair budget for my truck,” she says flatly.

“And why are you giving it to me?”

“Because you’re paying for it.”

“I’m not,” I say, firm.

She lifts her hand, counting with her fingers: index, “I saved your life,” middle, “let you crash at my place,” ring, “and set up a meeting with Sal Russo. Seems to me, you owe at least three big favors.”

I sigh and rush to change the subject. She doesn’t even know how much I truly owe her.

“That asshole threatened me.” Her brows lift slightly as she starts the engine.

“What did you do?” she asks, like it’s my fault.

“Nothing. But he clearly knows who I am, so he can’t be a normal mechanic.”

“How did you meet him?” I ask finally. She doesn’t answer at first. I don’t think she will.

“He helped me. Taught me a few things… like how to shoot,” she gives me a side glance and continues, “and some self-defense.”

I remain quiet. A dozen questions bloom in my head, but I know better. She doesn’t give away much, but when she does, it’s measured.

We stop at a red light. She turns toward me, those green eyes looking straight into my soul.

“So… what did he say to you?”

I can’t hold her gaze for long. I turn, letting the city distract me with the blurry storefronts, strangers walking too fast, anything but those damn eyes.

“He said if anything happens to you, he’ll make my life hell.” She’s quiet for a beat. Then I catch her soft grin in the window reflection.

“How cute.”

Cute? Her brain’s definitely wired wrong if she finds that cute. I blink and turn to her.

“You must be crazy if you think that.”

“Life’s funnier with a little craziness.”

“Craziness is unpredictable,” I mutter, almost to myself.

“That’s the funny part.”

“I disagree.” Because you can’t control the unpredictable. You can’t anticipate.

“Well,” she says, tracing a slow circle on the steering wheel with her thumb, “we agree to disagree.”

We don’t talk the rest of the way back. She just hums, content with the music playing softly, and I stare out the window.

We stop at a store. Before she gets out, she reaches for a black overcoat from the back seat. Odd, because it’s a warm summer day and I’m sweating through this fucking flannel shirt and sweatpants. I miss my clothes.

But I don’t say anything. Just follow her inside and save the detail.

She grabs a shopping cart. “Is there anything you don’t eat?” she asks.

“I’m not a picky eater.”

Rows and rows of options that blur together and she moves with precision, decisive and effortless, pulling exactly what she needs, as if she can do this with her eyes closed.

Every now and then, she pauses to check out something new on display. I can’t recall the last time I did something this… mundane. Somehow, the realization slipped past me until now.

“I can’t remember the last time I was in a place like this,” I say. I don’t know why I say it. Maybe because talking to her feels easy. Or maybe I just wanted to see her face do something different.

“You must have enough money to pay for my SUV, then,” she answers, eyes on the shelf.

“How the hell is that your conclusion?” I don’t wait for a reply. “And it doesn’t look like you’re short on money either. This” I gesture at the cart “could be tedious. You could get it all delivered.”

“I enjoy it,” she says, still concentrating on a can of tomato sauce. “And we’re just two blocks away.” She glances at me. “I’m not that lazy.”

Jennifer keeps adding things to the cart. She hums, and it’s not a professional or trained voice, but it’s in tune. Melodic. Almost unintentionally, like the music is meant to fill the quiet spaces in her mind.

And when she decides she’s done, we head to the cashier. Something shifts. She stops humming. Her silence lands heavy. It feels like a curtain dropping.

She looks reserved and cold again. As the items slide across the scanner, I notice the cashier watching her a little too long. There’s interest there, poorly masked.

She doesn’t acknowledge it. Doesn’t look up. Deliberately ignores him.

“You need anything else?” he asks.

“No.” Her tone is sharp, so different from the teasing warmth of earlier.

A clear line. She doesn’t like unwelcome attention. Another piece in the puzzle I’m trying to solve.