“Sometimes waiting in silence shows you more than you think.”

Isabella Visconti

Enzo

It has been a few days. Jace is better and walking around the house, avoiding Jennifer as expected. Most of the time, he is in the garden, sitting quietly, watching the birds like he used to do in our house. Still silent, but no longer hiding. That is something.

Jennifer follows a routine that feels like ritual. She is awake before sunrise. By the time I go downstairs, she is already having her coffee, making breakfast with music always playing in the background. By noon, she is in the kitchen. When she cooks, it is for everyone. She enjoys it, I can tell. Her movements are precise, practiced.

Music is always there, like a second skin. Rock one day, tango the next, then pop, then jazz. No pattern I can see. I am not sure yet what influences her choices.

After lunch, she usually locks herself in her room. The house seems to feel her absence, grows quiet. But some nights before midnight, she goes to her hidden spot in the garden, between the weeping willow and the roses. Headphones on, a drink by her side.

I want to say she is opening up, but she is not. I have only scratched the surface. She just lets us orbit. When I asked if she wanted us to leave, she said we do not bother her. Relief hit me, and a little hope too. Maybe she will loosen, but it comes in drops, slow and rare. She answers when spoken to, yet her words are superficial or evasive if it gets too personal. Still, sometimes a fragment slips through, like a crack in the wall.

Yesterday, I found her in the living room with Rem and Mark, watching a movie as if they had been doing it for years. I joined them in silence. Mark passed out halfway through, and I envied the peace in that. When it ended, Rem and Jennifer talked about it. In depth. He even seemed to enjoy it. Then Rem scoffed at the idea of drive-in theaters. “Too cheesy,” he said.

“I would like to go… but it feels lame to go alone,” she added, almost absently. “And I don’t think they show the kind of movies I like there.”

Rem took the chance to flirt. She brushed him off, as always.

Rem, of course, is always near when she leaves her room. Like a moth to the light. Boredom is not suffering for him; he turns it into theater. And these days, his favorite show is pissing me off.

But I cannot let myself forget what brought us here. The threat. The Polish has not shown his face yet, but it is there, lurking. I contacted Gino so he can make the calls and activate the right names. We cannot pull too hard or ask too loud. If we do, we risk exposure.I could move faster. But right now, I cannot allow a wrong move. Waiting is not in my nature. Still, I wait.

The morning flies by. After sparring with Mark, there is no reason to stay shirtless, but I enjoy how she pretends not to look when I pass.

I shave, shower, then step out to the terrace with nothing but a towel. The warm breeze on my wet skin feels like freedom. I inhale slowly.

I spot Jace on the bench watching birds. Then Jennifer appears, silent, cautious. With admirable subtlety, she places a pair of binoculars on the other end of the bench where he sits. What is she up to?

I should keep an eye on that. Jace is strong, but he can be unstable. I bring the cigarette back to my lips, then stub it out in the ashtray before finishing it. She disappears into the house without looking back.

And as I observe her, I realize she watches everything too. How deep does she see? Can she see through Rem’s flirtation? Mark’s grief? Jace’s silent pain? Maybe. But if she does, she is not saying anything.

At night, Rem and Jace are already asleep. Jennifer is in her room. I glance at Mark, sitting next to me in the living room. We were watching some wildlife documentaries.

“Mark...”

No response. He is already in a deep sleep. I turn off the TV and remain in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, contemplating.

When was the last time the four of us spent so much time together? Our house was bigger than this one. Even with all of us there, we did not see each other so often.

I hear the sound of a lock followed by the faint creak of a door opening that drags me out of my thoughts. I look toward the sound. Jennifer’s head peeks through the crack, checking if anyone is around. She has not spotted me yet next to Mark. She sneaks out, silent on tiptoes, holding an empty basket. She has changed from her usual baggy clothes into something more comfortable to sleep in: a pair of red shorts, a silk shirt, and that thin, too-long silk robe.

She heads to the kitchen and starts loading water bottles from the fridge, along with junk food, chocolates, popcorn. She looks like a raccoon. If I approach her, will she react like one?

Jennifer seems certain that no one is watching. She hums and giggles like someone playing a prank. Is she drunk?

I approach quietly and stand next to her bedroom door. As soon as she leaves the kitchen, she stops abruptly in her tracks, a hand pressed to her chest. The only light comes from outside. From her point of view, I must look like a shadow.

“Enzo, you scared me,” she says, hurrying into her room. “Don’t you have anything better to do than stand in the dark like a psychopath?”

“To be honest, no,” I say.

“Oh my God, you have a sense of humor,” she replies sarcastically.

Jennifer tries to close the door, but I stop it with my hand. She looks up at me.

“What do you want?”

What I want...?

I lean in the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Do you always sneak like this?”

She lifts an eyebrow, then sighs and walks with her basket in hand to the chair next to a small round table in the center of her room. She grabs a chocolate kiss, unfolding it slowly, with care.

“No, because I am usually alone,” she says, putting the chocolate in her mouth, closing her eyes, savoring it. Licks the chocolate from her finger. Heat runs through me, and I sit before she notices.

Immediately, her face changes. She frowns.

“What are you doing?” she demands, sitting straight.

“Sitting.”

“Clearly. But why? Leave.” Her tone tries to stay even.

I get more comfortable in the chair, leaning back.

“No. I want to relax. What better place to do it than here?” I tease, looking around.

“Leave,” she says, but her tone is not as demanding as she wants it to sound, and her cheeks are slightly pink.

I was not going to stay, but seeing her frustrated, I cannot resist. Maybe I want to see how far she lets me go.

“No.”

“You are going to get bored,” she spits.

“I will keep you company.”

Jennifer crosses her arms. “I will watch soap dramas.”

“I like drama.”

“I am going to sleep.”

“I can sing you lullabies,” I grin.

She tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “I will listen to Taylor Swift—all night, full volume.”

“Her music really reaches me.” I pass a hand through my face, hiding a smile.

“I will knit.” She frowns, tone shifting.

“I will wait patiently for the scarf.”

“I will play solitaire.”

“Good luck. I brought my own deck.”

Then she drops it, voice flat: “I will play with the toys I have next to the bed.”

I freeze. I can only imagine what kind of toys she means.

“I can play with you,” I say carefully.

“You are insufferable.” She pulls the robe closed, as if just realizing how much skin she shows. Probably for the best.

“I am not going to leave.”

“Why?!” She is visibly pissed now. A little worry settles in my chest. Maybe I pushed too hard.

“I am bored, and your room is by far the best and most interesting in the whole house. You can leave the door open or keep your gun by your side. I don’t care.”

She blinks twice, and her eyes soften.

“As if that could help me,” she mutters and sighs, exhausted. She walks to the bed, grabs a blanket, and wraps herself tight.

“I will not do anything to you,” I say, reassuring.

“They always say that...”

For a second, something flickers in her gaze. A shadow of something older than this moment. Then it is gone.

She disappears into the dressing room and comes back fully clothed, plaid pajamas several sizes too big, hidden beneath the same blanket. She sits again in front of me.

“If you are going to be here, answer some questions,” she demands.

“Are we playing twenty-one questions?” I like the idea. She usually does not ask too many questions, and somehow something inside me wants her to be curious about me.

“Maybe.” Her tone flat.

“Start then,” I concede.

She thinks for a moment. “Favorite color?”

I stare at those deep green eyes. “Green. Yours?”

She looks down, playing with the chocolate wrapper. “Black.” A beat. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Where are you from?”

“I was born in Milan but grew up here in St. Trevi.”

Her eyebrow lifts in surprise, then her eyes linger on my chest, sharp, as if the shirt were not there.

“So the tattoo on your chest, it is part of the doors of the Duomo di Milano, right?”

Her cheeks flush slightly. I should tease her for staring, but the fact she caught that detail throws me off. Not many people do.

“Yes. Have you been there?”

“No, but it is on my list. I have looked at enough pictures of that place to recognize the door panels.” She pauses. “Are you Catholic?”

“No. My mom was. She loved the cathedral. She was from there too.”

She stares at me for a moment, maybe wondering if she should ask about my mother.

“Do you have more family?”

“It is complicated.”

She seems to understand and changes the subject.

“Biggest dream?”

“I…” I do not really know how to answer. “Yours?”

Her eyebrows knit.

“It is a secret,” she says, with a wink. “This was fun. But I had plans with my TV before you barged in. If you will excuse me.” She stands, ending it on her terms. I feel the loss sharper than I expected, but I don’t stop her.

Jenifer makes popcorn, sets up a little table on the bed, and pours orange juice into a wine glass like a queen.

“Do you want wine?” she asks, pulling a bottle of rosé from her private cellar. When I said her room was the best in the house, I was not exaggerating.

Her room is a gothic fever dream. The bed is too big, impossible to ignore, surrounded by heavy furniture carved like altars. Gargoyles guard the minibar. Scarlet frames burn against black walls. The floor is bare wood, cold, no carpets softening it.From here I glimpse the bathroom: an antique tub with golden legs, theatrical, like something stolen from another century. The walk-in closet is half-empty, like a space she keeps on purpose, waiting for something… 

Even the microwave is hidden behind a cabinet so it will not ruin the aesthetic. Nothing here is accidental. The whole room is deliberate, dark, and beautiful. Like her.

“Enzo?” She should say my name more often. “Serve yourself.”

I stand and walk to the little table where she has different types of strong liquor and pour myself from an almost empty bottle, a thirty-year whiskey. She has expensive taste.

She turns on the TV and puts on some Korean drama. The contrast is hilarious.

The decorations in front of the bookshelf catch my eye: skulls, witches, bones. Feels like Tim Burton threw up and she just dusted it. I skim the spines. What does she read?

I walk slowly, looking for one that catches my attention. When I try to reach for a book—

“If you damage any of them, I will kill you,” she warns.

“I would like to see you try.”

“What kind of books do you think I read?” her voice comes from behind me.

“Self-help?” I say, and she laughs, light and loose, a sound I would like to hear more often.

“Romance,” she corrects.

“There are like five hundred books here.”

“And ninety-five percent of them are romance,” she states flatly.

I grab one, flip it open, and read.

“It is very... heated.”

“Scandalous,” she replies.

I keep reading the scene, too explicit. She snatches the book, cheeks flushed, and puts it back. I look away before my imagination runs.

I grab another and read the blurb. “Mafia boss falls in love with a bartender… So that is where your thing for mobsters came from.”

“I told you, I did not know who Gino was at first.” Her tone sharpens, a flicker of irritation.

“And yet you stayed. Kinky.”

She ignores me.

so I sit on the couch and start leafing through a racing magazine I found. When I look up, she is glued to the screen again. Now it is a true crime documentary. She is still wrapped in a thick blanket, surrounded by pillows, looking like a bun with a head.

“Aren’t you hot wrapped in that?” I ask.

“No, I get cold easily.” She turns to me. “Aren’t you uncomfortable in that?” I guess she is referring to my clothes: a shirt, trousers, and oxfords. All black.

The easy answer: yes, I am comfortable. I paid a lot for them, they’d better be. But I want to piss her off.

“Do you prefer I don’t wear any?”

She blushes and quickly turns back to the screen.

“Asshole,” she mutters.

I smile and let her be.

Surprisingly, she lets me stay. After a couple of hours, she falls asleep watching a parody, strange and careless. Nothing like the Jennifer she shows outside these doors.

 I get up, take the remote. Her face is relaxed, cheeks flushed with wine, lips soft, slightly parted.

What do they taste like?

Her hair is black as my sins. I touch the end, silk between my fingers.

How the hell can she sleep so carelessly with me here?

I turn off the TV and kill the lights. The moon paints the room. I stay on the couch a little longer, listening, thinking. Her breathing is soft and steady, a lullaby for someone who forgot how to sleep. Warmth creeps through me. Her scent lingers, delicate as a shadow. I let my eyes close, her presence still in the air.

Some sound drifts through the room. I open my eyes. How long did I sleep? I do not know. I am still on the couch. The room is still dim. I hear it again, a soft squeak.

Is it her?

I approach the bed, slow and quiet. She is dreaming, or, judging by her expression, trapped in a nightmare. Her brows tense, her lips press tight, she clutches the blanket against her chest like a lifeline.

I hesitate. I want to comfort her, but I do not want to wake her.

So I kneel beside the bed. Gently, I slide my finger across her cheek, catching a tear before it falls. She stills. I freeze, not daring to breathe. Seconds drag. Then, almost imperceptibly, she leans into my touch. Her tension fades. Her breath evens out. Peace settles over her face, as if pain had never been there.

I stay a moment longer, watching, listening, breathing her in. Then I leave in silence.