“Okay, Carlo. Choose: vomiting rainbows or shitting cupcakes?” Another of his weird questions. He seems to ask anybody but me.
“The rainbows one. I’d never eat something coming out of my…ass. Sorry, Boss,” Carlo adds at the end, catching my displeased expression.
We have work to do. I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I figure that while grabbing a few things for Enzino I can also find something that can get me closer to ending his family while putting some distance between me and the annoying brat.
“Let’s just get on with it,” I state, not interested in insane discussions.
“Can you check on Nacho, my dog? And bring me shoes, I can’t walk without my heels. And my toiletries, my vitamins, my pillow, since I don’t have one here. I’ll send you a list. Oh-oh, can you bring Denver?” Enzino is blabbering again.
“Who?”
“My purple dildo. It’s in the sex-toy drawer near my bed.”
Fucking spitfire. I need to talk to Seb to revisit this whole babysitting thing unless he’s okay with me shoving Denver down Enzino’s face hole. With a finger moving horizontally across my throat, I gesture to Carlo to end the call. Otherwise, I’ll throw his phone at the wall.
The brat is still talking. “I thought about changing your nickname, Scarface is too trite for a mobster. What about Luca “The Impaler” Nero. Too gay? Luca “Rampage” Nero then. Bigfoot? Daddy Long Legs?”
Carlo finally follows my order and hangs up.
“How is he still breathing, living with you?” he asks me.
“Big boss’s order.”
“Don Sebastiano knows you, Boss. He doesn’t expect you to tolerate this much. Unless it’s because of Fly?—”
I don’t let him finish, snarling, “Did I ask for your opinion?”
“Sorry, Boss.”
Better. “Look everywhere for anything related to the Enzinos. And when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere.” I grunt before making my way to the showy bedroom. It has a canopy bed with white and silver curtains, a walk-in closet, a large armchair, and on the opposite wall a fireplace. Jack Enzino must have bought him this luxurious place, since the brat doesn’t have a job.
A frosty wall of ice wraps around me, because I’m reminded once again that while my family was rotting underground and I was forced into a shitty group home, the Enzinos were livingla bella vita. If I despise Arturo Enzino with every fiber of my being, then I hate his father and brother infinitely more—with the power of a thousand suns. I loathe them in ways I couldn’t even begin to explain. And I got the distinct impression that the brat does too. Hate them with a hint of fear. His reaction, that visceral recoil, the boiling anger noticeable only to an expert eye, reveals the presence of a truth untold. Could I exploit it?
I look at the bed, which is unmade, and the wrappers of candy and chocolate bars covering the nightstand. There are no pictures framed, no photo albums, even in the living room. I notice pieces of a broken vase on the floor, near the window. He didn’t even clean that? Odd. I move inside the wide walk-in closet. All the drawers are open, clothes and accessories hanging out and on the floor. I would have thought Enzino left it like this if it wasn’t for the torn lingerie—he loves it too much to ruin it—and the hole in one of the closet doors—like someone hit it in rage. There’s a little blood around the punch hole, but Enzino’s hands were both uninjured when I kidnapped him, also he’s not strong enough to do this much damage. Plus, he never lets anyone inside his apartment. So, unless he used a metal fist and then added the blood, someone else was here. Fuck!
I call Seb’s cell.
“Luca,” he answers.
“I think someone entered Arturo Enzino’s apartment after I took him.”
“Any idea who?”
“No. The door wasn’t forced, and the alarm was on, which hints at someone who knew the code. Did Coretti find out about his future son-in-law’s disappearance?”
“The rumor of Arturo having cold feet has been circulating. But since the wedding date is in three weeks, Coretti has all the time to check on that. He called me today, though, and asked for a meeting. Do you think it was one of his men who broke into the apartment?”
“Whoever it was, they vented their anger on a door. A single punch.” I send him a picture.
“Coretti wouldn’t lose his shit like that,” Seb voices what I was already thinking. “Any text or call on Arturo’s phone?”
“Aurora Coretti sent a couple of messages about the wedding. Nothing important.” No texts from his father or brother.
“I plan to send a message to Mario from Arturo’s cell tomorrow night.” I’ve waited long enough.
“Alright. Let me know if he bites. How is the cohabitation going?”
“Thinking about letting Marco have at it for a while,” I tell him.