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Enzo wakes up…sore, to say the least. His entire body aches from what easily feels like exertion, though his thighs and back seem to have taken the brunt of whatever happened after winning the Siragusa.
The boy huffs. He supposes he did celebrate the win justly. And when the wine is flowing…
He just wishes he knew more than snippets of what happened after taking that photo with the others. Maybe Cesare will know more— once Enzo manages to meander back to the villa to ask just how shitfaced they’d gotten.
Enzo sighs. He’ll ask, no matter the embarrassment. Nothing better to teach you a lesson about humility than an act of confession. Though— getting up might be the first course of action. However, he stops after not even a moment’s movement.
He’s come to terms with the fact that he’s in his bed. It’s not unlikely that he’d be dropped off at his apartment— and, if not the case, he could very easily have managed making it back himself. But, shifting, he becomes aware that his clothes are gone just as mysteriously as his own painlessness. He can excuse being disheveled and half dressed, but the object of plain nudity is far more confusing and even more so alarming.
Abruptly feeling plenty awake, Enzo snaps up, quickly receiving a sharp pain shooting up his body as some divine punishment for whatever he did last night, making him wince. He knew he was sore but damn that’s different. Different than the throbbing in his head or the dryness in his throat. It isn’t flat out unbearable, thank God, but it’s a new kind of discomfort— and Enzo isn’t so sure trying new things while drunk is the greatest idea he’s ever had, because he really feels like his body has been laid out on the line of some frequented train tracks.
Slowly, tentatively, he drags himself to sit on the edge of the bed, but before he swings his legs over, something catches his eye. A glass of water? And, balanced on top of it, is a small piece of paper, its placement seeming deliberate. Like whoever put it there wanted to make sure he saw it when he woke up, before he had the chance to do anything else.
Enzo only grows more perplexed. So, taking the note in hand, he attempts to ease his confusion.
You have a beautiful voice, vurpi. I would have never thought I’d be your preferred audience. Maybe you’ll let me hear you sing like this again, sometime.
See you soon,
Corrado ᥫ᭡
Enzo’s blood runs cold as he reads the signed name.
Corrado.
What kind of fucked up joke is this?
There’s banging on his door. “Carusu?” “Minchia—” Instinctively, he hides the note, fumbling with it until he finds the sense to shove it into his nightstand, slamming the drawer shut before hurrying to pull on a pair of pants, Tino’s muffled voice continuing to call him.
“Carusu! Open up!”
Fuck! Enzo barely refrains from saying aloud, hardly doing up his pants before he’s letting the man in— only noticing the twin glasses on his kitchen table once the bastard is storming in and pushing him aside.
“Hey—” “Never leave me standing on the doorstep,” he reprimands. Enzo quiets immediately, hoping Tino won’t notice what he has. “I have to talk. It’s urgent.” Having an inhuman ability to sense trouble and opportunities to humiliate those unfortunate enough to not be quite as perfect as old Tino, his eyes dart almost immediately to the kitchen— then to the table…
“Who’s here?” “No one. Why?” “You have a woman here. Get her out of here!” Enzo backs away on reflex as Tino moves towards him. “There’s nobody!” “Don’t lie to me!” It’s not a lie. Though, Enzo is pretty much positive that he would have preferred mistakenly taking a woman home, rather than who he had apparently opted for last night.
“I said there’s nobody!” Yet Tino lets himself into Enzo’s bedroom like he owns this place just as much as anything—and anyone—else in the apartment, regardless of the latter’s words. An instant of satisfaction bursts through Enzo as the invasive prick is proven wrong, but it’s easily displaced when the other man informs him of a coming raid on the tannery. Who the fuck talked?
He throws the rest of his clothes on—mortifyingly strewn about the main room as they are—as Tino continues to rave on him to get over there and evacuate the whole operation.
When he’s finally left alone, Enzo, getting an awful feeling in his gut, makes a quick dash back into his room. That horrible sensation of insistent instinct is twisting and writhing inside of him like an animal caught in a snare.
He digs the note out.
See you soon…
That son of a bitch.