Page 2 of The Masked King

“I lost track of time.” She instinctively leans into his touch.

They know each other. It should make me feel better that she wasn’t trying to get my attention, but it doesn’t. I recognize that familiarity they have. In a parallel universe, this could’ve been me and Demi.

I mean, fuck, it was me and Demi. We had that same easy relationship right from the outset, gravitating towards each other like the world was tilting our paths together. Talking like we had everything in common, laughing, touching, breathing each other’s oxygen like it was natural to be that close to one person. Was it all Demi? Did I even contribute to the relationship, or did I simply follow her lead?

At this point, who knows?

“I’m Gina,” she says as Andy moves on to the next customer.

“Enzo.”

“Enzo,” she repeats my name as if trying it on for size. “Does she know how you feel about her?”

“Are you a therapist in your spare time?” I raise my glass to my lips and think better of it. I’m already riding the slippery slope to dick-land; another couple shots and I’ll be a lost cause.

“Nope. I’m an artist. I pay attention. And that mask you’re wearing—” she draws a circle in front of my face with her index finger “—doesn’t quite fit. I know you don’t want to hear it, but she’s probably wearing the same mask in her corner of the world, but instead of drowning her thoughts in brandy, she’s working her ass off to fill the void with her job. When all you really need to do is talk about it.”

“Ha!” The sound escapes my lips before I can stop it. “You got it all figured out, huh?”

She smiles. “Nope. I just read a lot of romance novels.”

I swallow. Nothing has changed, but I feel a little lighter somehow. “I tried. But I couldn’t find her.”

Gina sips her cocktail, holding the straw carefully between her thumb and forefinger to keep it steady. For a long while, she’s pensive, then, “She didn’t want to be found, and I think you know why, which means you tried to find her, but you didn’t move mountains.”

“I rearranged the whole fucking city.”

Her eyes sparkle. “That’s better. Maybe she had some stuff going on that she couldn’t tell you about. I’d bet my next masterpiece—well, my only masterpiece if I’m being honest—that you’d know all about keeping secrets.”

“You’re back in therapist mode.” And I’m still listening like she’s got me strapped to the bar stool with a gun at my temple.

The reason: she’s right. I did try to find Demi, but if I’d called in every connection known to the Sabatelli family, there would’ve been nowhere for her to hide. And part of me didn’t want to confront the very real possibility that she didn’t love me the way I loved her.

“Maybe you needed to hear it.” She sucks on the lemon slice without even a grimace. “You seem like a nice guy. Try taking your finger off the self-destruct button and see what happens.”

I smile. I had to navigate anger and loss first before the adrenaline of self-destruct became the obvious way to handle things. It’s taken me a while to cultivate, but I think I’m pretty good at it now.

“Andy’s a lucky guy.”

I clink my glass against hers, take one small sip, and don’t like how it tastes. It isn’t the drink, it’s me. Sounds like a copout for ending a relationship; maybe I’m ready to move on.

“Yeah, I remind him every day.” Gina finishes her drink and stands up. “Well, it’s been⁠—”

Before she can finish her goodbye, I swivel my gaze around to follow the sound of a raised voice.

“…hands off me!”

A young woman shoves a guy in a formal white, button-down shirt away from her. He stumbles backwards, caught easily by a man in a pinstriped suit, clearly part of the same group, who steadies him back onto his feet. I wait for his friends to tell him to back off, but instead, they all stand there smirking behind their beers, watching the scene pan out as if it was orchestrated for their enjoyment.

“What’s your problem, sweetheart?” the guy says. “You’ve been staring at me all evening. We both know where this is going.”

One of his friends curls his top lip into what might pass for a smile in any other scenario. Right now, it flips a switch inside me, and the asshole in my head jumps out yelling a battle cry.

I’m already on my feet. I would probably be swaying if I wasn’t so focused on reaching the slimeball before he can lay a finger on the young woman who clearly doesn’t want his attention. Adrenaline carves a shortcut through the bar, people parting to give me access like Moses crossing the Red Sea.

Silence drops like a bowling ball at my feet.

“You’re the problem, asshole.” I keep my voice low.