I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. This entire situation revved up my adrenaline like a NASCAR driver was behind the wheel of my nervous system. A date. I hadn’t done one of those in, fuck, who knows how long. I didn’t even want to put a number to the time—it would’ve only served to freak me out even more.

I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t a big deal. We’d already spent time together, and it went perfectly fine. Hell, it went better than fine. So there was no reason this time would be any different.

Which could be exactly why I’m so scared…

Was that the reason? Was I nervous because there was now something that could be messed up? But that would have meant admitting I felt something for Enzo, and I wasn’t sure if I was at that conclusion yet. There were still questions that needed answering. Questions I had to ask myself.

“It smells great in here,” I said, following my nose as we walked through Enzo’s home. His place was insane. It was obvious he had money in almost every aspect of his home, down to the perfectly maintained blue-and-gold Persian rug underneath the white leather couch that, I could safely say, was definitely more expensive than most of my own furniture put together. And yet, with all of that being said, I didn’t feel like I was with someone who had a bottomless bank account. That was refreshing. I had been around people with a quarter of Enzo’s wealth, and they always made it something to be known, something to hold over others because in their twisted heads it meant they were better than them.

Enzo was nothing like that, which was exactly why I could joke around with him about it. I could poke fun at his affinity for bellhops and caviar, and he’d laugh and find something to poke me back with. He didn’t take himself too seriously. He was down-to-earth and funny and had a good heart and, holy shit, I was starting to feel something for him.

“Right,” Enzo said, clapping his hands, “so the exclusive dinner I promised you is actually here. Welcome to Casa di De Luca. We’re not meeting at my place for just predrinks like I had said.”

I smiled, already figuring out the surprise the second Enzo opened the door, looking like he had just been running around trying to make everything perfect. He looked like a man who had zero plans of leaving the house anytime soon. Plus, the mouthwatering scent that filled the space made me think his kitchen was being put to use. I let him think he got this one over me, though. It was kind of cute.

“Ah, so you do actually know the owner.”

“Very intimately, yes.” Enzo crossed his arms. “Did you not believe me?”

“I’m learning to believe everything you say…”

“Good.”

“Is a big ol’ steaming pile of dogshit,” I added in a stage whisper.

Enzo’s jaw dropped and he chortled out a laugh. It was infectious. I really liked the sound of his laughs. They were a little obnoxious, but that’s what I liked about them. Something about him not really caring how he sounded, just that he was expressing his joy. I laughed along with him.

“You’re going to eat those words when I get you a dinner with the Gaineses.”

“And Oprah?”

“Okay, maybe that one was a little bit of an exaggeration.”

“Mhmm,” I said. His eyes were glowing under the bright overhead lighting. We were standing in the dining room, which was painted a light gray. A tall chrome vase held a beautiful sunflower arrangement in the corner of the room, bringing a pop of stunning yellow. A wide archway led into the kitchen, where the delicious scent was originating.

“Need any help?” I asked, nodding toward the kitchen.

“Nope, you sit down, I’m going to get everything ready. Let me change first.”

“Don’t,” I said quickly.

“I look ridiculous.”

“It’s cute. And besides, you look really comfortable. Why squeeze into skinny jeans when you can hang out in gym shorts?”

Enzo considered me for a moment. He chewed on the inside of his lip before smiling and shrugging. “If you insist, signore.”

Damn.

I couldn’t help thinking it.

The smallest word he says in Italian gets me hard.

“I do,” I said, pulling a chair out from the table and ignoring the pulse in my briefs. He really did look comfortable in the shorts, and, on the more selfish side of my request, he also looked sexy. as. fuck. They were the short running kind of shorts, made of a thin material that ended inches above his knees and showed off his muscular thighs and biteable calves. That mixed with his button-up dress shirt, and he was a hot, sexy mess I could stare at all damn night.

Enzo came back into the dining room, walking past a large white sliding barn door. His dining room was just as perfectly decorated as the rest of his home. There was the regal-looking wooden table that held a centerpiece of five orchids, all in bloom, in shades of whites and pinks that balanced with the white shadow boxes on the wall holding a variety of succulents in different pots. Each shadow box had a window looking out from behind the plant, giving a peek of the New York skyline below. There was a copper statue of a jaguar wearing a studded leather collar, sitting like a king looking down on his city. It was set against the opposite corner as the sunflowers, its eyes looking at the dinner table as though it were expecting its next meal at any moment.

“That’s one of my favorite pieces,” Enzo said, setting a glass of red wine in front of me.

“Thank you.” I grabbed the glass by the stem. “Cheers.” I looked up at Enzo, and he smiled down on me as our glasses clinked.

“Cheers,” he said, lifting the glass to his lips. I looked away, drinking the merlot.

“So how did the investigating go this afternoon? Find anything else out?” Enzo pulled out the chair next to me and sat down. There was a big white marble bowl of chips with a row of dips set in front of it. He reached for a chip and dunked it in the dark green sauce.

“Nothing useful,” I said, shaking my head. “I reached out to a contact who might be able to get me in touch with the Blood Scarabs, but it’s still shaky. They aren’t exactly open to speaking to strangers.”

“How would that even work?” Enzo asked. He looked concerned, the way his wrinkles popped up between his brows. “Would you meet them somewhere public? Like a Starbucks? You’d have backup, right?”

“Yes. I’d first order us all a round of Venti caramel and white chocolate Frappuccinos, then we’d get down to business.”

“I pegged you as more of a latte guy.”

I chuckled at that. “You’re right, actually. I do prefer lattes. But no, we wouldn’t be meeting anywhere public, and there wouldn’t be any backup. I’m not part of the police force, I can’t just call for a gang of guys with guns. No, this one is just me. I’d be going in undercover. I’d be posing as a hopeful initiate.”

“Seriously? Undercover? But you aren’t exactly an unknown figure. People know you head Stonewall Investigations, right?”

“Right, which is why we’ve got an excellent makeup artist working with us. She can transform anyone. It’s incredible what some prosthetics and a little contouring can do to change someone’s face. Throw on a wig and a hat and no one would recognize me.”

“I can point you out of a crowd in seconds, guaranteed.” Enzo’s eyes were back to scanning my face again. “You sure you’re safe?”

“I’m never sure,” I said, being honest. “But that isn’t going to stop me from doing my job.”

“And you think he’ll talk? To an initiate?”

“I can be pretty good at getting the truth out.” I drank more of the merlot, savoring the bitter smoothness.

“Have you had to do it before? Go undercover?”

“Plenty of times. Not all as dangerous as getting involved with a gang, but some were. It comes with the territory. I can’t throw handcuffs on someone and drag them to the station for questioning. My answers have to come through other means. I’ve had to pose as a drug dealer, a bank robber, an arsonist. And then there are other jobs where the cover isn’t as intense. Like this one job I had.” I sat back in the chair, still tasting the merlot on my tongue. “A young man came to us about being fired for being gay. He wanted us to find some kind of proof. The man who fired him was very wealthy and powerful and was also huge in the evangelical community. He had a lot of influence, but he also had a few weaknesses. I discovered a couple after weeks of research. One of those weaknesses was hiring a gay masseur company known for specializing in happy endings.”

“Woh,” Enzo said, swirling his glass and raising it to his lips.

“Right. And another thing? He enjoyed filming his encounters. So, instead of going undercover as a gang initiate, I went into this man’s life as a masseur.”

“Merda… did you have to give him a happy ending?”

“No spoilers,” I said, smirking. “But no, I didn’t. What happened was, I ‘coincidentally’ bumped into him at his neighborhood grocery store. I apologized and grabbed his wrist for a second. Enough to trap him. I pretended I had no idea who he was and told him he seemed like someone who was holding their shoulders a little tense. I offered him my company card: Hill’s Massages, guaranteed to leave you happy.”

Enzo almost did a spit take with his wine. “Seriously? You made cards saying that?”

“Mhmm,” I said, smiling. “And he took the bait. He made an appointment with me that same night. I show up at his place, looking like a masseur ready to do business. I was wearing all white and acting real serene. He wanted me to set up the table outside in his backyard, which opened out to a massive lake. I set up and call him over. That’s when he breaks the news: he wants to record the session. Perfect. I nodded and let him set up the camera. He’s lying down, and before I start, I begin with asking him some questions. I feign recognition suddenly, realizing that him and I go to the same church. He almost rolled off the table in surprise. He sits up and looks me up and down. I can tell he’s attracted and wants to keep going, but he’s also rattled. Those are the best moments to draw out confessions.”

“You’re good,” Enzo said, smiling around the lip of his wine glass.

“I asked him, point-blank, about firing Paul for being gay. Told him Paul was a good friend of mine. He was astonished and denied it. He told me to get out of his house. I walked backward, toward the house. His face was beet red. I asked him again and again, and he denied it. One last time, told him God was watching. He cracked. Said, ‘Fine, yes, I fired him because he’s a practicing homosexual’ as if being gay was something like a religion or a medical profession. As if it could be turned on and off. That was probably how he was able to go to sleep at night, justifying his own behaviors by thinking he was turning it off.”

“What a coglione.”

“Coglio-what?”

“Coglione,” Enzo repeated, emphasizing his Italian accent. “It means testicle.”

It was my turn to almost do a spit take of wine. I swallowed it down before I laughed. “I’ve never called someone a testicle before, but I feel like it fits.”

“Oh, definitely. Italians have a thing with balls. We have like five different ways of saying testicle, and all mean slightly different things. A coglione signifies a dumbass.”

“Well, I ended up maneuvering myself next to the camera, which the testicle had forgotten was set up. I reached and grabbed the entire camera off the tripod and ran.” Enzo’s eyebrows shot up as I told the story. “He runs after me, but he’s naked and his towel drops and tangles him up, plus he’s older, so he’s not as quick. I’m halfway through his house when I manage to get the memory card out of the camera. I leave the camera behind and bolt with the videotaped confession. Case closed.”

Enzo’s eyes were glinting as he looked at me. He was beginning to remind me a little of Jose, who’d look at me just the same way.

This wine must be real damn strong…