His mouth curves—not a smile, not mockery, a shadow of victory.
“Silence confirms it,” he says softly. “You still seek her approval. Even now. Even knowing she’s gone.”
I stiffen. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Everything.” His tone searing. “Because it makes you weak. It makes you dependent on the impossible. You crave a woman who isn’t here, who will never come back, instead of accepting what you have.”
“And what do I have?”
“Me.”
The word hangs heavy. I hate how it lands in my chest. It’s true. Enzo has been my only constant. My only anchor in a house full of men who would die for me but would never understand me. Not like him. Not like the brother who has seen me at my weakest.
But in this room, he uses that truth against me.
“You want me to love you,” he says, the words weaving between us. “And I do. But love, Ace, isn’t enough. Not here. Not for you. Love won’t save you when they come for you. Love won’t stop them from putting a bullet through your skull just to get Dante’s reaction. Love won’t—”
“Stop.” My voice cracks before I can catch it.
Enzo freezes. Not out of pity. Out of calculation. He notes the slip and stores it away.
“Love won’t make people treat you differently. Love is weakness, and it’s fake, because control is the only thing that matters,” he says finally. “Elijah cares about you, but it’s not love, lust maybe, but he—”
My eyes snap to his. “Don’t.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “You think you have power. But you don’t. You have proximity. You have privilege. That’s not power. Power is what I have, Ace. The power to strip you down until nothing is left but the truth. And the truth is—”
He leans forward, dropping to a whisper.
“You are bait. That’s all.”
The words slam into me harder than any blow. My stomach flips. My throat burns. I want to scream that he’s wrong, that I’m more than that. That I’m Aurelia De Luca, not some pawn on his Mafia chessboard.
But part of me knows he’s right.
He knows it too. I see it in the way he sits back, calm again, composed. He doesn’t need to raise his voice or touch me. He’s already under my skin.
The minutes drag. He circles me with questions—some biting, some deceptively gentle.
What did you feel when Dante stopped paying you attention?
Do you think Elijah pities you?
Do you think you will die alone?
Do you think anyone will ever care about you the way a husband cares for his wife?
Each one is a blade. Each one cuts in a new place, carving away the armour I wrap around myself.
By the second hour, I’m trembling. Not visibly—not enough to give him the satisfaction. But inside.
And then comes the final blow.
“Tell me the truth,” he says quietly. “Do you wish you’d died with her that night?”
My breath stutters. Because I’ve thought about it.
I’ve wanted it.
