“We…” Angelo began. “We don’t have any pigs.”
Enzo gritted his teeth, staring at him like he wanted to rip his head off right then and there.
“Why don’t we all go inside and talk there,” I offered. “Angelo? Lead the way.”
Angelo swallowed hard and nodded, leading our group toward the main house. I fell into step beside Enzo, hyperaware of the bodyguard trailing behind us like a shadow. My parents were going to lose their minds when they saw this procession walking up to their door.
Sure enough, Mom appeared on the porch before we even made it to the steps, her dish towel still in her hands. Her eyes went wide as she took in Enzo Valenti and his entourage.
“Nick?” she called out, her voice uncertain. “What’s going on?”
“These are Dante’s people, Mom,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “They’re here to help.”
Enzo paused at the bottom of the steps, giving my mother a slight bow that somehow managed to be both respectful and condescending. “Mrs. Wesley. I apologize for the intrusion. I’m Enzo Valenti, Dante’s father.”
Mom’s grip on the dish towel tightened, but she stepped aside. “Of course. Please, come in.”
The house felt smaller with Enzo Valenti in it. He moved through our living room like he owned it, his eyes taking in every detail—the worn furniture, the family photos on the walls, the modest decorations that spoke of generations of Wesleys making do with what they had. I wondered what he thought of it all, this man who probably had multiple houses and a watch worth more than our entire ranch.
Dad emerged from his office, stopping short when he saw our visitors. I watched him straighten his shoulders, pulling himself up to his full height even though Enzo barely came up to his chin. It was a rancher’s instinct to make yourself big when facing a predator.
“Mr. Valenti,” Dad said, extending his hand. “Jim Wesley.”
“Jim.” Enzo shook his hand, that calculating gaze never wavering. “I understand we have a mutual problem.”
“Seems that way.” Dad gestured toward the dining table. “Why don’t we all sit down and figure out how to fix it.”
We settled around the table. Enzo was at one end, my father at the other, and the rest of us filled in the spaces between. The lawyer, whose name I still didn’t know, pulled out a legal pad and pen. Angelo looked like he wanted to disappear through the floor.
“Alright, Angelo,” Enzo said, his voice deceptively calm. “Tell me what you have.”
Angelo’s hands were shaking as he clasped them on the table. “The Bensons,” he started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. Tried again. “The Bensonsaren’tdead.”
The silence that followed was so complete I could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen.
Enzo went very still. The kind of still that vipers go right before they strike. “Excuse me?”
“They’re not dead,” Angelo repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. “We... Marco, Dante, and I, relocated them. To Costa Rica. Gave them new identities, new lives. They’ve been there since Benson flipped on us.”
I felt my jaw drop. Dante hadn’t killed the Bensons, I knew that much. Butsavingthem?! He’d given them a way out, a fresh start away from the mob and the cops and everything that had put them in danger.
But Enzo’s expression was thunderous. “He didwhat?”
“It wasn’t just the Bensons,” Angelo continued, the words tumbling out faster now like he needed to get them all out before Enzo exploded. “There’ve been others over the years. People who were supposed to be... dealt with. Dante would stage it, make it look like they’d been handled, but really, he was moving them. Hiding them. I helped him do it. We have a whole network setup, safe houses, new documents, everything.” He paused for a moment. “Dante’s never killedanyone.”
The lawyer’s pen had stopped moving. My parents were staring at Angelo like he’d grown a second head. Heather’s eyes were wide with something that might have been shock or respect or both.
And Enzo... Enzo looked like he was contemplating murder.
“How many?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
“I don’t know exactly. Twenty? Maybe thirty over the past five years?” Angelo couldn’t meet Enzo’s eyes. “Dante kept most of the details to himself. Said it was safer that way. Fewer people who could talk.”
“Fewer people who could talk,” Enzo repeated slowly. He stood up, and I tensed, half-expecting him to flip the table. Instead, he walked to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “My son has been lying to me for years. Making me look like a fool. Making the family look weak because our hits don’t stick.”
“He was trying to do the right thing,” I said before I could stop myself.
Enzo turned, and the look he gave me could have stripped paint. “The right thing? Boy, do you have any idea what you’re talking about? In my world, mercy is weakness. Compassion gets you killed. Dante knows this. I raised him to know this.”
