"Probably inherited it along with everything else. Massimo died in 2015. Whatever hold he had on Papa, it would have transferred to his son."
"And when Papa tried to end it—"
"We don't know that's what happened." The words were careful. Measured. The words of a don who couldn't afford to start a war based on speculation. "We need more. Proof of what Massimo had on Papa. Proof that Enzo used it to—" I stopped. Breathed. "We need to know what the leverage was before we can prove how it was used."
Santo was quiet for a moment. His fingers traced the edge of the ledger, following the worn leather binding, the ghost of our father's hand on every page.
When he spoke again, his voice was different. Quieter. More controlled, which somehow made it worse.
"Your wife."
My whole body went still.
"Have you noticed how she reacts to him?"
The funeral. Gemma's white face when Enzo entered the room. The way she'd refused to meet his eyes. The trembling hands wrapped around a coffee cup she never drank.
"Yes."
Santo's gaze met mine, and I saw understanding there. The kind of understanding that came from growing up in this life, from learning to read danger in the smallest gestures.
"There's history there. Something he did to her." He set the ledger back on my desk with more care than he'd picked it up. "Find out what. It might be connected."
I didn't respond. Couldn't. My throat had closed around something hot and sharp, something that felt too much like rage to be useful.
"I'm not saying use her." Santo's voice softened—just slightly, just enough to remind me he was my brother beneath all the fury. "I'm saying she knows something. Whether she realizes it or not. And if Enzo's hold over our family has anything to do with his hold over hers—"
"I understand."
He studied me for a long moment. Whatever he saw in my face seemed to satisfy him, because he nodded once and moved toward the door.
"After the charity event Thursday," he said. "You, me, and Marco. We go through everything together. Make a plan."
"Agreed."
The door closed behind him. I sat alone in my study, the ledger open on the desk, my father's careful handwriting documenting two decades of secrets he'd taken to his grave.
Massimo Valenti. The man who had built an empire on other people's weaknesses, who had raised a son to continue the tradition.
What had he known about my father? What sin had Vito Caruso committed that was worth twenty years of payments?
And what did any of it have to do with Gemma?
I thought about the reception. The way she'd frozen when Enzo approached her at the bar. The color draining from herface. The trembling I'd felt through the fabric of her dress when I'd put myself between them.
I knew her when she was young. That's what he'd said. Watched her grow into quite a woman.
The subtext had been a knife. I'd felt it slide between my ribs even then, even without understanding what it meant.
Now, alone in my study with my father's secrets spread before me, I thought I was beginning to understand.
Enzo Valenti collected leverage. It was his art form, his religion, the foundation of everything he built. He found people's weaknesses and he exploited them, systematically, ruthlessly, with the patience of a spider spinning its web.
What weakness had he found in Gemma? What had he done to that quiet girl at a family dinner, the one who'd stammered about books? What had happened in the years between then and now to turn her into this careful, guarded woman who flinched at loud noises and apologized for existing?
What did you do to her?
I needed answers.
