"If this is true," Enzo mutters, staring at the table, "if your uncle didn't—" He breaks off, drags a hand down his face. "Fuck."
"I know," I agree quietly. "I killed them all for nothing."
The words sit between us, heavy and irreversible.
Enzo falls back fully into his chair. "Fuck," he exhales again, softer now.
We look at each other—two men who've buried enough bodies to populate a small city—and for once, neither of us knows what to say.
After a moment, Enzo lifts his gaze. "Go ahead," he invites.
I frown. "What?"
"Shoot me," his voice is flat. "Get it over with. This is as much my fault as it was Bello's."
The thought twists something ugly in my chest. I shake my head. "I'd have to shoot myself then, too."
That stops him. We sit in silence for a moment longer, the air thick with ghosts. We both trusted Bello. Fucking Bello.
"The hit may have been framed as family," I continue. "But the money doesn't lie. Kingsley paid someone. Bello made sure I never looked in that direction."
Bello didn't lie outright; he filtered. Passed on what suited him, buried the rest underhandledandno further action needed. Silence settles between us. Heavy. Shared.
"So what now?" Enzo asks.
I straighten slowly.
"Now," I say, "we pull the thread Bello tried to bury. And we do it quietly."
Enzo nods once. No hesitation. No questions.
"Good," I add. "Because if Kingsley thought he could buy his way into my world and walk away clean?—"
I let the sentence hang. Enzo finishes it for me. "He forgot who you are."
And for the first time since this began, I know one thing with absolute certainty: The rot didn't come from my house. But I'm the one who's going to burn it out.
"There's always noise around a hit," Enzo reminds me. "People try to attach themselves after the fact."
"They do," I murmur. "Damiano is working Whitford over. I need you to get your hands on a woman named Marianne and a man named Sean. Both work for Kingsley. I want them brought to the Oven. I'll talk to them tomorrow. This afternoon, Alessio and I have business in LA with Joaquín."
"Alright." He comes over to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. "For all it's worth, your uncle, your cousins… they had it coming."
I nod. They did. But I would have liked to deal with them on my own time instead of being pushed into it. For a moment, the image returns. A house lit from the inside out. Windows glowing like furnaces. My uncle's voice, gone long before the roof surrendered. Fire is cleaner than bullets. It leaves no witnesses.
Just the slow, sharp crack of timber under pressure, the controlled collapse of something that believed it was permanent. I didn't watch until the end. I didn't need to. Blood built that house. Ash finished it.
Enzo straightens and walks to the door.
"One more thing," I stop him. "When Bello told you this… did he seem nervous?"
Enzo thinks about that longer than I like. "No. He was more resigned. But that could be me now, reading into things after."
That lands. I nod again. "Thank you."
I turn toward the window, my city gleaming below, and speak without looking back.
"If Bello filtered what he heard," I say quietly, "or protected someone who didn't deserve it, then everything I built on that truth becomes suspect."
