Holy freaking shit.
I slammed my mouth shut.
Worry and intrigue sank deep inside me.
He took phone calls back-to-back as he drove out of the city and through the suburbs, until we reached denser land. Most of his words were almost in code, so I didn’t know what he was speaking about.
When I did get the hint that he was speaking with Brooks, I inched closer, not being subtle whatsoever, and tried to eavesdrop.
Enzo shot me a look and switched the phone to the other ear.
Well, that’s rude.
While waiting for him to end the call, I made a mental list of all the questions I had for him. I wanted to know when we’d be back at the university so I could get my phone, but I didn’t want to be rude.
He definitely wasn’t worried about little ol’ me not having a phone. His father had just been shot.
Plus, from the intense expression on Enzo’s face, I was sure murdering whoever had shot his father was high on his priority list. Standing between that might not be the smartest choice for me.
When he ended the call and tossed his phone into the cupholder, I cleared my throat. “Is the president dead?”
His head turned slightly as he looked at me. “Why do you ask?”
I threw my arms up. “Uh, I don’t know. He is alsomypresident.”
“Did you vote for him?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Actually, I did.” I gave ahow about thatsneer. “Didyou?”
He chose not to answer me. After making a right, he drove down a long road shaded by large pine trees, then stopped at a wrought-iron gate.
Four armed men stood there, weapons slung over their shoulders,and chills vibrated against my skin. The entrance reminded me so much of the entrance to Saint Vale.
I tore my gaze as different memories swarmed my thoughts. Not of the university gates, but of the ones I had grown up around.
My father hadn’t had Marchetti money. He barely scraped by half the time—his only means of income was taking what his followers had—but near the end, he also had armed men at his entrance.
I hadn’t been sure if it was to control who got in or who got out.
A guard approached us, and Enzo rolled down his window.
The guard dipped his head to speak to Enzo through the opening while hitching his gun farther down his back. “How’s Boss doing?”
“Surgery went well,” he said dryly. “He’s in recovery.”
The guard made the sign of the cross before tapping the car door. “Good to hear, Zo. Good to fucking hear.”
The loyalty and concern on his face were also different from what I’d seen from my father’s followers. This man truly liked and respected Monster Marchetti. He was genuinely relieved Cristian was alive and healthy.
While people had blindly followed my father, I saw that devotion start to crack, day by day, the longer they were with us. Those were the ones who disappeared.
The ones, by the time I got older, he’d made me help him with.
Unless you saw it up close, it was hard to grasp the power that words possessed. How easily they could manipulate and compel people. Sometimes, it didn’t take violence, just bullshit lectures where someone used complicated wording to make others believe it was wisdom.
Words were what he’d started with. Violence had come later.
Enzo jerked his thumb toward me. “This is Blair. She’s staying in the mansion. Keep an eye on her.”
