Chapter 30
Turo
The security center never sleeps.The lights stay cold on purpose. No warmth, no softness, nothing that might convince a man he can let his guard down. Screens line the walls in neat grids, feeds shifting between gates and corridors and tree lines, drones hovering like mechanical vultures over my land. In the center of the room, a long table holds tablets, printouts, and coffee that no one drinks because no one trusts anything that might slow the edge.
It was built to make danger feel like data. But I’m learning something about fatherhood. Some dangers don’t become manageable just because you name them. Some dangers only become real.
Lucia sits at the far end of the table, back straight, hair pulled up like she styled it at the gala when she had to make herself untouchable. She’s holding a pen she doesn’t need, turning it between her fingers like it’s a tool that keeps her tethered. Her face is calm. Her eyes are not. They track every movement in the room. Every door opening. Every guard shifting his weight. Her body is here, but part of her is still standing between Nico and the world, arms spread, teeth bared.
I understand her.
I understand her too well.
Matteo clears his throat. The sound pulls the room to attention the way gunfire does. Every head turns. Every jaw tightens. Men who’ve killed without blinking suddenly needing permission to breathe.
“Number trace came back,” he says, and slides a printout across the table toward me. “Burner. Bought cash.”
“Where?” I ask.
He taps the paper. “Kiosk off Via San Luca.”
That street sits under Enzo’s route. It’s a convenient artery between his townhouse and the estate. It’s quiet, predictable, unremarkable. The kind of place a man chooses when he doesn’t want cameras noticing patterns.
“Time?”
“Yesterday,” Matteo says. “Mid-morning. Two hours after your car left the drive.”
Two hours after I kissed Lucia in the security center and told her we would end this. My jaw locks. Lucia’s hand tightens on her pen.
“Purchased by who?” Gianni asks, though we all know the answer. We’re men. We ask questions to delay impact.
Matteo exhales. “Camera angle doesn’t give a face. Hood. Sunglasses.” He pauses, then adds, “But the gait is familiar.”
My gaze flicks to the wall of screens without seeing them.
Thirty years. I know Enzo’s walk the way I know my own. I’ve watched him pace with a cigar when plans went wrong, watched him move like he belonged in every room he entered. I’ve trusted that walk behind me in hallways where enemies would have killed me if I turned the wrong corner.
Matteo continues. “We cross-referenced the text timing with internal access points. The message hit Lucia’s burner at 14:07. That’s within a five-minute window of Enzo leaving Marco’slegal meeting.” He flips to another page. “Which brings us to the number itself.”
I lift my eyes.
“This burner,” Matteo says carefully, “only one person had. Her sister.”
Lucia’s chin lifts by a fraction.
“He had access, anyway,” Matteo adds. “Through Marco’s custody file.”
My stomach turns cold.
“Marco’s lawyer scanned contact records,” Matteo says. “Emergency contacts. Extended family. That burner number was listed because Lucia used it as the only point of contact.”
Lucia’s mouth tightens. A muscle jumps in her cheek. I keep my face still. I won’t give my men the satisfaction of seeing the rage. I won’t give Lucia the fear of watching me become what she’s been running from.
“Continue,” I say.
Matteo swipes his tablet, brings up footage. “Cameras. During the breach.”
The screen shows the perimeter. Trees, motion sensors, a flash of heat signatures moving fast. Then it cuts to the interior log. A timestamp. A gap.
