Another nod.
“You communicated with Rossi contacts.”
Enzo’s mouth twitches. “Business is complicated.”
Turo doesn’t flinch. He lays it all out like he’s reading a death sentence in a language he learned too young. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t gesture. He doesn’t let his grief leak into the room. He is a blade.
When he finishes, the silence is so complete it feels like pressure.
Enzo exhales, looking almost amused. “All true,” he says.
The admission should shock me. It doesn’t. I think that’s what terrifies me most: how quickly my mind accepts the rules of this world once it realizes my son is at stake.
Turo’s gaze doesn’t move. “Why?”
Enzo tilts his head, studying him like he always has. Like the friend who thinks he knows you better than you know yourself.
“Because you were never going to have an heir,” Enzo says, as if it’s obvious. “Marco is useless.”
Luca makes a sound under his breath like he wants to spit.
Enzo continues, unbothered. “The family needed stability. The old guard was restless. Rivals were watching. You’re not young anymore, Turo.”
My stomach knots at the casual cruelty of it. Turo’s eyes don’t change.
“And I could provide that,” Enzo finishes. “I have provided that, for thirty years.”
The words hang between them. A claim. A justification. A reminder of history.
Turo’s voice remains deadly quiet. “So you tried to eliminate my son.”
Enzo’s expression shifts into something like irritation, like Turo is being sentimental in a room that requires pragmatism. “I tried to eliminate liability before he became one,” Enzo says. “A child makes you weak.”
My skin goes cold. I glance at Turo’s hands. Still open. Still empty. But I can feel the violence in him like heat in a furnace.
Enzo looks at me again, just briefly, and there’s something almost pleased there. Like he’s satisfied I’m hearing this. Like he wants me to understand how small I am to him.
“A mother and a child,” Enzo says, “are leverage. Vulnerabilities. Everyone knows it. It’s not personal, Lucia.”
My name in his mouth makes my stomach flip. Not personal. As if my son isn’t a person. As if he’s a chess piece.
I force my face to remain still. Fear is contagious. Especially to children. Nico isn’t here, but part of me is still built around protecting him. Even in rooms he can’t see.
Turo speaks again. And this time, something in his tone shifts. Not louder. Just colder.
“You touched my son.”
The words land like a gun cocking. Enzo’s smile falters for the first time.
“Don’t be dramatic,” Enzo says coaxingly. “He’s alive. He’s fine. You have him now. We could have managed this. Quietly.”
“Quietly,” Turo repeats, disgusted.
Enzo’s mouth tightens. “You know what this life requires.”
Turo steps forward. Only one step. But the air in the room changes. Men straighten unconsciously. Not from fear of Enzo. From fear of the thing Turo becomes when he’s been betrayed.
“You threatened my family,” Turo says, each word a nail. “You betrayed thirty years of trust.”
