Enzo’s eyes sharpen. “I did what was necessary.”
Turo holds his gaze. “So will I.”
The room doesn’t move. No one breathes. And then, like it’s already been choreographed, like everyone in this room has lived through versions of this moment before, Turo reaches into the inside of his waistband and draws a gun.
It’s not dramatic. It’s not a flourish. It’s a fact.
But I draw in a deep breath. Because I’ve never watched a man decide to kill someone who used to be his brother. Because I’ve never watched grief turn into execution with no warning at all.
Enzo’s eyes flick to the weapon. For the first time, he looks human. Not afraid, not fully. Enzo is too arrogant to be afraid. But surprised. As if he truly believed his loyalty would be an armor thick enough to stop the consequences.
“Turo,” he says. “Think.”
Turo doesn’t blink. Enzo swallows. His gaze darts to me again, quick, calculating. Like he’s looking for a lever.
He won’t find one. I don’t move. I don’t flinch. Not because I’m brave. Because if I move, it gives Enzo something.
And I refuse to.
Turo’s arm lifts. The gun steadies. Enzo’s mouth opens. Maybe to plead, maybe to bargain, maybe to say something that will make this feel like less of a betrayal.
He doesn’t get the chance.
One shot.
Clean.
Final.
Enzo’s body jerks, then collapses as if all the strings holding him upright have been cut. The sound of him hitting the floor is dull, heavy, shockingly ordinary.
And then, silence. No cheers. No exhales of satisfaction. Just the brutal quiet of consequence.
My hands are cold. My stomach is tight. My brain is strangely clear. This is what happens in his world. A man touches your child, and you remove him from the earth.
I should be horrified. I am. But there’s something else underneath it. Understanding. Because Marco would have used violence like punishment. Like indulgence. Like a way to feel powerful.
Turo used it like a door closing. A decision made, carried, and sealed.
The men in the room don’t speak. They move like machinery. Gianni signals. Two guards enter, efficient, and lift Enzo’s bodylike it weighs nothing. Matteo grabs a cloth and wipes the smallest smear where Enzo fell, because even blood here is handled with discipline.
Carlo, the old guard, meets Turo’s gaze. A wordless exchange passes between them. Recognition. Legitimacy. Law fulfilled.
Then the men file out. One by one. None of them looks at me. Not because they don’t see me. But because I am not the point.
When the door closes behind the last of them, the room becomes smaller. Now there’s no audience to hold Turo upright. Now there’s only the man and the weight of loss.
Turo doesn’t move for a moment. He stands over the place where Enzo fell, gun still in his hand, arm lowered now but not relaxed. His face is stone. But his eyes… his eyes look like they’ve lost something they can’t recover.
I take a step toward him. Carefully. Like approaching an animal after it’s been forced to bite.
“Turo,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t answer. His throat works once. The gun shifts in his hand as if he’s suddenly aware he’s holding it. He places it on the table with deliberate care, like setting down something poisonous. Then he stands there, staring at nothing.
I move closer until I’m at his side. Close enough to feel heat off him. Close enough to see the slight tremor in his fingers that he’s trying to hide. I reach for his hand. Not tugging. Not demanding. Just offering. My fingers wrap around his, steady.
He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t tighten his grip. He just lets me hold him.
