Chapter 10
Turo
Three weeks is long enoughfor a man to bury a moment. If he wants to. If he has room for it. I have done worse things than bury a woman’s name I never learned. I have buried bodies. I have buried betrayals. I have buried my own softer instincts until they were so far down, I could pretend they never existed.
And yet…
She still shows up in the quiet parts of my mind like a bruise you keep pressing, just to see if it still hurts.
The estate looks the same as it always has. Immaculate. Controlled. Marble that never stains. Gardens trimmed into obedience. Men posted at every entrance like statues with guns. Power made visible so no one forgets what lives behind the gates. The house doesn’t creak. It doesn’t breathe. It just stands there, waiting.
I walk through it with my face in place. Tired doesn’t belong to a don.
Neither does lonely.
The council room sits in the center of the estate like a heart that pumps poison instead of blood. Thick doors. Dark wood. Long table polished to a shine that reflects the men who sit around it. Capos, lieutenants, cousins with ambition in theirteeth. Faces that have learned to smile while calculating where to put the knife.
Enzo is already there. Of course he is. He stands at the sideboard, pouring espresso as if he’s a host instead of a threat. White shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Calm. Controlled. The kind of man who knows how to make service look like loyalty.
He looks up when I enter. “Buongiorno,” he says, with practiced warmth as always.
I give him a nod and take my seat at the head of the table. No one speaks until I settle. That silence is mine. They wait for it the way dogs wait for a hand signal. The difference is, these dogs bite each other when they get hungry.
Dante sits on my right, older than most, built like stone, eyes like a ledger. His hands rest on the table, fingers steepled, expression neutral in the way neutral men are never neutral. Across from him, Carlo and Matteo exchange glances they think I don’t see. Others shift in their seats, a subtle ripple of impatience.
They’ve been waiting for this meeting.
Not to inform me.
To test me.
Enzo moves behind the chairs, placing cups down with quiet precision. A small gesture. A controlled one. He gives everyone what they need.
When he sets a cup near my right hand, he doesn’t linger. He doesn’t touch me. But I feel him, anyway. Like a shadow that knows my shape.
Carlo clears his throat first. “We need to talk about Marco.”
Of course. My son is a stain that keeps spreading. Marco is the wound they all keep poking because they want to see how much blood I have left.
I don’t react. “You can talk, I’ll listen.”
Matteo leans forward. “The collection on Via Sant’Angelo.”
I already know. Every disaster arrives on my desk before it reaches my ears. Paperwork trails violence the way smoke trails fire.
“Two of our men ended up in the street,” Matteo continues. “In broad daylight. People filming.”
Carlo’s mouth twists in disgust. “He put hands on a shop owner in front of civilians. He fired a gun.”
“Into the air,” Matteo adds quickly, as if that makes it better. A gun fired into the air is still a gun fired.
And Marco doesn’t do anything “into the air” by accident. He does it because he wants someone to look. He does it because attention is the only thing that makes him feel real.
Dante’s voice is quiet. “He’s becoming a liability.”
Becoming. As if he hasn’t been one since the day he learned violence could make people flinch.
I let a beat pass. Let the room sit in the weight of it.
