I keep my face smooth. “Marco will go back to rehab. He will be supervised. He will not handle collections.”
Carlo exhales in relief. Matteo nods, too quickly.
Dante’s eyes sharpen. “And succession?”
I don’t blink. “Is not a topic for this room.”
Dante’s mouth tightens. He wants it to be. They all do. They want it to be open, formal, decided in a way that gives them leverage. A successor means alliances, marriages, promises. It means power rearranging itself.
Enzo finally speaks, voice softer now. “Of course. But the family needs reassurance.”
Reassurance. Like I’m a man they need to soothe.
I keep my gaze on him. “The family needs discipline.”
Enzo’s eyes hold mine, unreadable. “Yes, Turo.”
The meeting moves after that, like a machine returning to its rhythm. They discuss logistics. Territory. Damage control. Who will handle which accounts while Marco is locked away and watched.
The consensus stays too smooth. Like oil on water.
By the time I stand, the room stands with me. Respect as ritual. Fear as custom. The capos file out in quiet clusters, already talking in low voices, already recalculating the shape of the future.
Enzo remains near the door. Always close enough to be useful. Always far enough to be innocent.
“You did well,” he says when the others are gone.
I stop walking. The wordwellhits something sharp in me.
I turn my head slightly. “Did I?”
Enzo’s smile is faint. “You gave them what they wanted without giving them what they wanted.”
That sounds like praise. It feels like pressure.
I step away without answering.
My study is on the second floor, behind another thick door, behind another layer of privacy that isn’t really privacy at all. The estate is full of eyes. Even the walls here listen.
Still, this room is mine. Books. Dark wood. A desk heavy enough to anchor a ship. Whiskey in a cut-glass decanter that I pour out of habit more than desire.
I pour a finger. The amber catches the light. I don’t drink. I sit.
And the first thing my hand does is reach into the drawer. Not for a gun. Not for a file. A receipt. Thin paper, creased once, kept for no reason that makes sense.
Hotel. Three weeks ago. Room number printed like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t contain the only night in years where I felt something that wasn’t obligation or rage.
I tell myself I kept it because I needed the record. Expense tracking. Security logs. A routine.
Lies are easier when you repeat them.
My thumb drags over the ink. And her face comes back like it never left. The way she stood in that suite doorway, holding herself together with willpower and pride. The way she watched my hands instead of my eyes. The way she stepped closer to me. The way she kissed me like she’d never been allowed to want. The way she said no to my card and meant it.
I can’t be someone’s kept thing again.The sentence lives under my skin.
I could find her. Easily. By noon, I could have a full name, a history, a location. Bank accounts. A new job. The place she buys coffee. The apartment key she slides between her fingers when she thinks no one is watching.
Power makes people easy to locate.
