Chapter 18
Turo
The gala has always beena necessary lie. Money laundering without the money. Power softened into philanthropy. Men who sign orders they never put their names on, shaking hands with people who believe charity absolves intent. I’ve hosted it for fifteen years. I know where every camera will be. Which donors need reassurance. Which politicians need plausible deniability wrapped in champagne and string quartets.
It’s theater. Tonight should be routine.
It isn’t.
The estate hums with preparation. Staff moving in disciplined arcs, florals being positioned and repositioned, security checking routes that have never failed and never will. Everything is precise. Predictable.
I am not.
I stand in the dressing room with my jacket off, cufflinks on the table, and the mirror refuses to show me anything but a man waiting for impact.
Enzo is already here. That’s the first deviation. Normally, this would be delegated. Assistants, coordinators, underlings who understand hierarchy well enough to act without being seen.Enzo does not usually involve himself in logistics. He prefers outcomes, not process.
Tonight, he’s everywhere.
“Lighting needs to be warmer in the west hall,” he says, glancing at his tablet. “The press will cluster there first.”
“They always do,” I reply.
He smiles faintly. “Still worth adjusting.”
He’s dressed already. Black tie, immaculate. No ring. No excess. The picture of restraint. The kind of man people instinctively trust because he never seems to want anything.
I file the observation away. Enzo has been spending more time at the estate lately. More time with Marco. More time making suggestions that sound like support. Mentoring, he calls it.
Marco will attend tonight. First public appearance since rehab. That alone makes this night volatile.
“He’s nervous,” Enzo says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather. “But eager.”
“Eager for what?”
“Redemption,” Enzo replies smoothly. “Visibility. Proof of progress.”
I don’t respond. Marco’s version of progress has always required an audience.
“And he’s bringing her,” Enzo adds.
My body reacts before I can stop it. A tightening behind the ribs. A heat that moves too fast. A sudden awareness of my pulse in my throat.
I keep my face neutral.
“Lucia,” Enzo continues, finally saying her name like it’s an unimportant detail. “Good optics.”
Optics.
The word scrapes.
“She agreed,” Enzo goes on. “Smart, really. Shows she’s cooperative. Stable.”
I turn slightly, enough to meet his eyes. “You believe that?”
Enzo shrugs, light, unbothered. “Belief isn’t required. Perception is.”
There it is again. That faint pressure in my chest.
