His smile returns, thin. “Ah. Still sharp, Mancini.”
I incline my head. “Still alive, Rossi.”
He holds my gaze a beat longer, then nods once, like we’ve both accepted the terms of a truce that will rot eventually.
His men step forward with papers. My lawyer takes them without looking at Rossi. The signatures are ritual. The ink is theater. The real agreement is the quiet understanding between predators:not tonight.
As my men and I turn to leave, Rossi’s voice follows me, soft as a knife sliding into a rib.
“Your friend Vitale,” he says. “He’s a clever one. He thinks ahead.”
Enzo.
I don’t turn back. “He’s loyal.”
Rossi hums like he’s savoring the word. “Loyal men are rare. Especially when the future is… uncertain.”
The warehouse door rolls up, groaning. Cold air rushes in. I step into the night, and my car is already waiting. Black, spotless, bulletproof. My driver holds the door. I slide inside, and the world becomes leather and tinted glass and the faint smell of gun oil.
The city moves past outside like a film I’ve already seen too many times.
Enzo’s name sits in my mind like a weight. Not suspicion. Not yet. But pressure. Everyone is watching. Everyone is measuring the distance between my strength and my son’s failure.
And some of them are deciding how long they’re willing to wait before they stop asking and start taking.
My phone buzzes.Enzo. Of course.
I answer without greeting. “Marco?”
Enzo’s voice is warm, controlled. A man who has never raised his voice in front of anyone he needed to keep. “He’s safe.”
“Is anyone dead?”
A pause. Short. Telling.
“No,” Enzo says. “Not tonight.”
Not tonight.
Meaning someone very nearly was.
Meaning I will be paying for my son’s stupidity for weeks.
I close my eyes for half a second. Behind my lids, I see the smear of blood on concrete.
“Where is he?”
“He’s at home, where he will stay. As you instructed.” Enzo’s voice lowers, a note of satisfaction tucked in there. “He wasn’t happy.”
“Good.”
Enzo exhales softly. “Turo… you can’t keep carrying him.”
I open my eyes. Outside, the city lights smear across the glass like gold wounds.
“I can,” I say. “Because he’s my son.”
“And if he kills you with his mistakes?” Enzo asks gently, like he’s asking about my health.
