He’s right. That’s the worst part. He’s right, and I hate him for it.
“I’m not discussing succession in a car.”
Enzo’s voice stays smooth. “Of course not. I just want you to rest.”
Rest. As if that’s a thing men like me get.
My ear itches. The spot behind it flares with that familiar, stupid tension. I keep my hand clenched on my thigh.
“Anything else?”
“There was a… small complication,” Enzo says. “Marco had his phone. He made calls. Ranted. Spoke to the wrong people.”
Of course he did. “What did he say?”
Enzo’s pause is longer this time. “That you’re replacing him.”
My jaw tightens again. “He’s not wrong.”
Enzo’s voice goes quiet. “And the family council is circling.”
There it is.
The real call.
Not Marco’s mess. Marco is always a mess.
The threat behind it.
Men who have been patient for years are getting hungry.
Men who smile in my face and calculate my death in their heads.
“And?”
“And you should not go home tonight,” Enzo replies. “Not until we’ve contained the rumor. Give them nothing to stare at.”
I stare out at the city again. Not going home means admitting fear. But going home means walking into a mansion full of men who know how tired I am.
My driver takes an exit. The airport sign glows ahead. I don’t remember deciding that. My body chose for me. Survival choosing the path of least friction.
“How bad is it?” I ask Enzo.
Enzo doesn’t lie. He just edits.
“Not bad,” he says. “Just… shifting.”
Shifting.
The city after an earthquake. The ground still moving under your feet, quietly, relentlessly.
“I’ll be unreachable for a few hours.”
Enzo’s voice is immediate. “Where are you going?”
I could tell him the truth:Away from everyone.Instead, I give him a version he can accept. “I’m taking a flight.”
“A flight,” Enzo repeats like he’s tasting it. “Tonight?”
