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Chapter 30

Enzo

The city bleeds gold through the glass. It’s too quiet for a man like me. Dawn stretches long and thin, softening nothing. New York always hums beneath the surface, but up here, in this penthouse of glass and ghosts, it’s just silence pretending to be peace.

My reflection in the window looks wrong. Same face, same scars, but older. Harder. The kind of man mothers warn their sons not to become. The kind of man Sophia once thought she could save.

A cigarette burns low, clenched between my knuckles. The smoke curls like a spirit escaping a body.

I trace the scar across my left knuckle, a souvenir from the first time I ever killed. The blade slipped as the man struggled, and I slashed my own hand.

The scar burns now.

Sophia’s scent is long gone from the room, but those wildflowers are still strong in my head. I miss it everywhere…in the sheets, the air, the damn corners of the mini villa. Sometimes, I feel like she’s still here, laughing under her breath, rearranging the things I never cared about before her.

Then I blink, and everything’s all gone.

The door opens without a knock. Marco carries in a black duffel and a folder stamped red. He doesn’t speak at first, just gives me the look. The one soldiers give before a battle they don’t expect to survive.

He drops the folder onto the table. “Billy has eyes on the Volkov compound in Staten Island. Thirty men, maybe more.”

Billy’s voice crackles through the speaker on Marco’s phone. “Thermal scans confirm movement. They’ve got heavy artillery, motion sensors, and dogs. You’re walking into a meat grinder, Ricci.”

“Then we grind back,” I respond with calm detachment.

Marco watches me light another cigarette. “You sure about this?”

“Wasn’t asking for permission.”

He doesn’t argue. He knows better. We both do.

Sophia’s wedding ring catches the light on my desk. I keep it where I can see it, not to mourn her but more to remind myself how badly I failed to hold on to the one good thing I found.

I miss her.

Now, all that’s left is this ache sitting beneath my ribs, heavy as a bullet that never leaves the chamber.

When I reach the main villa, the air feels thicker. The dons are already gathered around Gabi like vultures at a banquet. The table gleams, polished to perfection. Cigarette smoke curls around the chandelier light, turning everything sepia.

Gabi wears the grin of a man who thinks he’s already won. “So,” he says, his voice too smooth, “our resident martyr returns.”

“Business,” I reply. “The Volkovs.”

He waves a lazy hand. “You mean your vendetta. Over a woman.”

His contempt cuts like broken glass.

“It’s about honor.”

My speech is a kind of joke in this room. Honor. All present have long forgotten its meaning.

Gabi laughs and shakes his head in disapproval. “Honor doesn’t cover funeral costs.” He gets closer, and the smoke from his cigar spirals upward. “If you want to die for love, do it without making any noise. And don’t involve my reputation in your downfall.”

I stay silent. We lock eyes until his smile fades, the silence speaking louder than words.

I walk out under a clouded dusk. Marco’s leaning on the car, stress clear on his face.

“We need to tell the boys backup isn’t coming.”