Chapter 5
FIVE
ENRICO FERRARA
“A glass of wine, Mr. Ferrara?”
I looked at the waiter standing in front of me—posture perfect, silver tray extended—and for a brief second, I wanted nothing more than to turn around and leave without speaking to a single person.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have that luxury.
“Not now,” I said coolly. “Thank you.”
He nodded and disappeared into the crowd of elegantly dressed guests moving through the enormous ballroom, decorated with an almost obscene level of luxury.
Eloá Ferrara’s birthday was always an event.
Not just a party—an obligation. Meticulously planned, engineered to force the Ferrara family to present the world with a perfect facade of unity and harmony.
It was almost unbearable irony.
“You could at least pretend you’re happy to be here,” André’s amused, provoking voice appeared beside me, yanking me out of my thoughts.
I turned and shot him an irritated look. My brother was smiling, entertained by my displeasure.
“I don’t have to pretend with you,” I said quietly, scanning the room. “You know exactly how I feel about this.”
The party was packed with influential people—powerful businessmen, ambitious politicians—all there to honor the Ferrara matriarch. But more than that, they were there to see and be seen.
Hypocrisy practically hung in the air.
“I know,” André replied with a dramatic sigh. “You hate every second of it. And yet here you are. And you’ll stay until the end because it’s what our dear grandmother expects. And you never say no to her.”
I fixed him with a cold stare.
“I could say no if I wanted to.”
André lifted an eyebrow, utterly unconvinced, then let out a short, mocking laugh.
“Sure. Try telling Eloá Ferrara no and see what happens.” He raised his own glass in a fake toast. “Honestly, that might be an entertaining spectacle. I’ll even make popcorn.”
I exhaled slowly, controlling the irritation rising in my throat. André knew exactly how to get under my skin. Worse—he was right.
I had never dared defy our grandmother. She had controlled every detail of our lives since our parents died, and I learned far too young that fighting her control was pointless.
But I also learned she had earned that reverence.
That was why, even at forty-four, I still gave it to her.
Respect—above everything.
Before I could respond, Eloá’s imposing figure appeared at the entrance of the ballroom. A sudden silence rippled through the room as attention snapped toward her.
She approached in a long black dress, flawless, with jewelry that was discreet only in style—not in price. Her gaze swept the room until it landed directly on me.
For a second, her severe expression softened—barely—a near imperceptible nod of approval.
“And here she comes,” André murmured beside me, an ironic smile on his lips. “Better put on your best favorite-grandson face.”
“Shut up, André,” I muttered through clenched teeth as Eloá reached us and extended her hand.
I leaned down automatically and kissed the back of it, feeling the full weight of her assessing gaze. When I looked up, her face was perfectly composed again—serious, unreadable.
“Enrico. I’m pleased to see you punctual this year,” she said. Then her eyes cut briefly to André. “As for you… let’s pretend I didn’t notice you arrived late again.”
André only smiled, offering her a silent, shameless toast.
“Couldn’t miss the chance to make a dramatic entrance, Nonna.”
Eloá inhaled, clearly disapproving of his lightness, and dismissed him entirely. Her attention returned to me.
“I expect you to enjoy the party, Enrico. And remember to greet your other brothers. Matteo honored us by appearing this time, and Luca—as always—is somewhere being excessively pleasant with guests.” She paused, holding my gaze.
When she spoke again, her voice dropped—quiet, incisive.
“And when you have a moment, I want to speak with you privately.”
“Of course, Nonna,” I replied immediately, already feeling familiar tension settle across my shoulders.
Without another word, she moved away with cold elegance, joining another circle of eager, influential guests.
Beside me, André let out a low laugh.
“No matter how much you do, she always wants more from you.”
“She has expectations,” I said evenly. “And she knows I’ll meet them.”
André watched me for a moment, his expression shifting between amusement and something deeper I didn’t care to name.
“You know, Enrico… sometimes I actually feel sorry for you.”
I shot him a genuinely irritated look.
“Do me a favor,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Keep it to yourself.”
He smiled and took a slow sip of his drink.
“Maybe I will. But you can’t deny one thing: even though we’re all gathered here today playing the perfect family, there’s not a single real thing about this show.”
I didn’t answer. I just looked out over the ballroom—over the excessive décor, the polished smiles, the carefully staged performance Eloá forced us to maintain year after year.
And as always, I played my role perfectly.
“I’m getting a drink,” I said finally, walking away from André before he could say more.
I needed distance.
I grabbed a glass of whiskey from the first tray that passed and took a generous sip as I headed toward the side balcony.
Unfortunately, Luca noticed me.
He excused himself from the older couple he’d been charming, then approached with a warm smile.
“Enrico. I’m glad you made it,” he said, pulling me into a brief hug.
Of all my brothers, Luca had always been the gentle one—the affectionate one. The only one still stubborn enough to believe something existed in our family beyond appearances.
“As if I had a choice,” I replied with faint irony, expression flat. “You know how Eloá is about this date.”
Luca sighed, nodding.
“She likes traditions,” he said, giving me a look full of understanding. “Even the uncomfortable ones.” Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “How are you?”
The question was soft—but perceptive. Luca was a doctor. He noticed things other people ignored.
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
His eyebrow lifted with disbelief, and I exhaled in irritation.
“I’m as fine as I can be. Is that enough?”
“For now,” he replied with a slight smile. “I just wanted to make sure you’re not working yourself into an early grave.”
“I can take care of myself, Luca.”
“Of course you can,” he said, lifting both hands in surrender. “I never said otherwise. But you don’t have to carry the weight of the world alone. You have a family—even if it’s… complicated sometimes.”
I looked at him for a moment. Luca always tried to soften edges, to be the glue that kept our fragile thing from breaking completely.
“I know,” I said, dry.
My gaze drifted past him—and landed on Matteo. He was leaning against a column, alone, expression bored and distant. Probably hating this as much as I did.
Luca followed my line of sight and shook his head.
“Maybe you should try talking to him.”
“Matteo doesn’t listen to anyone but himself,” I said coolly.
Luca’s smile turned faintly melancholic.
“You two are more alike than you think.”
I ignored the comment, leaving him behind and walking toward Matteo. I wasn’t sure what drove me—maybe the need to confront conflict openly instead of letting it rot in silence, the way we always had.
Matteo lifted his eyes as I approached. His face stayed cold, unreadable.
“Enrico,” he said with a slight nod.
“Matteo,” I replied in the same distant tone.
We stood in uncomfortable silence for a few seconds, both staring at the party instead of each other. Finally, Matteo exhaled and crossed his arms.
“You know I hate this as much as you do, right?”
“Yes,” I said. “I know.”
“But unlike me, you still insist on obeying every order that woman gives,” he said, his gaze turning sharp. “How long are you going to keep doing that, Enrico? How long are you going to accept everything Eloá imposes just because she demands it?”
My jaw tightened. Irritation rose like acid.
“She’s our grandmother. She deserves respect.”
Matteo laughed without humor, contempt obvious.
“Respect—or fear? Sometimes I don’t think you even know the difference anymore.”
“Are you sure you’re talking about me, Matteo?” I said coldly. “Or are you really talking about yourself? Last time I checked, you were the brother who couldn’t tell the difference between a lot of things. Like freedom and ingratitude.”
Matteo laughed again and pressed the tip of his tongue briefly against his upper lip.
“You remember what it’s like?” he asked, eyes intense.
“What?” I muttered, already knowing I wasn’t going to like whatever was about to come out of his mouth.
“Being free, Enrico,” he said, holding my gaze. “Do you remember? Because I remember a time when you were. Not just free—happy too.”
I didn’t need him to spell out which time he meant.
Before I could respond, Eloá’s voice cut through the space—soft, sharp, and final.
“Matteo. Could you at least pretend you’re not arguing with your brother in the middle of my party? People are watching.”
Matteo raised his hands, smiling cynically at her as he stepped away.
“Of course, Nonna. I wouldn’t want to ruin your perfect party,” he said with pure irony—then disappeared into the crowd.
Eloá inhaled, displeased, and turned her gaze on me.
“You need to keep your brothers under control, Enrico. Especially Matteo. He’s always been too rebellious.”
“It’s not my responsibility to manage them,” I replied flatly.
She lifted her chin, holding my eyes with absolute certainty.
“Of course it is. You’re the oldest. You’re the heir. That has always been—and will always be—your responsibility, whether you like it or not.”
And without leaving room for response, she walked away again.
Leaving me there, alone, and furious.
“Good to see this party is the same circus it always is,” André’s voice appeared at my side again.
I exhaled.
“Don’t you have anyone else to torture?” I muttered. “You have two other brothers too.”
“Talking to them isn’t as fun as talking to you,” he said with a half-smile. “But actually, I came to give you a little relief. I was going to bring up work, but if you want, I can leave. We can save it for tomorrow—business hours.”
“Say it, André,” I demanded through my teeth.
His smile widened.
“Dreamland,” he said—and that single word pulled a long exhale out of me.
“The problems aren’t getting smaller, Enrico. They’re getting worse.”
The exhaustion that had become a constant companion over the past years suddenly felt heavier.
“What now?”
“I got reports this morning,” André said, his tone shifting. “The locals are forming an even stronger resistance. They’ve already contacted regional press. They’re making noise. It could become a public relations headache fast if we don’t act now.”
I clenched my teeth, irritation turning quickly into anger. I had enough problems already; the last thing I needed was that damn project spiraling out of control.
“We sent negotiators. The permits are secured. City hall and the council are on board,” I said, cutting and cold. “But if we don’t control public opinion—”
“It blows up in our face,” André finished.
“Exactly.”
“What is the project’s PR team saying?”
André’s expression tightened.
“They quit. Yesterday. The third one.”
I let out another slow breath.
“Then I’ll have to handle it personally,” I said, voice low, final.
André gave a cynical smile and shook his head.
“I figured you’d say that. I just wanted to warn you before our dear grandmother finds out and decides to handle it herself.”
My gaze slid toward Eloá across the room—impeccable as ever, speaking with another group of guests, completely unaware of the internal chaos boiling beneath the family’s perfect facade.
“She won’t need to get involved,” I said with absolute certainty. “I’ll take care of it.”
André nodded, watching me closely.
“Just be careful, Enrico. I have a bad feeling about this project.”
I looked away quickly, dismissing the omen. Problems were what I dealt with. This one would be no different.
“Don’t worry,” I said, posture straightening as I finished my drink. “I always solve my problems.”
“I don’t doubt that,” André replied, giving my shoulder a light pat before walking away.
I stood there for a few seconds, staring into nothing while my mind began to plan—coldly, efficiently.
It didn’t matter how big the problem waiting in Tiradentes was.
I would go there myself and resolve it.
No mistakes.
No interference.
Because failure had never been—and would never be—an option.
Never.