Chapter 23 Enzo
Caesar looks worse than yesterday. The stubble on his jaw is darker now, more ragged than rough.
His skin’s gone pale, and there’s a nervous twitch beneath one eye he can’t seem to control.
He looks like a man who’s spent the last twenty-four hours circling his own personal hell, sweating guilt into every crack of that metal chair.
Good. He should. I gave him space to remember. Now I want results.
He doesn’t speak when I walk into the room. Doesn’t even lift his head. Just stares at the floor like he thinks if he’s quiet enough, I might forget he’s here.
I shut the door behind me, the sound sharp in the silence. Every step is a reminder that he’s still breathing because I allow it.
“Let’s try this again,” I say. “You’ve had time to remember details and I want them.”
Caesar swallows hard, his eyes flicking up then darting away. “She left the hotel the next morning. She took a rideshare. I tailed her—clean. She didn’t spot me.”
I cross my arms, studying him. “Then?”
“The hospital,” he answers quickly. “Front entrance. She had jeans on—baggy—and a sweatshirt with the hood up. Kept her head down.”
My patience thins. “And?”
He hesitates. The tiny hitch in his breath makes my jaw lock.
“She went inside,” he finally says. “Through the main doors. I never saw her come out. I sat there for hours. Nothing.”
I tilt my head, eyes narrowing. “So she vanished into thin air while you sat in your car?”
“I checked exits,” he insists, hands lifting in a helpless gesture. “Every one. Stayed until the afternoon shift came in. No sign of her.”
“Did you go inside?” My voice drops further, all restraint stretched to breaking.
His gaze falters. “No. I thought maybe she was with a patient. Figured she’d come out on her own.”
A beat of silence stretches, heavy and dangerous.
“And when she didn’t?” I press.
He swallows again, shoulders slumping. “I…left. I should’ve called you. I know.”
I stare at him until the weight of it makes him shift in his chair. “You lost her. Then you walked away.”
I step in, close enough for him to hear the subtle shift of my weight on the concrete. “You were handpicked, Caesar. Trusted. You know how thin that trust runs for me.”
“I know.” His voice is hoarse, almost whispering. “I do. And I’m sorry, boss, I am. She moved cleaner than I expected. Quieter. Smarter.”
“While she is smarter than you, you were the one who underestimated her.” I crouch until I’m eye-level, my voice even, controlled. “I think you know this, Caesar, that in my organization, a mistake this big doesn’t end with words.”
He swallows hard, throat bobbing. I don’t let him look away.
“Take his right eye,” I say without raising my voice.
Two of my men step forward instantly. Caesar jerks, panic flooding his features, but I don’t blink.
His begging doesn’t move me. The room fills with the sound of his scream, raw and unrestrained, echoing off the concrete walls as rough hands pin him down.
Steel flashes under the harsh light, then blood.
It’s messy, wet, brutal—but I don’t look away.
I want him to feel me watching, and want him to know his pain is personal.
When it’s done, he’s slumped and trembling, one socket ruined, his good eye wide and shining with tears. I lean in close, my words sharp enough to carve into him.
“My men will stitch you up.” My tone is steady, colder than steel. “But understand this—respect isn’t given back to you. You’ll have to earn it, inch by inch, until I decide you’re worthy to stand at my back again.”
He whimpers, and finally, that one good eye squeezes shut, unable to bear the sight of me towering over him. His body shakes as another scream tears loose, ragged and broken, filling the space like a confession.
“Next time you disappoint me,” I continue, straightening, “I won’t waste my time taking the other eye. It will be your life, Caesar.”
I walk out with my jaw locked, every muscle in my body wound tight. The pieces aren’t fitting right. Something about the hospital doesn’t sit clean. And if I’m right, someone helped her vanish.
And I need to know who that someone is.
It’s early, just past seven in the morning, and the waiting area is already beginning to fill with tired families and overworked staff. The air smells faintly of coffee and disinfectant, and the buzz of conversation hums beneath the occasional ring of a desk phone.
The woman at the front desk looks like she doesn’t miss much. Early sixties, clean scrubs, silver hair clipped into a no-nonsense twist. Her back is straight, her fingers rest lightly on the keyboard, and her eyes follow my approach with a caution that doesn’t surprise me.
I offer a calm, polished nod. “Good morning. I’m looking for someone who might’ve been here three days ago. Just trying to make sure she’s alright.”
Her mouth tightens a fraction. “Patient name?”
“She wasn’t a patient.” I pause, pulling my phone from the inside pocket of my jacket. “She came to visit someone. Early morning hours, could have used the name Lilly or Bianca.”
“I don’t have any visitors registered under that name during that time.”
“Would a picture help?”
She eyes me suspiciously before nodding.
I pull up a still frame from the club’s security feed.
It’s cropped to show her clearly and to only show her face—long dark hair, stage makeup still sharp under the lights.
The shot is from behind the bar just before her set, one of the few moments she wasn’t moving. I turn the screen toward the woman.
“Does she look familiar?”
The front desk woman leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing as she studies the image. There’s no flicker of recognition on her face, but there’s something else—tension in her jaw, in the way her fingers curl subtly under the edge of the counter.
“She came in early?” she asks.
“Yes, from what I understand,” I reply, sliding the phone back into my pocket.
“I remember her. She was visiting someone in the ICU. Room seven eighteen.”
That gets my attention.
“Did she check in under either of those names?”
She shakes her head. “She gave the name Dani Rivera. I remember her because I thought it was weird that she kept the hood of her sweatshirt up, even inside.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful,” I say, smiling as I back away.