Chapter 21 – Enya
The city blurs outside the window, streaks of yellow and red smeared across the glass. Lights bleed into one another, all distorted by the downpour that has started to fall steadily. Manhattan has always felt like a machine to me, always moving, always alive, but tonight, it feels like it’s swallowing me whole.
I’m curled into the corner of Cyril’s car, the leather seat freezing despite the heat blasting through the vents. My hands haven’t stopped shaking. I keep wringing them in my lap like I can scrub the guilt off my skin if I just rub hard enough. But it clings to me like water seeping into my bones.
I haven’t said a word since the call came.
Not since Alvise’s voice snapped through the phone like a gunshot: “We lost him.”
Not since I heard Cyril say nothing as he stood frozen, listening. Not since I watched his face twist into an expression I never want to see again.
Ren is gone.
And it’s my fault.
The words finally push past the blockade in my throat. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have gone out. I should’ve stayed with him.”
Cyril doesn’t look at me. He’s gripping the wheel with white-knuckled hands, staring dead ahead as the windshield wipers slap rhythmically against the glass.
“Don’t,” he says. One word. A blade.
“But I left—"
His voice hardens. “Don’t blame yourself. That’s how he wins.”
The air in the car is stifling and chilly, even with the heater turned on. I press a hand against the window. It’s freezing. It doesn’t help.
“I was careful…. I was so careful,” Cyril says after a beat. “And he still got through.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, confused.
“He’s been distracting us with the wrong things…with the docks, raids, and properties. He was after the thing most precious to me this whole time. Ren.”
“This is all my fault. Ren’s in danger because of me…because I was stupid enough to block my ex’s number from my phone like a teenager getting rid of her high school boyfriend.” I glance at Cyril. At the stress in his shoulders, the way he’s clutching the steering wheel. “You don’t think it was my fault?”
He’s quiet for what feels like a decade, before he finally says, “I think this was always going to happen. We just didn’t see it in time.”
It lands like a punch. He’s not blaming me, just stating the brutal truth.
Riverdale’s quieter than the city center, but tonight, it feels just as tense. Cyril’s car pulls into a nondescript parking garage beneath a sleek, modern high-rise that looks like every other overpriced apartment building in the borough. This place of Cyril’s was the closest to us, so he’s called everyone here.
Inside, the elevators require biometric clearance. The windows are made of reinforced bulletproof glass. There are guards stationed on every floor, men with earpieces and deadpan faces who nod as we pass.
I follow Cyril through a glass-walled hallway that overlooks the Hudson. The rain paints streaks across the tall panes, blurring the lights of New Jersey across the river. It’s beautiful and sterile all at once. Like a hospital. Or a tomb.
The secure lounge we’re led into feels like a panic room disguised as a penthouse. Sleek couches and expensive art. There’s a low fire crackling in the wall-mounted hearth, but it doesn’t feel warm.
I sink into a chair. Cyril doesn’t sit. He paces.
He’s like a lion in a cage. Restless. Prowling. And dangerous.
Alvise arrives a few minutes later, rain dripping from the edges of his coat. He’s carrying a rolled-up set of blueprints and a USB drive.
He spreads the blueprints across the coffee table. “Perimeter cameras were cut at exactly 9:02 p.m. Power spike masked the breach. Entry from the garden side. No alarms triggered.”
I swallow. Hard.
“He’s been planning this for months,” I whisper. My voice sounds too small in this place. It doesn’t belong here. None of me does.
“Longer,” Cyril growls, eyes flicking to the schematics. “He knew our blind spots. Knew when the guard rotations shifted. He’s had eyes on us.”
My breath catches. “Ren said someone’s been watching him…. Oh, God, he told me.”
Cyril looks at me. And I see it in his face.
He’s not just angry. He’s afraid.
No one speaks. The fire crackles as Alvise taps a finger against the blueprint, mouthing numbers to himself.
Then I say it, because it’s the only card I have. “Kai won’t talk to you. But he’ll answer if it’s me.”
Alvise stiffens, and Cyril’s head jerks up. "You’re serious?"
“He’ll pick up the phone,” I say. “You know that. This isn’t just about you or Ren…. This is about me.”
Alvise frowns. “It’s a risk. He could hang up the second he hears your voice. From the looks of it, it seems like he’s been planning to destroy the Carfano name for years. Ren’s just the key to getting what he wants.”
“Or I can stall him. Long enough for Aldo to trace the signal.”
Cyril lets out a frustrated sigh. I can see the war happening behind his eyes. His instinct to protect me versus making the right choice.
Aldo walks in then, laptop in one hand, cords trailing from his bag. His hair’s a mess, eyes red-rimmed from hours of no sleep.
“It’s worth a shot,” he says, already pulling out equipment. “But it has to be on speaker. And no delays. We need clean audio to triangulate.”
I nod. My hands are trembling as I dig out my phone. My fingers fumble over the screen.
“Put it here,” Aldo says, setting a mic next to the phone. “On three.”
I take a deep breath.
And dial.
One ring.
My heart races.
Two.
I feel sick.
Three—
“Sunshine.”
I force the lump in my throat down and speak.
“I got your message. I need to talk. Please.”
There’s a pause. A breath on the other end.
“You sound scared.” Kai’s voice is silk and smoke. Familiar in the worst way. “Did he hurt you?”
“No,” I say quickly, forcing the tremble from my voice. “I just want to understand. I need to see you. Please….”
Aldo nods sharply, fingers flying across his keyboard. “We’ve got a lock. Just a little longer….”
“Where is Ren?” I ask, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. I fail.
“Safe,” Kai answers. Then, softly, “Unlike you.”
Cyril moves closer to me. His breathing sharpens, and his fists curl at his sides. His eyes burn holes into the phone. He’s practically vibrating with the effort to stay still. I feel him, his presence like a storm pressing against my skin.
He mutters to Alvise, too low to hear, “If he hurts him…or if he says one more word about my son….”
Alvise murmurs a steadying, “Hold it, Boss,” as he steps subtly in front of Cyril. But it’s not enough. Cyril’s attitude feels combustible.
“Please…” I whisper into the phone, eyes welling up with tears. “Please don’t hurt him. What do you want, Kai?”
“I want to destroy Carfano. You should know that by now, sunshine. With Ren, I just hit the jackpot.”
I glance at Cyril, who looks like he’s about to lose control.
“I want to understand, Kai….”
There’s a beat. Then, a grating, bitter chuckle. “You always say that when it’s too late.”
“Got it,” Aldo mutters. “Signal’s stable. Queens. Roosevelt Avenue.”
Cyril doesn’t wait. He strides forward, grabs my hand, and hits the red button on the call. His touch is searing, trembling with fury and urgency. When he lets go, his hand stays hovering, like he wants to grab the phone again and scream into it.
His voice is rough. “If he’s touched Ren, I’ll rip him apart with my bare hands.”
I nod, too shaken to speak, and the room erupts into motion.
Outside, the quiet, sterile calm of the safehouse disappears into chaos. Guards flood the corridor, black uniforms blending into the dim lighting. Armored SUVs idle in the loading bay, their headlights cutting through the misty veil of rain.
Weapons are distributed with clinical efficiency. Semi-automatics. Tactical gear. Bulletproof vests. No one speaks unless absolutely necessary. It’s like watching a machine come to life—a war engine, vibrating with pressure and precision.
I step forward. “I’m coming.”
Cyril turns on me, eyebrows drawn low over burning eyes. “You’re not.”
My chest aches. “He took him from me, too.”
A long pause stretches between us. Cyril’s stare drills into me, but behind the fury, I see the cracks beneath his armor. The ghosts clawing at him from the inside.
“I’ve already lost people I love,” he says finally. His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I can’t lose anyone else.”
I place my hand in his.
“Then don’t let go.”
Cyril’s breath catches. Just slightly. The smallest falter. Alvise pretends not to notice, turning away to bark orders at the team.
Cyril’s fingers tighten around mine. “Stay by my side. No matter what happens.”
“Always.”
We move as one.
The SUV’s interior is chilly, despite the body heat of six armed men packed inside. Cyril sits beside me, knees tense, hands resting on his thighs like he’s holding himself back from launching out of the vehicle. Across from us, Alvise checks and rechecks his weapon.
The convoy rolls through the slick streets of Manhattan like a funeral procession with a vendetta. Rain drums on the roof, and outside the windows, the city continues as if nothing is wrong. Taxis. Streetlights. Lovers under umbrellas.
But somewhere in Queens, a little boy waits.
And hell is coming for whoever laid a hand on him.
I can’t stop thinking about Ren. About the way he curled into my lap after nightmares. About the dimple that flashes when he laughs. About the way he clung to my hand the first time we crossed the estate garden.
He’s just a child. And this world is too cruel. I have no idea what Kai has in mind.
Cyril hasn’t spoken since we left the safehouse.
“You’re shaking,” he says suddenly, voice low.
I blink. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
I look at him. “Neither are you.”
His lips twitch, and he gives me a grim smile, but too twisted to reach his eyes. “I’ve been holding it together for him. If I let go now….”
“You won’t.” I reach over, take his hand again. “Because you’re stronger than this. Stronger than him.”
Cyril exhales slowly. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“And yet, here I am.”
That earns me a soft and grateful look.
The SUV lurches as we take a sharp turn. We’re getting close.
Roosevelt Avenue looks like any other stretch of urban sprawl: dim storefronts, flickering signs, and a liquor store with metal grates drawn halfway down. But the building Aldo flagged stands out—a warehouse dressed up to look like a renovation site.
Only it’s not. Not really.
The convoy pulls into the alley, engines cutting in sync. A deadly stillness surrounds us.
Cyril steps out first. I follow, sticking close.
The guards fan out. Alvise barks low commands. Aldo sets up a portable signal jammer. Everything moves fast, too fast, and yet, somehow, it all feels suspended in time.
Cyril pulls me aside just before we breach.
“If anything happens—”
“It won’t.”
“Enya—”
I touch his face. “We’re getting him back. Both of us.”
He nods.
And we head toward the storm.
Somewhere ahead, behind hostile walls and guarded doors, Ren is waiting.
And we’re about to bring fire and fury to Kai’s doorstep.