6. Enzo
Rocco’s growlcuts through the air. “Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.”
His slicked-back hair, oozing with grease, only amplifies the roundness of his face. And that defiantly unruly unibrow adds to the effect, sharply accenting the scowl etched across his face.
As my gaze settles on his thickly bandaged hand, a warm sense of satisfaction washes over me. A smile, impossible to suppress, tugs at the corners of my lips.
“That looks like it hurt,” I quip. “Must be a real bitch to jerk off with.”
“I guess I’ll just have your girl do it for me.”
My gaze locks with Rocco’s, a silent challenge passing between us, daring him to make a move. One move—any move—and church or no church, I will end him.
Before I add a bullet hole to his head to match the one in his hand, Andre plants himself between us. “You know the rules, Enzo,” he says, as if I’m new to the game. “Luciano owes me, therefore the girl owes me. No one and nothing can erase that debt. Only I have that power.”
His words bear down on me like dead weight, but I stand my ground, easily towering over both of them. When I finally speak, my voice comes out flat. “Thanks for the lesson in Crime Boss 101.”
Uncle Andre doesn’t ease up. “Don’t bother pretending Jimmy Luciano’s daughter doesn’t mean something to you,” he says, his tone softening just slightly. “I know she does.”
Taking a slow, deep breath, biting back the inclination to say stepdaughter. It would tip my hand and expose just how interested I am.
I try to steady my racing pulse, tuning in to the soothing rustle of leaves and the playful chirping of nearby sparrows.
Kennedy has somehow slipped her way past my defenses and into the heart of my dark world. Cutting her loose would be like tossing her over the fence into Uncle Andre’s backyard—straight into Rocco’s sadistic playground.
Instead of reacting—admitting or denying anything at all, I pretend that whether Kennedy Luciano lives or dies doesn’t matter. “Get to your point.”
He pulls out a vial from his jacket, returning to his seat with a grin. Tapping half the coke on the backside of his hand, he extends the rest towards me.
I refuse with a bored wave, and he tosses the remainder to Rocco, who eagerly snorts it up, leaving a trail of snot all over his hand.
Fucking gross.
“I made you, Enzo,” my uncle says. “Or have you conveniently forgotten?”
The scars etched across my arms, chest, and back serve as constant reminders. How could I forget?
With narrowed eyes, Uncle Andre cuts through the bullshit and gets to the point. He presents it like a fine meal, with my head as the main course. “Join me,” he says, “and Kennedy’s debt is yours.”
And there it is. What he really wants.
Me.
Indebted to him.
Kennedy’s life for mine.
Like butter melting under the midday sun, my composure begins to dissolve beneath his watchful gaze. The tension in my jaw, the hardened glare I suddenly can’t shake, the stabbing pain at the base of my neck—every tell betrays me, at the worst possible time.
My emotions swarm like angry bees, relentless and fierce within me. Battling them one by one? Manageable. But facing them all at once? It’s like wrestling with a beast, powerful and desperate for action.
I hate that my uncle knows her name.
I hate hearing those three perfect syllables marred by the edges of his mouth.
But above all of that, I hate this. The effect she has on me.
Just hearing her name in this conversation has my pulse racing like a snare drum at a halftime show, and it’s infuriating.
It’s as if that dark, inky void in the center of my chest suddenly feels a glimmer of warmth and is gravitating towards it.
As if a life without Kennedy Luciano is nothing but a lie.
Fuck.
Who am I?
I meet Uncle Andre’s expectant gaze, his eyes boring into mine as if searching for my reaction. “Well?” he prods, his voice a low rumble, almost soothing.
If this were anyone else, I’d tell him to grab a bottle of lube and go fuck himself.
Instead, I straighten my sleeve and shrug. “From what I’ve heard, the Luciano girl has enough to buy off Jimmy’s debt and then some.”
Uncle Andre’s lips tighten, a smirk curling at the edges. He leans in. “Not if a single dollar of it came from you.” His words cut through me like a knife.
He’s got me. Got my goddamned balls in a vise, and he knows it. It’s like I’m standing beneath the five commandments of the underworld, getting sledgehammered over the head by them.
1. Family first;
2. Death to our enemies—how swiftly and severely they meet their end is a matter of personal preference, limited only by one’s imagination, appetite for violence, and time allotted;
3. Betrayal warrants swift consequences—with similar creative license as number two;
4. Snitches get stitches—which, despite its lack of originality, remains a steadfast truth;
and last but not least,
5. Debts will be honored.
No one eats, sleeps, and breathes these laws more than I do. And right now, the last one is coming back to fuck me in the ass.
The D’Angelos set the rules, and once established, they became gospel.
When our family split, each king dictated his own laws, his own brand of justice—no questions asked.
We don’t meddle in the affairs of others, and they damn well know better than to stick their noses in ours.
At least, if they want to keep their faces intact.
The consequences for crossing those lines? Bloodshed and war.
And make no mistake, Kennedy Luciano is worth neither. At least, that’s what my brain keeps telling my dick.
For a fleeting second, I wonder if she stands a chance of paying down the debt on her own. Casually, I crunch the numbers in my head.
Hell, I don’t even have to carry the one. For all that asinine work-herself-to-death nobility, she’s barely scraped together ten grand.
Which is admirable. Too bad she owes ten times that amount.
Which means I’m either gearing up for battle or I’m tossing her to the wolves and drowning out her cries as I move on with my life. Uncle Andre’s pleased gaze meets mine. “Well?”
I tap a finger on my tailored slacks. Well, indeed.
If I had a diplomatic bone in my body, I would smile and nod, allowing my uncle to cozy up to my good graces like a boa constrictor. It would be a cozy scenario, where I could have my fingers in all the pies...especially Bella’s.
But there’s the rub.
I am many things...a bastard? Yes.
An alleged womanizer? Absolutely, though admittedly, it’s been a while.
A lethal thug? Or, my personal favorite, the devil incarnate? Guilty as charged.
But a master diplomat? Definitely not.
I’m more of a shoot first, discuss later kind of guy, as evidenced by Rocco’s hand.
No, my expertise registers on a darker scale—from broken bones to a gun to the skull, all of which I’m fantasizing about now as Uncle Andre speaks.
As I take my sweet time considering his offer—partly to annoy him, and partly because I’m genuinely contemplating my options—he sports a smug grin. “Come on, son. Say yes and spare me the misery of having to sell your little sex toy off to the highest bidder.”
The word son hit me like a slap, and my pulse kicks up. I tamp it down and say nothing.
When I still don’t reply, he adds, “If we go to war, my first order of business will be to have Antonio declared dead. You’ll lose it all anyway.”
Ice crystallizes along the walls of my chest, squeezing all the air from my lungs. Losing our father is not an option. Not like this.
Five years ago, my brothers and I made a pact. Until Antonio D’Angelo’s lifeless body is presented at our feet, he is alive. Period.
That glimmer of hope that he might still be out there keeps us going.
Keeps me going.
In the flurry, my mind is bombarded with bright red warning signs, which I promptly ignore. In an instant, the barrel of my Glock finds its place against my uncle’s chest. Through gritted teeth, I seethe the threat. “Do it, and your death certificate is next.”
But as swiftly as I act, Rocco’s gun is pressed to the base of my skull.
Uncle Andre chuckles, diffusing the tension by waving off his attack dog. “There’s no reason for family to fight, Enzo. Join me,” he offers again.
I ease back the gun a fraction. “I feel like I’ve seen this movie before,” I scoff, the comparison hitting too close to home. “The dark lord asking the young Jedi to join the dark side?” I scoff again. “Yeah, me, too. And even then, all I could think was, ‘Fuck that guy.’”
Andre’s smile sinks.
With a smirk, I return the gun to its holster beneath my blazer. “I already have plans to join you,” I tell him. “In hell.”
All amusement evaporates from his expression as his lips form a hard line. “So be it. Then there’s the pressing issue of your little girlfriend.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I correct, annoyed. Why does everyone have to put labels on my obsession?
“Oh, good,” he replies. “Then you won’t mind if I settle her debt by selling her for pennies on the dollar...to Rocco.”
Rocco’s twisted grin erupts in a chuckle. “I’m gonna have a great time teaching your little pet how to take it in the ass for me.” He slaps me twice on the cheek.
There’s this pinch point within me. A rush that floods in so swiftly and sweetly that it’s impossible to see straight. It blurs my vision, clouds my judgment, and tightens my rage into one big, brutal release.
Without warning, my fist flies into Rocco’s face so hard his body goes crashing into the fountain, chasing off birds in a frenzy of startled chirps and fluttering wings.
With all three hundred pounds of Rocco hitting it at once, I’m genuinely stunned he didn’t break the damned thing.
Seconds from laying another blow to his ribs, he spins around, letting the barrel of his gun catch me right in the gut.
After a long moment of wondering if I can get another punch in before he pulls the trigger, my uncle steps closer and pockets his hands. “Her debt is due tomorrow. But I’ll give you one week to decide, Enzo. Before I sell her off.”
I say nothing as he eases Rocco’s gun aside and helps him to his feet.
“A week?” I ask, and I can’t believe I’m actually considering his offer because I know there’s a price.
There’s always a price.
He nods with his trademark sadistic grin. I take a meditative breath. “What do you want?”
He holds up a finger. “One.”
His eyes dart from me to Rocco. Or rather, to Rocco’s hand. And I know what exactly what one he wants. Payback for putting a bullet through the fucker’s hand.
Dante’s words come back to me like a warning. “Get it through that Swiss cheese brain of yours. If you get hit—even once more?—”
But he’s only asking for one. Just one. Rocco. Unleashing his King Kong of a man on me, manno a manno. Or rather, gorilla man versus me, with both hands tied behind my back.
My uncle knows as well as I do that I can’t let the fight drag out. My thick skull can only take so many hits before I’m back in the hospital. Or worse, the morgue.
But if it means Kennedy gets a week of peace, free and clear, where she doesn’t have to look over her shoulder and Rocco stays away, I have to do it.
Ignoring the voices of Dante, the doctors, and worst of all, my own common sense, I agree with a single nod.
I can do one, right?
For Bella? I would do anything.
Fuck...
I should be put out of my misery just for thinking that.
It’s a deliberate move—no defensive posture, just letting my arms hang loosely at my sides. Fighting it will only make it worse, so I give in.
Seriously, what’s the worst that could happen, right?
Standing tall, chest out, chin up, I fix my gaze on Rocco and the Glock still clutched in his hand. His good hand.
The elusive Scottish brogue that’s haunted me for half my life returns out of nowhere, with a vengeance. Sometimes, he’s the voice of courage. Other times, the voice of madness.
This time, he comfortably straddles both, rushing straight out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Well? What are you waiting for? Do it!”
And just like that, Rocco strikes. His hand moves in a blur, connecting with my face, but strangely, I feel nothing. No fear, no pain—just a serene calmness washing over me.
Pure and utter peace.
The way it always happens when my world goes black.