Chapter 4 Enzo
"Idon't give a fuck about his connections," I say into the telephone, my grip tightening around my phone. "He's become a liability, and you know what we do with liabilities."
There's a pause on the other end of the line, and it's making me lose my patience.
"But boss," Johnny finally says with hesitation, "if we take out Carmine, the Rossi family will—"
"The Rossi family will what?" I cut him off, my voice sharp. "Try to retaliate?" I lean back in my leather chair and scoff. "Let them try. I’ll crush them."
I stand, pacing the length of my office. The plush carpet muffles my footsteps, but it can't soften the edge in my voice. "Carmine's been sticking his nose where it doesn't belong for months. Skimming off the top, running his mouth. You know what happens to rats, Johnny."
Another pause. I can almost see him squirming on the other end of the line.
“I've made my decision. Carmine dies today,” I say and hang up without waiting for a response, tossing the phone onto a high-backed tufted chair.
I turn to stare at a family photo on my desk.
My family built this empire with blood and iron. They taught us that family is everything. But family isn't just about blood, it's about loyalty. Trust. And Carmine? He pissed all over that, and now—he meets the iron."
For a moment, I stand there, letting the weight of the decision settle over me. It's far from the first time I've ordered a hit, and it sure as hell won't be the last, but each one leaves its mark. My grandfather used to say it was on the soul itself.
Not that I believe in souls anymore.
I move to my desk, fingers tracing the smooth, polished wood. The family photograph stares back at me, framed in heavy silver. Stern faces of my grandfather and father, flanked by my brothers and me. We were younger then, but even at that age, the weight of expectation hung heavy on our shoulders.
I pick up the photo, the cool metal a contrast to my anger-heated skin. My father's words echo in my mind, a memory as sharp as the day he first spoke them.
"Enzo," he'd said, his voice stern with disapproval. "You think this is a game? That you can pick and choose which parts of our life you want to embrace?"
I was eighteen, fresh-faced and arrogant. "I just want to do some things my own way, is that so wrong?"
The sting of his hand across my face was answer enough. "Wrong? It's fucking treason, figlio. The Bonventi name isn't just a name. It's a legacy. A duty."
Sometimes, when I question things, I swear I can still feel the pain from that slap, lingering after all these years.
I set the photo down, turning away from those accusing eyes.
I walk to the window, looking out over the sprawling grounds of my estate. High walls separate me from the outside world, guards patrolling the perimeter. My kingdom, my fortress.
But at times, my prison.
As I stare out, I think about how many lives depend on my decisions. How many families eat because of the jobs I provide, legal or otherwise?
And how many have I ended to keep this empire standing?
I think of Carmine, of the order I just gave. Another body to add to the pile, another soul on my conscience.
But it's necessary.
I turn back to my desk, eyes falling on the mounds of paperwork. Legitimate business contracts mixed with coded messages from our less-than-legal operations. This is what it means to be a Bonventi. To straddle the line between light and darkness, never fully belonging to either.
But that will all have to wait. I have a more pressing issue at hand.
I press the intercom button. "Send in Marcella."
Moments later, my assistant enters. She's been with me 12 years. She's efficient, discreet. She stands at attention before me, notepad at the ready.
"Marcella," I say, my voice direct. "Our guest will be arriving shortly. I need everything to be perfect. Do you understand?"
She nods. "Of course, Mr. Bonventi. What are your instructions?"
I lean against my desk, too anxious to sit.
"The East Wing suite. Temperature at exactly 72 degrees.
Egyptian cotton sheets, pressed twice. Aesop toiletries stocked on the right side of the bathroom, jasmine scent—not the rose.
Fresh flowers in every room. Orchids in the bedroom, lilies in the sitting area. Nothing with a strong scent."
Marcella scribbles furiously, keeping up with my instructions.
"Extra security. Two guards outside her door at all times, rotating shifts every four hours. They are not to engage unless absolutely necessary. Is that clear?"
Marcella nods, her pen never stopping. "Understood, Don Enzo. Anything else?"
"Yes. Not a word of this to anyone. As far as the rest of the household is concerned, we're simply preparing for an important guest. Nothing more."
"Of course, Don Enzo. Discretion is assured."
As the door closes behind her, I'm left alone with my thoughts. Every detail, every minute aspect of Livia's arrival has been planned and accounted for. Control. It's what I do best. It's what keeps this empire running.
I walk over to my bar cart and pour myself a glass of my most expensive scotch.
It's reserved for times when I'm nervous, and for some reason, I feel that emotion trying to make itself known.
I savor the rich aroma of oak and vanilla before taking a sip.
The liquid burns pleasantly as it slides down my throat.
Marriage. Love, I think to myself. What a fucking joke.
In my world, love is nothing but a weakness, a chink in the armor that can be exploited by enemies. I've seen it destroy empires, tear families apart, and reduce powerful men to rubble. It's a luxury I can't afford, and it has no place in my reality.
This marriage to Livia isn't about love. It's not even about companionship; I can get that whenever I want. No, it's a strategic move, a chess piece placed with precision.
I've done things my own way since becoming Don, but now that I'm 46, I need to start thinking about who will run things when I'm gone. I need children old enough to continue on. And I'm sick and tired of hearing my father's voice in my head telling me I'll fail the family if I don't produce heirs.
Livia is perfect and has lived a life away from all the corruption. She's pure and will bear strong children. Sons to carry on the family name, to be molded into the next generation of Bonventi leaders. And daughters? Valuable bargaining chips in their own right.
I drain the last of my scotch, feeling the warmth spread through my chest.
She may resist at first, but she'll learn. Personal desires mean nothing in the face of family duty. She'll adapt, or she'll break. Either way, she'll serve her purpose.
As I set down my empty glass, I allow myself a small, cold smile. Everything is proceeding according to plan.
The intercom on my desk buzzes, pulling me from my thoughts. I press the button, my voice sharp. "What is it?"
"Mr. Bonventi," Marcella's voice comes through, clear and efficient. "The car carrying Ms. Falcone has just passed through the main gates. They'll be at the front entrance shortly."
My jaw tightens. "Understood. Bring them into my study. I'll be down shortly."
I walk to the full-length mirror in the corner of my office and adjust my tie. As I stare at my reflection, I see the man I've molded myself into. Cold. Calculating. Ruthless.
I smooth down my jacket, feeling the weight of the gun holstered beneath. It's a constant reminder of the world I inhabit, the power I wield.
As I move toward the door, I feel a sudden surge of anticipation. Not for Livia herself, but for what she represents. A new chapter in the Bonventi legacy, another step towards total domination.
I pause, hand on the doorknob. For a split second, I allow myself to wonder what she'll be like. Will she fight? Submit? But I push the thought away as quickly as it came. It doesn't matter. In the end, I always get what I want.
I open the door and step out.
It's time to greet my future wife.