16. Enzo
ENZO
B ack at the estate, Giovanni walks beside me, hands in his pockets, the expensive leather of his shoes whispering against the marble floor.
Now that the first task is done, I have to set my sights on the next one. I did not wish to rush it.
Outside the corridor windows, the late afternoon has settled into that strange hour where the light hangs low and the shadows grow longer, stretching toward the walls like hands reaching for something they will never touch.
The estate breathes quietly at this hour, a beast lying in wait, its hunger masked by chandeliers and silk-panel walls.
We descend the staircase together, our reflections catching briefly in the mirror that hangs above the foyer—mine rigid, tight-jawed, haunted, the corners of my mouth tucked in; his, all ease and poorly concealed speculation.
Giovanni has always been good at reading a room, always been a man who knows when to smile and when to sharpen his teeth beneath it.
Over time, I've come to respect the hustle.
"You can talk to me, you know?" That's all he says, but the mere sentiment behind it, and his quiet lightness…it is enough for me.
However, I don't answer.
There are some things I am not ready to say aloud, not even to him.
We walk toward the side wing, where the lower offices are kept.
This wing is colder than the rest of the house, even with the windows closed.
The marble floor hums beneath our steps like something alive.
These are the corridors where loyalty is tested in the quiet, where information matters more than guns.
And I already know who I need to speak to.
Matteo Ferrante returned from Civita Rosso this morning, arriving in one of the black caravans we use when discretion matters more than arrival time.
Civita Rosso is a coastal port most people forget exists, a place where Salvatore goods move in and out without ever touching customs.
Matteo has always been one of the best at keeping things clean, too much so at times, but he never lies without a reason.
I push open the door to the records room.
Matteo sits inside, his jacket still dusty from the road, collar loosened, a pen between his fingers.
He's not watching the screen in front of him.
He's staring into the grain of the desk, like it might offer him a way out of this conversation before it begins.
"Matteo," I say, closing the door behind me with a quiet click. Giovanni follows me in, silent, leaning against the far wall like he belongs to it. Matteo straightens in his seat. His hands flatten against the desk, fingers splayed wide. "Signore Moretti."
"You've just returned from Civita Rosso."
"Yes, sir."
"And you saw her."
A pause. Just long enough to be interesting.
"Not at first," he says. "I passed her twice. She was with the boy the first time. Buying figs from a stall near the church steps. I noticed the accent, not the face. The second time, she was alone, walking uphill with groceries. Something about her caught me, but I couldn't place it until later."
"Until when?" I ask, stepping forward. His jaw tenses. I let the silence drag.
"Until last night. I was looking over the manifests again. I kept revisiting my mind, and I—that profile…I'd seen it before. Years ago. At the dockyard. She was with you."
He gets up and takes out a photo from the front pocket of his shirt and hands it to me.
Looking down, I see a little boy first. Riotous curls, bright smile. And holding his hand is Aria, with the same head of hair, the same smile, her face freckled, and those sinful eyes glowing.
My heart clenches painfully.
He nods at the picture. "I combed through the city, every last contact, until I got this. It's her."
"And where is she living?"
Matteo glances toward the monitor, then opens a drawer and pulls out a folded sheet.
"It's a flat just east of the olive terraces. Top floor, second balcony. Bougainvillea on the railing. I didn't approach. I swear it."
I reach across and take the paper.
Giovanni hasn't moved, but I feel him watching me.
Watching Matteo.
Watching everything.
"Anything else I should know?" I ask, keeping my voice low. "Other sightings? Movements?"
Matteo hesitates.
"There's something strange happening down there. Not just her. There's chatter about increased security near the docks. More customs eyes, fewer local hands. And…a rumor."
Giovanni's body shifts slightly against the wall. I don't look at him.
"What kind of rumor?"
Matteo clears his throat.
"People are saying Luca's grip is slipping. That the family isn't as strong as it once was. That the queen runs the halls, and the Don watches from a throne that's grown cold."
Giovanni pushes off the wall. His shoes scuff the floor just enough to make Matteo flinch.
I study Matteo's face. He believes the words he's repeating. That's what makes them dangerous.
"Where did you hear this?" I ask.
"Whispers from one of the Adriatic port families. Someone named Vescari. He said it like it was common knowledge."
Vescari. The name sticks. He's not one of ours. He's not supposed to be speaking of our family with that kind of familiarity.
"Do you believe it?" I ask, voice softer now. Sometimes softness cuts deeper than anger.
"No, Signore," Matteo replies quickly. "Only others do. But rumors like that...they don't rise on their own."
Giovanni's voice cuts in, smooth and sharp. "That'll be all, Matteo."
Matteo stands. I step aside, letting him pass, but not before I catch the flicker in his eyes. He knows he's said too much. He just doesn't know which part has offended me.
The moment the door shuts behind him, Giovanni turns to me.
"Well. That was informative," he says, casually folding his arms.
I raise an eyebrow. "Which part?"
"Oh, take your pick. The fact that Aria has been hiding under fig trees and bougainvillea while we've all been bleeding for five years. Or the sudden swell of gossip suggesting our king has grown weak."
"You think he's lying?" I ask, brow raised slightly, a frown resting between them.
"No," Giovanni replies, tilting his head slightly. "I think Matteo told the truth. The problem is where the lie came from. Rumors like that don't just grow. They're planted. Watered. Repeated until they sound like prophecy."
"And you think someone inside is feeding them."
Giovanni chuckles dryly. "I think someone very clever wants us to believe the family is fragile. And if enough people believe it, it becomes true."
I watch him for a long moment. He meets my gaze without flinching.
"Are you accusing anyone?" I ask.
"Not yet," he says. "But if I were you, I'd tread carefully. Luca's pride is a fragile thing when it's wounded. And now you're carrying a match in one hand and tinder in the other."
I know what he means.
Aria.
The child.
The risk of choosing wrong.
He steps closer, voice pitched low.
"So, what do you plan to do about her?"
The question doesn't surprise me.
Giovanni plays the long game.
Always has.
"I don't know yet," I say, because I don't owe him more than that.
He nods once. A slow, thoughtful gesture, I'll give him that.
"Whatever you decide," he says, already moving toward the door, "decide soon. The wind is shifting. And you don't want to be caught standing still when the roof comes off."
I brush past him without a word, and he follows.
We walk through the quiet back corridors, past the kitchens and the lower servants' quarters, out toward the stone path that curves through the garden.
It is cooler here, the sun retreating into a soft haze, the scent of lavender and gun oil lingering where the flowers meet the wind.
I slow my pace.
He does not press me.
When I speak, it is not because I want to, but because I cannot stop the words anymore.
"She should have come to me. All those years, and nothing."
Giovanni exhales a slow breath, tugging a coin from his pocket and flipping it once before sliding it between his knuckles in that way of his that makes it look like he is thinking harder than he lets on.
"She left for a reason, Enzo," he says, voice low. "Whatever that reason was, she chose not to explain it to you. So, the question is not why she left. It's why you still care."
I stop walking. "You think I care?"
He doesn't miss a beat. "I think you want to kill her a little less than you should."
I want to laugh, but then again, the joke would be on me. "You know what the job is," Giovanni adds. "It's just another name on a piece of paper. You've read a hundred of them. Why let this one gut you?"
His words are clean and incredibly sensible.
The kind of counsel he's always been good at giving. But today, they feel like sandpaper scraping against old wounds.
"Because she mattered," I say finally. "More than I let her know. And now, I do not know if she's a threat or a memory."
Giovanni watches me carefully.
Then he flips the coin once more and pockets it with a shrug.
"There are only two ways out of a mess," he says. "One that leaves you hemorrhaging, or the other that has someone else pay for the bandages."
"And which one is this?"
He gives me a smile that does not reach his eyes. "You tell me."
I do not follow him when he turns toward the main house.
I take the long path around, where the garden leads to the east wing, and the view stretches down to the road that winds through the trees.
I need time.
Not to think.
I have thought enough.
I need time to decide whether this is a reckoning or a redemption.
The picture is still burning in my pocket.
Her face.
That boy with dimples like his mother and eyes… god damn it, eyes like mine.
My throat feels itchy and I blink furiously as I walk to my car, settle into the driver's seat.
Only then do I close my eyes and let the tears come.