Chapter 8 Enrico
ENRICO
The knock came before dawn. Two short, one long — Marco’s signal.
I didn’t bother pretending I’d been asleep.
To be honest, I hadn’t slept in my bed in days.
Most nights I ended up falling asleep at my desk or on my couch.
There was too much going on and not enough hours in the day to ensure it was done right.
“Come in.”
Marco entered, folder in hand. He didn’t speak right away, which told me enough. Bad news didn’t need words. He sat the folder on my desk. “Warehouse Four. Russo’s men hit it just after two. Two men down. Two missing.”
I opened the file. Photos. Fire. Cargo burned down to ash. I flipped the pages without reaction until I reached the last one—a partial schematic of the docks, red circles marking entry points. The perimeter cameras were disabled from the outside. Clean work. Professional.
“Retaliation was expected.”
“Not this soon.” Marco shook his head. “Thought we’d at least have a day.”
“Sooner is better,” I murmured. “Means he’s desperate.”
Marco’s mouth tightened. “He’s not the only problem.”
I gazed up. “Go on.”
“One of our informants saw movement near the Moretti estate last night. A single car left after midnight. The daughter was driving.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. “You’re sure?”
Marco nodded. “Recognized her by the guard at the gate. Moretti’s men were asleep. Looked like she used a side exit.”
A pulse beat behind my ribs—sharp, unfamiliar. Not anger. Not quite fear. Something that lived in the space between them. “Find out where she went.”
He waited, but I didn’t elaborate. I couldn’t. The image in my head was too precise—Mia, alone behind the wheel, driving through streets that belonged to men who killed for less than a name. Right now she needed to stay home under the protection of her father, since she wouldn’t trust me.
“Double protection on her perimeter. No alerts, no reports to her father. If Moretti finds out, he locks her down. I need to know where she goes before that happens.”
Marco studied me, unreadable. “Understood.”
When he left, I leaned back in the chair and let the silence stretch. I’d spent years mastering every variable—every rival, every territory, every man whose loyalty could be bought or broken. And now one woman—one quiet, reckless woman— slipped past the lines I didn’t even realize I’d drawn.
It made absolutely no sense how drawn to her… like if she was close to me my whole body would be humming. Of course, some parts of me believed it was the thrill of the chase. She had always been slightly off kilter around me. And the sexual tension… TAUT.
My phone beeped.
Marco: I’ll keep the men looking for answers, but Mia is going to be harder to control. She’s damn sure not gonna listen to anyone she doesn’t know.
I shook my head, because he told the truth.
My Mia had an attitude and spoke her mind.
I loved that about her. Many men would find that appalling, but it made my heart stop.
See, I didn’t want a woman that would tell me what I wanted to hear…
I had my men for that. The woman that I called my wife, she needed to call me on my shit.
And that was definitely going to be Mia.
Me: We’ll figure out Mia. Just focus on the men for tonight.
I’d sent half my men to reinforce the docks and the rest to sweep the perimeter around the Moretti estate. Marco had gone with them. The compound was nearly empty now, silence pressed between the walls like breath waiting to be released.
I lit a cigarette I didn’t want, more for the ritual than the taste. The smoke coiled in the air, gray ribbons twisting into shapes I didn’t recognize. This was getting out of hand. If anything happened to her, I’d burn the fucking world down.
The phone rang once. Twice. I answered on the third. “Di Fiore.”
“Enrico.”
Moretti’s voice—calm, measured, the tone of a man pretending he still held the higher ground. “Your retaliation made quite an impression.”
“I don’t retaliate. I correct mistakes.”
“You call two warehouses a correction?”
He better watch it. “If I meant to make a point, there wouldn’t be anything left to rebuild.”
A beat of silence followed—one of those weighted pauses where both men consider how far to push. I let him fill it.
“My daughter’s been asking questions she shouldn’t.”
So Marco had been right. She hadn’t gone unseen. “What questions?”
“The kind that make me and others nervous.” His voice dropped lower. “Keep her out of the war, Enrico. I don’t want her tied to any of this.”
I ground the cigarette into the ashtray, the ember dying. “If it’s my war, she’s already in it.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
He had no fucking idea. “It’s a fact.”
He exhaled sharply—more warning than breath. “You forget yourself. I’m a fucking Moretti after all. Do remember that.”
“No, I remember exactly who you are and who I am. And don’t forget who your daughter is going to be.”
“Careful, Di Fiore. You don’t want to find out how quickly alliances burn.”
The line clicked dead.
I walked to the window. Some lines you cross only once. Others, you build an empire on.
By the time I left the compound, the sky had turned the color of tarnished silver. Storm light. Marco’s voice followed me out the door. “You shouldn’t go by yourself.”
“I won’t be seen.”
“That’s not the point.”
I didn’t answer. He didn’t push. Some decisions were already too far gone for argument.
The car wound through the narrow roads until the Moretti estate rose out of the fog like a mirage—marble, gates, gardens trimmed to perfection.
A fortress pretending to be a home. I parked beyond the line of trees, far enough that the guards would mistake the engine for thunder.
From here, the house appeared to be calm.
No men patrolling. No lights on in the west wing.
And then I saw her.
She moved through the gardens alone, bare shoulders ghost-pale against the dark green hedges. The same composure she’d worn at the dinner, but stripped of ceremony now—quiet, deliberate, dangerous in a different way. She paused by the fountain, as if listening for something.
I should have left. Should have driven back, remembered who I was and what I’d already risked.
Instead, I got out. The gravel crunched under my shoes, the sound louder than I wanted.
Her head lifted immediately, gaze cutting toward the trees.
When I stepped into the open, the air changed—tightened, like the world holding its breath.
“Enrico.”
Her eyes locked on mine. “Mia.”
She stood perfectly still, fingers tangled in the fabric of her skirt. “You shouldn’t be here.” A small, bitter smile ghosted her mouth. “You sent the rose.”
“You kept it.”
She glanced down, and for a heartbeat, I thought she might deny it. Then she reached into her pocket and drew it out. “It’s a warning, isn’t it?”
“It’s what it needed to be.”
“And what’s that?”
My eyes found hers. “A reminder.”
She laughed once—soft, incredulous. The space between us was too narrow for lies. The wind caught her hair, carrying the faint trace of smoke and rain. I wanted to touch her. I didn’t move.
“Whatever game you’re playing,” she said, “you’ve already pulled me into it.”
“This isn’t a game.” Well, that was a lie. This cat and mouse game had been going on for over five years and eventually it would end. When that happened was her call.
“Then what is it?”
I hesitated, the words I should have said dissolving into silence. The truth would have ruined everything. So I gave her the only one that mattered.
“It’s inevitable.”
Something flickered across her face—fear, fury, maybe understanding. Then she stepped back. “My father warned me about men who mistake control for devotion.”
“He was right.”
From the house, a voice called her name. She turned toward it, then back to me. For an instant, neither of us moved.
“I’ve gotta go and you shouldn’t be here. Aren’t you and my father feuding right now?” She walked toward the house. “Whatever, just don’t get yourself killed.”
I stayed until the sound of the door closing swallowed the night.
She was supposed to be leverage. Instead, she became my everything.
By the time I returned to the compound, the rain started again—thin, steady, relentless.
The front gates opened without question.
No one peered at me too long; they’d learned that curiosity was expensive here.
Inside, the lights burned low. Marco waited by my office door, arms crossed, jaw tight. Never a good sign.
“You were seen,” he said before I’d even reached the desk to sit down.
I took off my coat and draped it over the chair. “By who?”
“One of Moretti’s guards. He recognized your car. Word’s already out that you were at the estate.”
I didn’t flinch. “Let them talk.” Honestly, at this point, her father knew my intentions long before tonight. He couldn’t stop me from seeing her, or else consequences would arise.
“You think Russo won’t use that?”
Marco’s voice rose, not with disrespect but with fear. “He’s probably already twisting it—saying you’ve lost focus, that you’re distracted. That the great Enrico Di Fiore is breaking rules over a woman.”
I poured two fingers of whiskey and didn’t offer him any. “Russo’s opinion doesn’t concern me. It never fucking has.”
“It should. Because he’s moving again. Another strike. South side this time—one of the docks we took last month. You can’t ignore this. He is going to take us out and Moretti. The families won’t stand for this.”
I took a slow drink. “I’m ending it.”
Marco exhaled, a mix of frustration and resignation. “You know what that means.”
“No survivors. We send the message once. Clean. Complete.”
He hesitated, studying me. “You’re sure this isn’t about her?”
I met his eyes. “Everything is about her. Every single decision.”
That silenced him. He nodded once, then left to relay the order.
When the door closed, I stood alone. The papers, the maps, the half-burned cigarette still in the tray—all pieces of a life built on precision. And for the first time, I could feel it slipping, inch by inch.
Outside, thunder broke. I turned toward the window, the reflection of my own face split by raindrops on the glass.
War wasn’t coming. It had already begun.