Chapter 35 Enrico
ENRICO
Marco drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near his weapon. Andre sat behind him, wordless as always, his gaze a thin blade in the rearview mirror.
Via del Leone appeared like a ghost. At the far end of the lane stood what used to be a warehouse, my father’s first. How many warehouses did my father have? Now, it waited for me.
Marco killed the headlights. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” I said, stepping out into the cold. “And I’m sure Dante wants me to find it empty.”
He scanned the rooftops. We entered through the side door. Someone had been here recently. There was no dust—just a long table set beneath a hanging lightbulb.
On the table, a single candle, half melted. A bottle of my father’s favorite wine. And a note, folded with deliberate care.
Marco’s breath caught. “He’s playing with you.”
“That’s the point.” I reached for the note, hesitating just long enough for Andre to scan for triggers or wires. Nothing. Dante wasn’t a bomber.
I brought the truth.
—D
Beneath it, a photograph.
Two men. My father on the left. A man beside him—broader, a darker suit, a matching ring glinting on his hand. Giovanni Gallo.
They were seated at this same table, younger, laughing, glasses raised in what could only be called friendship.
The photo was dated 1985. Two years before the supposed betrayal.
Two years before my father put a bullet in Giovanni’s skull—or so the story had always gone.
I stared at the image until it blurred. My father’s eyes in the picture had the same calm I’d seen the night he taught me how to pull a trigger.
Marco leaned in. “That’s Gallo?”
“The man he claimed betrayed him.”
“So father lied.”
Andre’s voice came from the dark. “He wants you to question everything.”
I pressed it to my ear without speaking.
“Did you enjoy it?”
I closed my eyes, because I recognized that voice. “Dante.”
He laughed. “So you know. I was worried you might think I was another ghost. Though I suppose, in your family, ghosts dine better than the living.”
“What do you want?”
“What every heir wants. Inheritance. Only I prefer to collect mine personally.”
“You want money? Power? Name your price.”
He chuckled. “You really are your father’s son. You think everything can be bought except what’s already owned.”
I was sick of playing games. These back and forth tactics were childish.
“My father died believing he was betrayed. Yours let him believe it. And in that lie, he found his crown. Your empire was built on a murder that never had to happen. My father bled in the street while yours drank to peace. Tell me, how does the wine taste now?”
I said nothing.
He went on, softer now, a scalpel instead of a blade. “I’m not coming for your money, Enrico. I’m coming for everything.” Then, like an afterthought: “And bring your wife next time. She should see what the empire looks like when it burns.”
Marco swore under his breath. “You think he knows—”
“He knows everything. And now, so do I.”
Andre’s head snapped up. “Smoke.”
Flames crawled up the brick. We moved for the exit, fast, controlled. No panic. Outside, the fire spread too quickly to be accidental. It climbed the facade, devouring the words someone had painted in gasoline across the wall:
FEED THE DEAD WHAT THEY’RE OWED.
I stared until the paint curled into ash.
Marco spoke first. “It’s a warning.”
Then there was the faintest shift behind me. I turned. Mia stood, wrapped in my coat, eyes wide but unflinching. “I told you to stay home.”
Her voice was quiet, but steady. “I couldn’t.”
The firelight painted her face in amber and shadow. I took her hand and led her away from the blaze. Behind us, the warehouse collapsed inward with a groan.