Chapter 37 MASSIMO #2
That gets his full attention. I move to the head of the table, palms braced against the polished wood, jaw tight.
"Sit," I tell him.
Enzo takes the chair across from me like he's done a thousand times before. Calm. Unhurried. He pours himself a drink without asking, the sound of ice too loud in the stillness. I stay standing, hands braced on the edge of the table, my reflection looks fractured in the polished wood.
"Remind me, what Bello told you. Exactly. About my uncle."
Enzo's hand pauses just long enough to notice.
He gives me a puzzled look. Then his brows knit in concentration as his mind goes back ten years.
He doesn't ask what this is about. "He said he overheard a conversation.
Your uncle and one of your cousins. Cesar was complaining.
Again." He takes a sip. "Said you were pushing too hard.
That you were moving pieces without permission. "
"And?" I press.
"And your uncle said it was time to put a stop to it," Enzo continues. "That you were becoming a liability."
I turn my head slowly. "His words."
Enzo meets my gaze. Steady. "Those were Bello's words."
I nod once, like I'm filing paperwork. "And Bello said he heard this himself."
"Yes."
"Not from someone else."
"No."
"Not inferred."
"No."
Silence stretches. I walk around the table, slow, measured, stopping behind Enzo's chair. Not looming. Just present. Letting the weight settle.
"And Bello told you this when?" I ask.
"After the hit," Enzo replies. "When you were still… not awake."
"Not awake," I repeat softly.
I rest my palms on the back of Enzo's chair now. I don't squeeze. I don't threaten.
"Did Bello ever mention anyone outside the family?" I ask. "Any third party. Any money changing hands."
Enzo exhales through his nose. A controlled sound. "No," he shakes his head. "He was very clear. This was internal."
I hum quietly, considering. Enzo turns the glass slowly in his hand, ice clinking once before he stills it. He's watching me now, not defensive, not wary. Just attentive. The way he's always been.
"What is this about?" he finally wants to know.
I don't answer right away. I walk back around the table and stop across from him, close enough that he can see my expression clearly. I want him to. I need him to.
"A reliable source came to me," I explain evenly, not wanting to bring Jenna into this. "Someone I trust. A large sum moved out of Kingsley's account the day before the hit-and-run."
Enzo blanches. Not guilt. Shock. "Kingsley? That doesn't make sense." He looks up at me, his scars pulling tight across his face as the implication settles. "You think Kingsley was involved."
I don't answer that. Not right away. I lean my hands on the table and look him dead in the eye. "Bello lied about Jenna. Didn't he?"
The words hit like a gunshot. Enzo's brows knit together slowly, pieces clicking together in his head. He stares at me, then shakes his head once. "I swear to you, boss—I had no idea about that."
"I know," my response comes immediately. The certainty in my voice surprises even me.
A long breath leaves my chest, slow and heavy, carrying something I hadn't realized I was holding onto, and relief settles into its place. Because if Enzo had been part of it—if he'd filtered the truth, protected someone, shaped the lie—I would have had to put him down the same way I did Bello.
But Enzo…
Enzo is blood in every way that matters. He taught me how to read men. How to survive power. How to build something that lasts. Killing him wouldn't have been justice. It would have been a loss.
"But why would he—" Enzo starts, then stops. He turns fully in his chair now and locks eyes with me.
I straighten and finally say what I've been holding back. "Jenna and I were together. Back then. It wasn't a fling. Not a distraction. It was serious."
Enzo's face changes from surprise to understanding as the pieces click into place.
"She was… important to you," he guessed slowly.
"She was everything," I reply. "Kingsley would've hated it. His daughter with a man like me." I give a short, humorless exhale. "He would've seen it as a threat. To his image. To his control."
Enzo leans back, running a hand over his hair. "You think Bello and Kingsley worked together?"
I shake my head. "I don't know yet." But I will.
"If this is true," Enzo mutters, staring at the table, "if your uncle didn't—" He breaks off, drags a hand down his face. "Fuck."
"I know," I agree quietly. "I killed them all for nothing."
The words sit between us, heavy and irreversible.
Enzo falls back fully into his chair. "Fuck," he exhales again, softer now.
We look at each other—two men who've buried enough bodies to populate a small city—and for once, neither of us knows what to say.
After a moment, Enzo lifts his gaze. "Go ahead," he invites.
I frown. "What?"
"Shoot me," his voice is flat. "Get it over with. This is as much my fault as it was Bello's."
The thought twists something ugly in my chest. I shake my head. "I'd have to shoot myself then, too."
That stops him. We sit in silence for a moment longer, the air thick with ghosts. We both trusted Bello. Fucking Bello.
"The hit may have been framed as family," I continue. "But the money doesn't lie. Kingsley paid someone. Bello made sure I never looked in that direction."
Bello didn't lie outright; he filtered. Passed on what suited him, buried the rest under handled and no further action needed. Silence settles between us. Heavy. Shared.
"So what now?" Enzo asks.
I straighten slowly.
"Now," I say, "we pull the thread Bello tried to bury. And we do it quietly."
Enzo nods once. No hesitation. No questions.
"Good," I add. "Because if Kingsley thought he could buy his way into my world and walk away clean—"
I let the sentence hang. Enzo finishes it for me. "He forgot who you are."
And for the first time since this began, I know one thing with absolute certainty: The rot didn't come from my house. But I'm the one who's going to burn it out.
"There's always noise around a hit," Enzo reminds me. "People try to attach themselves after the fact."
"They do," I murmur. "Damiano is working Whitford over. I need you to get your hands on a woman named Marianne and a man named Sean. Both work for Kingsley. I want them brought to the Oven. I'll talk to them tomorrow. This afternoon, Alessio and I have business in LA with Joaquín."
"Alright." He comes over to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. "For all it's worth, your uncle, your cousins… they had it coming."
I nod. They did. But I would have liked to deal with them on my own time instead of being pushed into it.
For a moment, the image returns. A house lit from the inside out.
Windows glowing like furnaces. My uncle's voice, gone long before the roof surrendered.
Fire is cleaner than bullets. It leaves no witnesses.
Just the slow, sharp crack of timber under pressure, the controlled collapse of something that believed it was permanent. I didn't watch until the end. I didn't need to. Blood built that house. Ash finished it.
Enzo straightens and walks to the door.
"One more thing," I stop him. "When Bello told you this… did he seem nervous?"
Enzo thinks about that longer than I like. "No. He was more resigned. But that could be me now, reading into things after."
That lands. I nod again. "Thank you."
I turn toward the window, my city gleaming below, and speak without looking back.
"If Bello filtered what he heard," I say quietly, "or protected someone who didn't deserve it, then everything I built on that truth becomes suspect."
Enzo doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. The silence does enough talking for both of us.