28. Enzo
ENZO
B ack at the hotel, I peel off my jacket and lay it across the chair, not because I plan to stay long, but because routine calms the blood.
I leave the lights off. The Corsican dusk glows faint through the sheer curtain, and I let it illuminate the map I've spread across the bed. The room smells like stone and saltwater, and I welcome the scent. It grounds me better than silence ever could.
Capo di Muro lies to the southwest. The roads that wind to it are narrow, marked only by kilometer stones and fading chalk signs that tourists photograph without understanding.
The villa itself remains untouchable for now.
Too many eyes.
Too many walls.
Too many questions if a stranger so much as blinks the wrong way near the gates.
I could force my way in, sure, but that would make it a war. And I am not here for war. I am here to end the source of it.
The marina is different.
Every Thursday, Cesare leaves the estate and takes his boat out alone.
No guards.
No entourage.
Just the captain and him.
A forty-minute window while they stock supplies, check fuel, and ready the vessel. My contact confirmed the schedule again today. Same time. Same rhythm. Cesare trusts patterns. That is where I will break him.
I study the satellite printouts on the map, each line and legend burned into memory already.
The dock is older than it looks. There's a blind spot behind the fuel tower, and a service ladder near the southeast mooring line that hasn't been used in months.
That's my entry. That's how I get close enough without becoming a shadow too early.
On the bedside table sits my watch, the same one I wore the night I buried my first mark in Palermo. I wind it slowly. I let the tick steady me.
My bag is already packed, contents stripped to the essentials. Clothes chosen not for comfort but for camouflage. The weapon is silenced and oiled, wrapped tight in the lining of a fisherman's satchel I bought at the corner market this morning.
The vendor didn't speak, just counted the money and passed me the bag. That's the thing about places like this. They understand discretion the way others understand currency.
I sit on the edge of the bed and light a cigarette. I don't smoke often. Not anymore. But tonight, the burn is needed. It settles in the chest, slow and familiar, like an old sin you learn to carry rather than shed.
I think of Aria. Of her hair spilled across my chest the morning I left.
The way her breath warmed my skin without a word.
I think of Gabriel, curled beside Valentina's older son like he was born to be protected.
I tell myself that this—what I am about to do—is not just for Luca. Not just for loyalty. It is for them.
The phone remains untouched. I do not need to check it. No updates are expected. No warnings will come. The path ahead is mine alone now, and that solitude is something I wear like a second skin.
I sleep lightly and wake before the sun.
Corsica is still outside, the cliffs veiled in fog, the sea muted like a secret whispered too many times.
I shave. I dress. I check the weapon again, not because I doubt it, but because it is ritual.
Ritual matters. It is what keeps the line between the hunter and the haunted from blurring.
The marina opens at six. I wait until seven.
I spend the early hours watching from a café that overlooks the curve of the inlet. Black coffee. No sugar. My cap is pulled low, sunglasses hiding eyes that have already seen the death I came to deliver. I do not move until I see Cesare.
The bastard moves like royalty, all languid confidence and inherited power.
His coat flutters behind him, arrogance stitched into every fold.
He speaks to the captain briefly. Hands him something.
Probably a list. Then he steps back, lights a cigar, and walks to the edge of the dock, where he takes a seat on a chair left out for him.
I rise, leave a ten-euro note under the empty cup, and head toward the side path that skirts the service lot.
I pass no one. The city is waking up, but this corner still dreams. I make it to the blind spot and crouch low, watching through the slats of the mooring fence as Cesare leans against the chair, eyes closed as the breeze drifts over him, smoke curling around his face like a crown.
It's almost too easy.
But I know better. Ease is the disguise of consequence.
Cesare is smart. Maybe not in the way Luca is, not cold and calculative, but in the way that makes men like him dangerous.
He's charming, patient, subtle. He thinks he's won already.
He thinks the Salvatores are bleeding. That Luca is fading.
I wait for the captain to step into the boat cabin.
He disappears from sight. Cesare is alone now, watching the sea.
The dock creaks beneath his feet, weathered and gray.
The marina whispers beneath my feet, a language made of ropes and waves lapping at wood polished by salt and time.
I move closer, slow, silent, my hand inside my coat, fingers curled around the grip of the gun.
There are no guards in sight. I time my steps with the shifting tide, reaching the edge of the gangway without drawing so much as a glance.
The weapon is drawn but hidden, my body angled away from the light.
Cesare turns his head then. He does not startle. His gaze finds me as if he expected me all along, and a smile spreads across his mouth like blood blooming through silk.
"So," he says, voice low and smooth. "The wolf arrives after all."
I say nothing. He flicks ash into the sea. "You know, I half-wondered if Luca would send someone else. A younger one. Hungrier. But of course, he sent you. His mercenary in a suit."
I lift the pistol slightly. "Stand."
He doesn't.
Instead, he studies me. Really studies. His eyes linger on my face as if trying to see past the bones, into whatever remains underneath. "He's going to use you until there's nothing left. You know that, don't you? You'll win this war, and when it's done, he'll hand you another. And another."
"I'm not here to talk."
"But you should be." He takes a long drag of the cigar. "Because I'm the only man who's ever offered you something different. I've watched you, Enzo. For years. I've read reports. You walk like a soldier, but you think like a king."
The gun doesn't waver.
"I could give you a life. Not scraps from another man's table. Not shadows and orders and blood on the floor before breakfast. But a seat. Power. The kind that answers to no one. Walk away now, and you'd have land, security, a name outside of his shadow."
"I have a name."
He smiles, just barely. "Do you? Or do you have a leash?"
I take a step forward, slow and measured. The dock rocks beneath us, gentle, and his cigar crackles faintly.
"You cannot touch my empire." He smiles at me, and I shake my head.
This is the end of the line for the Gotti dynasty.
Without Cesare, the network collapses. His men, young and filled with bloodlust, will fight like scavengers over the scraps and kill each other.
Luca will be the one to put order back where it belongs.
"The problem with your empire, Gotti," I say, "Is that it's just you. Your son is dead."
For a second, the mask slips. Grief washes over his face.
Then he stands, turning his back so that it is against the railing, puffing once more.
"You think Luca will thank you? No. He will give you a week of peace.
Maybe two. Then he'll find another ghost to wear your skin. That woman of yours, the boy?—"
"Do not say their names."
His eyes spark, finally, with something close to fear.
"I came here for justice," I say, raising the weapon. "But I'll settle for quiet."
He opens his mouth.
I fire.
The sound is not loud. The silencer swallows most of it, and the wind takes the rest. Cesare's head jerks back, then tilts forward, the cigar falling from his fingers and rolling toward my feet.
He makes no sound. His body slumps forward in slow motion, the last of his breath vanishing into the night like smoke pulled under the tide.
I do not watch him fall. I do not linger.
The ocean breathes behind him, a hush of tide against dock, oblivious to the silence he has left behind.
I move without looking back. My footsteps echo once, then vanish beneath the cry of a gull overhead and the creak of distant sails.
I do not run. Running draws attention. Walking with purpose, however, is invisible.
That is a lesson I learned a long time ago.
I pass the edge of the marina with my collar turned up, my eyes downcast. The breeze carries salt and the faint scent of diesel.
The sky is beginning to darken, and the light is sharp on the water, all copper and blue.
I reach the far end of the wharf just as a boat engine coughs to life in the distance.
No shouts yet. No alarms. I timed this carefully.
The captain will find him in minutes, but by then, I intend to be gone.
I take the service path behind the bait shops, skirting the old marina shed, and that is when I hear it. A footstep that doesn't belong. Light, but not careless. Trained. Close.
I pivot just in time to catch a glimpse of movement. A flash of dark fabric. The glint of a barrel. I dive.
The gunshot cracks through the evening like the snarl of something ancient.
It bites into my side, tearing hot through skin and flesh, sending pain lancing up my ribs.
I land hard on gravel, teeth clacking together as the world tilts sideways.
The breath leaves my lungs in a sharp burst, and the pressure at my side becomes a scream beneath my coat.
Another shot rings out, this one punching through the air where my head was a second before. I roll behind a concrete barrier, blood seeping through my shirt. My fingers shake as they grip the pistol still tucked against my back. I do not fire. I do not waste bullets when I cannot see my target.
Whoever it is, they move quickly. But they do not come closer. Not yet. Maybe they think I am down. Maybe they are checking for witnesses.
I press a hand to my side. Wet. Warm. Too much blood.
I grit my teeth and force myself to move, crawling low toward the chain-link gate at the far end of the alley.
My coat drags behind me, the lining now soaked.
Every breath tastes like copper. The sky narrows to a single strip above me, all bruised twilight and unforgiving wind.
I reach the street. The lights are too bright. Cars blur past indifferently. I stumble into the first alley I find and sag against the wall, heart hammering, vision tilting. I cannot stop. Not here. Not now.
I stagger into motion again, one hand pressed hard against my side, the other gripping the slick metal of my pistol like it might be the only thing holding me upright.
My legs feel too far away. My shoulder is slick where the blood is starting to run down.
I walk five more blocks, blinking through sweat, until I see the curve of headlights rounding the far bend.
The cab is old, yellowed with age and salt, but real. I step out just enough to wave it down. The driver sees me, hesitates, then pulls over with a grunt. I open the door, fall more than climb into the backseat, and pull it shut.
"You all right?" he asks in accented French.
"Drive," I rasp. "South. Away from the marina."
He looks in the rearview mirror, sees my face, sees the mess on my coat, and makes a decision that I will not forget if I live to repay it. He does not ask again. He drives.
The lights of Corsica blur past in streaks of gold and smoke.
My body sags against the seat, pain dulling into something colder now, something that tastes like iron in the back of my throat.
I fumble for my phone with fingers that no longer feel like mine.
I scroll to her name. The screen blurs once, then sharpens. I press the call button.
It rings. Once. Twice. Then?—
"Enzo?" Her voice. Real. Alive. Soft with sleep, or worry. I cannot tell. It pierces something deep in me.
I close my eyes.
"I'm all right," I say, though it is a lie. "I got him."
A pause. The soft sound of her breath. "Where are you?"
"In a car. Leaving."
"What happened?"
"I took a hit. Side. Clean, I think. But I—" I break off, swallowing against the pressure building in my ribs. "I wanted to hear your voice."
"Enzo—" Her voice cracks. "Where are you exactly? I'll send help?—"
"No. No help. Not yet." My voice drifts, pulled by something I cannot hold back. "I had plans, you know."
"What kind of plans?"
I blink, and the lights blur again. "A farm. Maybe. Somewhere far. Somewhere with trees and sky and silence. You in a dress that doesn't cost a fortune. Gabriel laughing in a yard that isn't guarded. That kind of life."
She says nothing. I hear her breath hitch.
"I wanted to give you that," I whisper. "I really did."
"Then live, Enzo," she says, voice rising. "You hear me? You don't get to promise me dreams and bleed out in the back of some car. You fight. You survive. You come home."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
The last thing I feel is the jolt of the cab taking a sharp turn, the weight of the phone slipping from my fingers, and the sound of her voice still in my ear as darkness rises around me like water in a well. I let it take me.