Chapter 27 Nick
Nick
Asingle sleepless night had barely passed before there was another SUV pulling up the long driveway to the ranch.
However, this time it was black, the windows were tinted so dark that it was impossible to tell who was even driving, and Angelo was so nervous I thought he was going to vibrate out of his skin.
The person in that SUV was probably one of the most terrifying humans on the east coast and the last man I ever wanted to meet.
But Dante’s life was on the line and that was unacceptable. I’d take all the help I could get.
Even if that meant asking Enzo Valenti.
The SUV came to a stop in front of the main house, and for a moment, nothing happened. Just the engine ticking as it cooled, the dust settling around the tires. Angelo shifted beside me, his jaw tight.
“You should let me do the talking,” he said quietly. “At least at first.”
“This is my ranch,” I replied, though my voice came out shakier than I wanted. “My husband. I’m not hiding.”
The driver’s door opened first, and a man in a dark suit stepped out. He was built like a tank, all shoulders and no neck, with the kind of face that had seen violence and dealt it back twice as hard. He scanned the property with cold efficiency before opening the rear passenger door.
Enzo Valenti emerged like he was stepping onto a movie set.
He was shorter and older than I’d expected, maybe five-eight and in his early seventies, but he carried himself with the kind of presence that made height irrelevant.
His salt-and-pepper hair was perfectly styled, his suit probably cost more than my truck, and his dark blue eyes, so much like Dante’s, swept over the ranch with the calculating gaze of a man who assessed everything in terms of assets and liabilities.
Those eyes landed on me, and I felt the weight of his judgment like a physical thing.
“Mr. Wesley,” he said, his voice smooth and cultured with just a hint of New Jersey underneath. “I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”
I forced myself to step forward, to extend my hand even though everything in me wanted to run. “Mr. Valenti. Thank you for coming.”
His handshake was firm, measured. The kind that tested you without being overtly aggressive. “Angelo tells me my son has been arrested for murder.”
“Yes sir. Yesterday afternoon. A Detective Caruso—”
“I know who Caruso is,” Enzo interrupted, his expression darkening. “That persistent bastard has been a thorn in my side for fifteen years.” He released my hand and turned to Angelo. “You swept the house?”
“Everything’s clean,” Angelo confirmed. “Laptop’s in the safe, the contracts are destroyed, and there’s nothing that connects Dante to anything back home.”
“The contracts are destroyed?” Enzo repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Are there copies somewhere?”
Angelo’s face contorted. “N-No, sir. Dante didn’t make or send any copies back to the—”
Enzo turned to me in a flash. “How convenient for you,” he said, his voice restrained in a terrifying way. “Free to do what you want now, aren’t you?”
“I’m the one that burned them,” I replied, not allowing my voice to waiver. “To keep him safe.”
He studied me for a long moment, his gaze piercing through me, looking for any hints of betrayal. “Good.” He said at last, satisfied enough to continue. “And your family? Can they be trusted to keep their mouths shut?”
The bluntness of the question should have offended me, but I understood what was at stake. “My parents will back Dante. My sister...” I hesitated. “Angelo said he’d handle her.”
Something flickered across Enzo’s face. “Did he now?” He looked at Angelo with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “And how exactly do you plan to handle Miss Wesley?”
Angelo’s jaw tightened. “I’ll talk to her. Make her understand—”
“That won’t be necessary,” a voice called from behind us.
I turned to see Heather walking up from the barn, her riding boots dusty and her expression unreadable. My stomach dropped. How much had she heard?
She stopped a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest as she took in Enzo Valenti. To her credit, she didn’t flinch under his scrutiny.
“You must be Dante’s father,” she said.
“I am.” Enzo’s tone was pleasant, but there was steel underneath. “And you’re the meddling sister who hates my son.”
“I don’t think it’s a crime to look out for family, do you?
” she asked, her tone just as steely as Enzo’s.
“Family is the most important thing we have. And if I had to put a bullet in Dante’s head to save my family, I would.
But considering your son is still alive, I suppose that means I don’t hate him as much as you claim. ”
Enzo stood there for a long moment, looking her up and down. And then he smiled. Not the kind of smile a proud father gives a daughter, but the kind of smile snakes make when they recognize another snake in their midst.
“You would’ve made a good wife,” Enzo replied, a tone of admiration in his voice. “And a better daughter.”
Heather stepped forward, reaching out a hand as she returned his grin. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Enzo shook her hand. “Likewise.”
I wasn’t sure whether I was horrified or impressed that Heather had won him over.
However, Angelo looked like he was about to pass out.
The woman he was chasing had just won the respect of the biggest mob boss on the east coast in a matter of thirty seconds.
As far as I knew, nobody had ever done such a thing.
“You can come out now,” Enzo said, turning back to the car.
He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder as another man in a suit appeared looking a little worse for wear.
“I brought the lawyer. But he can’t get Dante out with nothing.
” Enzo zeroed in on me. “What can you give me that will at least make bailing him out possible?”
I stared at him, my jaw working. “I… I don’t—
“I have s-something,” Angelo said, raising his hand like he was in elementary school. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
“I don’t like any of this, Angelo,” Enzo replied, his voice edging on irritation. “I don’t like midnight flights, wide open spaces, cowboys, cows, dust, or airport food. But here I am. So, you’re either going to tell me or I’m going to feed you to the pigs piece by piece—”
“We…” Angelo began. “We don’t have any pigs.”
Enzo gritted his teeth, staring at him like he wanted to rip his head off right then and there.
“Why don’t we all go inside and talk there,” I offered. “Angelo? Lead the way.”
Angelo swallowed hard and nodded, leading our group toward the main house. I fell into step beside Enzo, hyperaware of the bodyguard trailing behind us like a shadow. My parents were going to lose their minds when they saw this procession walking up to their door.
Sure enough, Mom appeared on the porch before we even made it to the steps, her dish towel still in her hands. Her eyes went wide as she took in Enzo Valenti and his entourage.
“Nick?” she called out, her voice uncertain. “What’s going on?”
“These are Dante’s people, Mom,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “They’re here to help.”
Enzo paused at the bottom of the steps, giving my mother a slight bow that somehow managed to be both respectful and condescending. “Mrs. Wesley. I apologize for the intrusion. I’m Enzo Valenti, Dante’s father.”
Mom’s grip on the dish towel tightened, but she stepped aside. “Of course. Please, come in.”
The house felt smaller with Enzo Valenti in it.
He moved through our living room like he owned it, his eyes taking in every detail—the worn furniture, the family photos on the walls, the modest decorations that spoke of generations of Wesleys making do with what they had.
I wondered what he thought of it all, this man who probably had multiple houses and a watch worth more than our entire ranch.
Dad emerged from his office, stopping short when he saw our visitors. I watched him straighten his shoulders, pulling himself up to his full height even though Enzo barely came up to his chin. It was a rancher’s instinct to make yourself big when facing a predator.
“Mr. Valenti,” Dad said, extending his hand. “Jim Wesley.”
“Jim.” Enzo shook his hand, that calculating gaze never wavering. “I understand we have a mutual problem.”
“Seems that way.” Dad gestured toward the dining table. “Why don’t we all sit down and figure out how to fix it.”
We settled around the table. Enzo was at one end, my father at the other, and the rest of us filled in the spaces between. The lawyer, whose name I still didn’t know, pulled out a legal pad and pen. Angelo looked like he wanted to disappear through the floor.
“Alright, Angelo,” Enzo said, his voice deceptively calm. “Tell me what you have.”
Angelo’s hands were shaking as he clasped them on the table. “The Bensons,” he started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. Tried again. “The Bensons aren’t dead.”
The silence that followed was so complete I could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen.
Enzo went very still. The kind of still that vipers go right before they strike. “Excuse me?”
“They’re not dead,” Angelo repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. “We... Marco, Dante, and I, relocated them. To Costa Rica. Gave them new identities, new lives. They’ve been there since Benson flipped on us.”
I felt my jaw drop. Dante hadn’t killed the Bensons, I knew that much. But saving them?! He’d given them a way out, a fresh start away from the mob and the cops and everything that had put them in danger.
But Enzo’s expression was thunderous. “He did what?”