Chapter 165: (Luca's POV)

The iron gates of the Long Island estate opened for me at two a.m.

Six black SUVs rolled up the gravel drive, tires on crushed stone startlingly clear in the night.

Every exterior light on the estate was on—Enzo hadn't gone to sleep.

He was waiting for me.

I stepped out of the car and straightened my coat collar. Night wind off the ocean carried salt and the bite of winter, cold enough to cut bone.

Six men followed behind me. All mine—truly mine. After confirming Marco's status, I'd spent forty-eight hours rebuilding the core team.

Every one of them triple-verified.

The estate butler stood at the front entrance, face ashen, hands clasped before him.

"Mr. Marino—"

"Move."

He stepped aside.

I crossed the great hall, climbed to the second floor, and stopped before the study door.

The door wasn't closed.

Through the gap leaked the orange glow of the fireplace and the smell of whiskey.

I pushed it open.

The study was as I remembered—dark walnut shelves stretching floor to ceiling, lined with leather-bound books that had never been opened. The fireplace crackled briskly.

Enzo sat in his "godfather's chair"—that high-backed, deep red velvet armchair I'd looked up at since childhood.

In the fireplace before him, the ash pile was higher than usual. At the edges, a few unburned paper corners remained, the writing mostly consumed by flame, only fragments of Italian surviving.

Half a glass of Macallan on the desk.

Amber liquid glimmering in the firelight like a solidified sun.

He heard the door and looked up.

Saw me. Then the six men behind me.

He set down the glass.

Then he smiled.

That smile—I knew it too well. Mouth corners lifted to millimeter precision, eyes carrying that near-admiring, condescending light.

"Finally," he said.

Unhurried, like commenting on a dessert that arrived five minutes late.

I walked to the front of the desk and stopped.

Three meters between us.

We held each other's gaze for two seconds.

Then I spoke.

"Enzo Marino."

My voice was steadier than I'd expected.

"By the authority of the Don—I hereby declare: effective immediately, you are stripped of all positions within the Marino family, all financial authority, all personnel authority. Your voting rights in family decisions are permanently revoked. Effective immediately."

A log in the fireplace popped, snapping sharply.

Enzo looked at me.

His expression didn't change—still that smile.

He stood.

Slowly, joints producing faint clicks. But his back remained perfectly straight. Seventy-plus years of habit, carved into bone.

"You think," he began, voice still composed, every word carrying that old-fashioned, unhurried rhythm, "those elders—will listen to you?"

"Seven to four," I said. "My mother finished persuading the last elder this morning. Rossi's public severance made a lot of people see clearly—whoever stands on Ferrante's side goes down with the ship."

"Nobody wants to be dragged under by you, Enzo."

His smile finally cracked.

Hairline thin—starting from the corner of his eye, fine as a single strand of hair.

"Your mother." He repeated those two words. His tone carried something I'd never heard before.

Surprise? Or disappointment?

I couldn't tell.

His gaze moved from my face to the fire.

Flames danced in his pupils, turning those clouded eyes alternately bright and dark.

"All this fuss," he said suddenly, tone lightening again, as if discussing the weather. "At the end of the day, it's all for a woman, isn't it?"

My jaw tightened.

"This is about doing what's right."

He turned back to look at me.

The angle of his mouth changed—from admiration to a sneer.

"Your father said the same thing," he said. "'Doing what's right.' He always tacked that on before doing something stupid."

He stepped closer.

The firelight stretched his shadow long, casting it over me.

"Then he died."

The study went quiet.

Six men stood behind me, breathing compressed to minimum.

A log in the fireplace let out a muffled thud—a charred piece broke, collapsing into the ash, throwing up a small spray of sparks.

"The difference is," I said, "I won't let anyone die for me."

Enzo looked at me.

A long look.

Starting from my eyes, tracing along brow bone, nose bridge, jawline—all the way down. Like inspecting a piece he'd spent twenty-eight years sculpting.

Searching for cracks. For flaws. For any softness he could exploit.

I let him look.

One second. Two. Five.

Then his gaze withdrew.

His shoulders dropped one degree—barely perceptible. If you hadn't grown up at his side, you'd never notice.

"Fine," he said.

One word.

Not surrender—Enzo Marino would never say "I've lost."

More like confirming something.

"Lead the way," he said to the men behind me. Same tone. Like a master instructing servants.

Two men stepped forward, flanking him.

Enzo adjusted his cufflinks—unhurried, positioning each button precisely where it belonged.

Then he walked toward the door.

Passing me—

He stopped.

I could smell him. The smokiness of Macallan, the lingering bitterness of Cuban cigars, and the aftershave he'd used for decades—woody, spiced, exactly as I remembered.

He reached out.

His palm settled on my shoulder.

Very light.

So light you could barely feel the weight.

His thumb paused for one second on the bone of my shoulder—that gesture was too familiar.

He'd done it when I was three.

He'd done it when I was fifteen, returning from my first completed mission.

"You finally look like a Don," he said.

Then his hand withdrew.

He walked out of the study, footsteps fading down the corridor.

The door closed behind him.

The study was empty.

Only the fireplace still burning. Crack, crack. One pop at a time.

I stood in place.

Looking at the unfinished Macallan on the desk.

A thin film of liquor clung to the glass wall, sliding slowly downward, leaving pale amber tear-tracks.

He always said—"Macallan should be sipped slowly. Rush it and you can't taste anything."

My hand was shaking.

Starting from my fingertips, spreading to my wrist, spreading through my entire arm.

I clenched my fist.

Nails digging into palm. Hard. Harder.

Until the pain covered everything else.

I walked to the desk and picked up the glass.

Raised it to my lips—

Stopped.

Then I set it back down.

Turned and walked out of the study.

Closed the door.

The corridor lights were glaringly bright, bright enough to give you a headache.

Pulled out my phone.

My fingers were still shaking as I typed—had to press each letter twice to hit the mark.

"Done. Enzo is under house arrest in the estate's east wing."

Sent.

I leaned against the corridor wall, back of my skull pressing cold plaster, and closed my eyes.

A vast hollow in my chest.

Not grief. Not guilt. Not even relief.

Just empty.

Like the foundation left after a building is demolished—all the weight gone, but the load-bearing marks still etched into the ground, perfectly visible.

The phone buzzed.

Her reply.

"I need to see him. Once."

I stared at the message.

For a long time.

The corridor light hummed above me, cold white glow falling on the phone screen, making those words impossibly clear.

I knew what she wanted to do.

She wanted to see Enzo. To face the old man who'd destroyed everything she had.

What would she say? Do?

I wasn't sure.

But I knew—this was her right.

Just as tonight was mine.

My finger touched the screen. Still shaking. But lighter than before.

"I'll arrange it."

Sent.

The screen went dark.

The corridor returned to silence.

Only the distant sound of waves striking rock—very far, very soft, one after another, like a heartbeat.