Chapter 166 (Elena's POV)
Chapter 166 (Elena's POV)
When the iron gates of the Long Island estate opened before me, my first thought was—the last time I passed through these gates, I was escaping.
This time, I walked in as the victor.
Luca stood on the front steps waiting.
Black overcoat, dark gray turtleneck. Jaw cleanly shaved.
But the shadows beneath his eyes were heavy and dark. He probably hadn't slept much last night.
I climbed the steps and stopped before him.
We held each other's gaze for a few seconds.
Said nothing.
He turned, pushed open the front door, and led me inside.
Through the great hall—the crystal chandelier was the same, the carpet was the same, the oil paintings on the walls were the same. Nothing had changed.
But everything was different.
The last time I'd walked this corridor, my head was bowed, wearing clothes that had been chosen for me, nails painted a color someone else picked.
This time I wore my own black knit top and jeans, Martin boots on my feet, hair tossed into a casual ponytail.
My footsteps echoed on the marble floor—clear, strong, a rhythm that belonged to me.
The east wing was on the right side of the estate.
Luca walked ahead, through a long corridor, past three doors.
Two men stood before the final door—black suits, earpieces, hands clasped behind their backs.
Luca stopped and turned to look at me.
"How long do you need?"
"Not long."
He nodded and stepped aside.
I pushed open the door.
The sitting room was large.
The fireplace crackled, flames casting warm orange across dark wooden furniture.
Sofa, coffee table, bookshelves, a small round table holding a pot of coffee and a porcelain cup.
Very comfortable.
Like a suite in a luxury retirement home.
On the mantelpiece—
My gaze locked.
That Western clock.
The brass casing polished to a shine, Roman numerals still crisp on the enamel dial. The pendulum swayed behind its dust glass—left, right, left, right.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The second hand was moving.
But the rhythm… was just slightly slower than normal.
If you weren't listening carefully, you'd never notice.
Enzo sat in the armchair by the fireplace.
He wore a dark cashmere sweater, white shirt collar peeking at the neckline. A plaid blanket draped over his legs. Coffee cup in hand.
He looked like a retired gentleman on holiday at a country house.
He heard the door and looked up.
Saw me.
Two seconds of silence.
Then he smiled.
That smile—I'd seen it too many times. Mouth corners lifted to millimeter precision, eyes carrying that condescending scrutiny.
"The Caruso daughter," he said, tone like someone appraising a finally completed work of art. "You've won."
I didn't smile.
I walked to the chair across from him and sat.
Crossed my legs, hands resting on my knee.
"Won?" I said. "My grandmother coming back would be winning."
His smile didn't change, but the muscle at his eye corner twitched.
"Your grandmother's death—I regret it," he said, lifting his coffee for a sip. "But you must understand, Elena—every move in this world has a cost."
"You call it 'cost.'"
"What do you call it?"
"Murder."
He set down the cup. The bottom clinked against the saucer with a crisp sound.
"You're too young," he said, leaning back, fingers laced over his abdomen. "Young people always see things too simply. Black is black, white is white. Good people, bad people. Right and wrong, clearly drawn."
He gazed into the fire.
"Everything I did was for the Marino family," he said. "The Caruso destruction—was necessary. Your ports were critical to our expansion. Even if I hadn't acted, Ferrante would have found other allies, and then the Marino family would have had a much harder time entering Sicily."
"So you joined forces with Ferrante."
"The enemy of my enemy is my friend." He spread his hands. "Basic logic."
"Joined forces to wipe out a family, then split the spoils with the killers," I said. "That's your logic."
"That's survival," he corrected, tone still composed. "Your father didn't understand that. Too naive. Clinging to his so-called 'principles' and 'bottom lines,' thinking integrity alone could keep him alive in this world."
He looked at me.
"But you're different."
The fire jumped.
"You're much smarter than your father," he continued. "You know how to use rules, how to maneuver in the shadows, when to strike."
His mouth curved again.
"If I hadn't pushed you to this point—do you think you could have become who you are now?"
I looked at him.
His face flickered light and dark in the firelight, every wrinkle like a knife-carved trench.
He was very old.
But those eyes were still bright—eyes that had calculated for a lifetime, still calculating now.
He was waiting for me to argue. To rage. To say the things he could easily deflect—"you're evil," "you ruined my life," "you don't deserve to live."
I didn't argue.
I stood up.
Walked to the mantelpiece.
The Western clock sat right before me.
Brass casing reflecting firelight, warm as a small piece of sun. Pendulum swaying left and right, its shadow drifting across the enamel dial.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
I reached out, fingertip landing on top of the clock.
Traced lightly across the curved brass cap, found the spot I wanted—and tapped.
"You really do love this clock," I said, voice very soft, carrying an almost tender cadence. "Even now, you brought it with you."
Enzo's gaze followed my hand, brow furrowing slightly.
"I repaired it once," I continued, fingertip still tapping gently. "Do you remember? About a year ago. You asked me to fix this clock because it wasn't keeping time."
"Mm." His tone carried a note of impatience. "You fixed it."
"I did fix it." I turned to face him. "But did you ever notice—after I fixed it, it still wasn't quite accurate?"
His frown deepened.
"Slightly slower than normal," I said. "About three seconds slow per minute. You probably couldn't tell—the difference is too small. But if you've been in this room the whole time, listening to it constantly—"
I paused.
The fire crackled once.
Tick… tock… tick… tock…
The second hand's rhythm—was slowing with my tapping.
"Did you know that human heart rate can be influenced by ambient sound?" I said. "Prolonged exposure to rhythmic sounds below normal frequency causes the autonomic nervous system to unconsciously synchronize. Heart rate follows it down. Breathing rate drops."
Enzo's fingers withdrew from his abdomen.
"The process is extremely gradual," I continued. "Hours won't show a difference. Days won't either. But if it's a year—"
I looked at him.
"Especially a heart that's already seventy-plus years old. Tired. Not particularly healthy to begin with."
The room went suddenly quiet.
Quiet enough to hear the hiss of logs in the fireplace.
And that clock.
Tick… tock…
Tick… tock…
Slower and slower.
The interval between each sound stretching—as if the pendulum were pushing through increasingly thick air, each swing demanding greater effort.
Enzo lowered his head.
His right hand—the hand that had held wine glasses for a lifetime, signed documents for a lifetime, patted his grandson's shoulder for a lifetime—slowly, as if pulled by some invisible force, pressed against his own chest.
His color was changing.
Pallor starting from his lips. Then his cheeks. Then his forehead.
His pupils dilated slightly.
"You—"
He tried to stand.
Both hands bracing the armrests, arms straining—but his legs wouldn't obey. Knees bent, like two pillars with their support removed.
The plaid blanket slid from his legs, pooling at his feet.
His breathing changed. From steady to rapid, then from rapid to a labored, throat-rasping gasp. Each breath squeezed from an increasingly narrow passage.
"When I repaired that clock," I said, voice still very soft, "I was already beginning to hate this place. But I hadn't thought of actually using it to hurt anyone."
I watched his hand pressed to his chest.
Knuckles white, veins bulging.
"Who could have guessed," I said.
Tick…
Tock…
Tick…
"Rest well, Enzo."
My voice was very calm. Like bidding farewell to an old man about to take a long journey.
"Being able to die with dignity in your own home." I turned and walked toward the door. "That's the last bit of respect I'm giving you—for Luca's sake."
The door handle was ice-cold in my palm.
I turned it open.
Behind me—
The chair toppled.
Wooden legs striking marble with a muffled crash.
Then a cry for help.
Hoarse, broken, squeezed from the deepest part of his throat by terror.
"Help… help me…"
I didn't look back.
Walked through the door.
The corridor lights were blindingly bright.
Luca leaned against the opposite wall.
He saw me come out.
Saw my expression.
His face went white.
He rushed past me, shoved the door open, and disappeared inside.
I kept walking.
Steps steady.
One. Two. Three.
From the room behind me came Luca's voice—low, urgent, carrying a panic I'd never heard from him.
I couldn't make out what he was saying.
Didn't need to.
Four. Five. Six.
The corridor was long.
Long as a tunnel with no end.
Behind me, that Western clock's second hand—
Stopped.