CHAPTER 251: THE PARANOID KING

CHAPTER 251: THE PARANOID KING
"What the fuck do you mean you failed?!" Enzo roared into the encrypted satellite receiver, slamming his open palm onto the polished teak desk. 

Nobody on the other end said anything.

He leaned back in his chair, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey. “You had weapons,” he continued, his voice disgusted. “You had money and mercenaries. Men who were paid specifically to make sure this never happened.”

Still silence.

“And somehow, you managed to lose everything!” He thundered, his breathing came in heavy, ragged hitches, the harsh sound echoing through the opulent underground safe house provided by the Council. 

"We lost sixty men in forty-five minutes, Enzo," Vane’s voice finally crackled through the speaker, devoid of any warmth or fear. "Sixty. Your so-called elite mercenary was completely wiped out. The precinct closed off the district, and D’Soto’s enforcers held every single alley."

"Then you replace them!" Enzo spat, pacing behind his leather armchair, his bloodshot eyes wild with manic energy. "I gave you high-grade automatic rifles! I gave you untraceable cash reserves! I gave you strategic positions! You should have just hire more men and you take the district back!"

"Replace them?" a second lieutenant, Marco, cut in with a disgusted scoff. "You talk about human lives like they're empty magazines, Don Enzo. Our soldiers died on those cobblestones while you ran down a drainage tunnel to hide."

"I did not run!" Enzo snarled, his jaw clenching so tight his teeth ground together. "I executed a strategic withdrawal! My survival ensures this operation continues! I retaliated against Alexandro, and I will do it again!"

"Right," Vane murmured softly over the static. "A strategic withdrawal."

The icy skepticism in Vane’s tone made the hairs on the back of Enzo’s neck stand up. He stopped pacing, his body going rigid as he glared at the glowing red light on the receiver.

"Watch your mouth, Vane," Enzo warned, his voice dropping into a raspy, dangerous whisper. "I built this network."

"I am just trying to understand the logistics, Enzo," Vane replied smoothly, taking a slow, deliberate beat. "Speaking of logistics... I was thinking about the night Greco, Francesco, and Vittori died in the villa explosion. How exactly did the blast trigger inside the dining hall?"

Enzo frowned, his brow pulling low. "What the hell does that have to do with anything right now?"

"Just curious," Vane said, his tone entirely casual. "Did D'Soto have a spy planted inside the house? Did someone sneak a package into the study? Or was it their personal butler?"

"It wasn't the butler!" Enzo barked back instantly. "Of course it wasn't the butler! Old Marcus was loyal to the bone. It was one of the kitchen staff. An Ombra spy planted among the cooks placed the charge under the main table."

Silence stretched over the line. Cold, heavy, and absolute.

"That's strange," Vane noted softly, his voice dropping an octave. "Because Vittori told us personally that night that you ordered catering in from the outside. There were no kitchen staff."

Enzo froze.

The air in the lavish bunker felt instantly suffocating. A cold drop of sweat rolled down his temple, tracing the deep lines on his face. He had made a slip. A stupid, reckless slip.

"What kind of fucking idiot questions are you asking me?!" Enzo suddenly screamed, his voice cracking with artificial rage as he slammed his fist onto the wood again. "Is this what we are discussing while my turf is being threatened?! Why are you interrogating me about old casualties when your own men are retreating on the lower grid?! You are failures! Every single one of you!"

Over the speaker, neither Vane nor Marco offered a response. 

The silence on their end was louder than any argument.

Enzo drew a sharp breath, forcing his voice to stabilize as he tried to regain control of the room. "I will issue compensation packages to the families of the fallen soldiers from my personal accounts by tonight. But you will focus on securing the eastern perimeter. And hear me clearly... if I find out a single one of my lieutenants has bent the knee to Ombra, I will hunt down your families and burn your legacies to ash. Do you understand me?"

Without waiting for an answer, Enzo slammed his hand onto the disconnect button, cutting the line.

He stood over the desk, his chest heaving as he stared at the dark phone. 

He looked around the room, taking in the mahogany paneling, the velvet armchairs, and the gold-leaf trimmings of the bunker.

A bitter, triumphant smirk slowly spread across his face.

Now that Vittori, Francesco, and Greco were rotting six feet under, the old bastards on the Council had realized Enzo was their only viable weapon left in the state. 

They were catering to his every whim, providing him with unlimited funds, secure bunkers, and heavy ordnance.

He was untouchable.

He sank into his leather chair, running a hand over his mouth. His smirk slowly faded as his mind drifted back to Vane’s voice over the speaker.

Why was Vane asking about the villa explosion? Why was he tracking the details?

Paranoia flared in Enzo’s chest like a sudden, hot flame. He didn't like men who asked questions. 

He didn't want thinkers commanding his squads; he wanted obedient, unthinking machines who executed orders without hesitation. 

Vane was thinking too much. He was looking too closely at the cracks in the story.

He's spreading doubt among the men, Enzo thought, his dark eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. I need to eliminate him before his mouth ruins my entire vanguard.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a secondary, encrypted burner phone. He tapped out a fast command to his private hit squad: Target Vane. Quietly. Make it look like an Ombra ambush.

He set the phone down, leaning his head back against the leather headrest.

A sudden, sharp image flashed in his mind. A pale face framed by dark hair, lying beneath the harsh lights of an ICU ward.

Word from his street informants had reached him hours ago. A young woman had been airlifted from the warehouse shootout in critical condition. Bella.

For a fraction of a second, a strange, suffocating pang of regret touched Enzo’s chest. She was his daughter. 

He had raised her, trained her, turned her into the deadliest instrument in the country. A quiet part of him wished she was standing beside him right now, alive and uninjured.

Then, his jaw hardened into stone.

No, he told himself bitterly, crushing the sentiment before it could take root. She chose her side. She tried to slit my throat. She destroyed my supply networks. She is the reason I am hiding underground while my own men question my authority.

She wasn't his daughter anymore. She was just another traitor who had failed to execute her mission.

Enzo stood up from his chair, pulling a fresh glass of whiskey from the crystal decanter on the side table. He swirled the amber liquid, staring at his reflection in the dark glass.

If Alexandro D'Soto thought a few street skirmishes and a breached vault were enough to crush a man like him, the boy was gravely mistaken. 

With the Council's unlimited backing behind him and the remaining street lieutenants falling back into line, Enzo was preparing a final, crushing assault.

He downed the whiskey in a single gulp, his eyes flashing with lethal promise. "Enjoy your little victory, motherfuckers. I'm going to tear your world apart."