Chapter 177 Enrico

Chapter 177 Enrico
Enrico

Three weeks after Clara, I stopped circling the estate twice every day. Once was enough. Every morning, forty-one minutes, same path, same checkpoints. East camera still working, north gate scanning, tree line undisturbed. Every time I came back, nothing had changed. Everything was exactly as it should be. Eventually, I started to trust it. That was a shift.

The place felt different now. Not softer, exactly, just less tense. Like someone cracked a window open in a stale room.

On Tuesday, Dmitri called. His legal strategy finally got its first formal outcome: the feds recognised the community programs as legitimate charities. First domino down, and it mattered. He delivered the news in that careful “don’t celebrate too soon” way, but underneath it I could hear relief.

Thursday, the Foundation launched its fourth city. Isla spent two hours on the phone pacing across the kitchen in her socks, excited but trying to sound professional. After she hung up, she just stood there, then said, without looking at anyone—“It’s working.” Like she needed to hear it herself.

“It was always going to work,” I said.

She glanced at me. “You don’t know that.”

“I know you built it. That’s close enough.”

She studied me for a moment, then disappeared into her office. Which, if you know Isla, means she was flustered but didn’t want to admit it. I kept quiet.

Friday, Pasha’s letter dropped into the mailbox. Formal, typed, Bratva council channels. It was the Vasil family’s written withdrawal, officially overriding their claim, releasing whatever rights the old contract had held. Everything Dmitri had aimed for, wrapped up neat.

I read it once and handed it to Isla.

She read it twice, then vanished into her office. Twenty minutes later, she returned with a frame, clearly she’d been ready, expecting this moment. Somehow, that’s so Isla it didn’t surprise me at all.

She hung the letter between her window and bookshelf. A framed admission from the Bratva council, basically confirming nobody owned her anymore.

“Is that a trophy?” I asked from the doorway.

“It’s documentation,” she replied.

“It’s a trophy.”

She paused. “It’s a documented trophy.”

I looked at her, and at the wall. Her face was quiet, satisfied. This life is mine, I fought for it, and here’s proof.

“I love you,” I said.

She blinked, caught off guard. “I love you too.” Then: “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just…”  I stopped, shook my head. “Nothing. Go back to work.”

She watched me for another second, with her classic “I’ll file this away for later” look, then turned back to her desk.

I went to find Marco.

He was in Sal's old study, now finally "his". Felt like a big step.

“Ivan called,” Marco said, eyes on his computer. “He's doing what he calls thorough independent research.”

“On what?”

“American first date customs." Marco looked up, this looseness around his eyes that showed up more lately, kind of amused openness. “He’s got a fourteen-page document.”

“Does Alexei know?”

“Alexei’s been reading it over Ivan’s shoulder for days. Calls it the funniest thing he’s seen in America. Which, you know, given everything here, says a lot.”

I sat down. “How’s Sofia?”

He looked at his desk, like he always did when he didn’t know what to say, feeling something he hadn’t figured out yet. “Good,” he said. “She’s…” He paused. “She pushes back. On everything. I say something, she tells me I’m wrong and explains why.”

“Nobody does that.”

“Isla does that.”

“She’s my sister. Doesn’t count.” Marco lifted his gaze. “Sofia does it and I find myself wanting to be right, just so she’ll disagree and argue with me again.”

I stared at him. This guy who’d run an organization for twelve months like a pro, made tough decisions like the Clara call, and never let anyone see the toll. Now, here he was, challenged in a whole new way, not sure if he should worry or feel glad.

“Third dinner was last night,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“How’d it go?”

He glanced at the window. “She laughed at something I said. Not polite, really laughed.” He paused, thinking. “I’ve been replaying it ever since.”

I stood up.

“I’m heading out. Errand. I’ll be back in an hour.”

He eyed me. “What kind of errand?”

“The kind that’s none of your business until it is. I’ll explain later.”

His eyebrows went up. I left before he could pry.

The jeweller in Back Bay was tucked away, quiet, and had been there since the late ‘80s. I checked because shops that lasted were reliable, and today, I just wanted someone who knew how to keep things discreet.

The woman showed me seventeen rings.

Sixteen were wrong, too big, too flashy, too obvious. Isla never picked things that shouted. She wore her mother’s tiny silver cross, that necklace I bought her years ago, stuff with meaning, not trend.

The seventeenth was a plain band, one stone, simple, honest. The sort of ring that showed I knew her.

I picked it up. It felt right, no doubts, no waffling, just plain certainty.

I bought it, stuck the box in my jacket pocket, and drove home.

Isla was working when I came in. She looked up.

“How was your errand?”

“Fine.”

She studied me for a second, that sharp look she gives when she notices something but hasn’t decided what to do with it yet. Then she turned back to work.

I went to find Marco.