130

130

The villa was nestled in the hills outside Parma—too quiet, too clean. It didn’t have the stench of blood or the hum of soldiers like the other safehouses Antonio had relied on. No one would expect him here. That was the point.

He stood at the edge of the long hallway, his hands stained with dried blood, his suit wrinkled and stinking of sweat and gunpowder. The boy was locked inside the last room—guarded by two of his most trusted men. Young, but loyal. Men who hadn’t yet questioned what the hell he was doing.

He hadn’t spoken a word to Enzo since dragging him away.

He hadn’t slept either.

The boy’s eyes haunted him.

Not because they looked like Kadie’s.

Not because they reminded him of the past.

But because in that split second—right before he pulled the trigger on Vincenzo—Enzo had looked at him… and not flinched.

Not even once.

Antonio inhaled sharply, the metallic taste of adrenaline still clinging to his tongue. He had shot Vincenzo point-blank, taken the boy, and now… now the world felt muted.

“Boss?” A voice from behind.

It was Lucas, lean and jittery, his brow slick with sweat despite the cool evening breeze slipping through the open windows. “We reinforced the south trail. No sign of movement.”

Antonio gave a single nod, never looking away from the hallway. “And the burners?”

“All phones dumped. Scramblers activated.”

“And surveillance?”

“We’re dark.”

“Good.”

Silence again.

But it didn’t last.

“Are you sure about keeping him?” Lucas asked. “He’s just a kid, but… he’s not stupid. He knows who you are.”

Antonio turned slowly, his gaze sharp as a knife.

“Do I look unsure?”

Lucas swallowed hard and shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Then act like it.”

The younger man backed away without another word.

Antonio waited until he was gone before finally moving. His steps were slow and measured. The click of his shoes echoed in the narrow corridor as he approached the room. One guard stepped aside, unlocking the door without needing to be told. The second avoided eye contact.

The door creaked open.

Enzo sat on the edge of the bed, his knees pulled close to his chest. His hair was messy, and his eyes were bloodshot. He didn’t look afraid—just tired. Resigned.

Antonio stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

Then Enzo looked up, voice low but firm. “Why did you shoot him?”

Antonio blinked. “Because he was going to take you.”

“He’s my father.”

“And I’m your uncle.” Antonio gave a tight smile. “Family is complicated.”

Enzo didn’t smile back. “You hurt my mom. You hurt her again.”

The words landed like stones against Antonio’s chest. For a boy his age, Enzo had too much clarity. Too much weight in his voice. It was almost eerie.

“I didn’t hurt her,” Antonio said calmly. “I protected her.”

“From what?”

Antonio sat across from him, folding his hands. “Hey! I didn't come here for a Q and A session.”

“I told Mama you were a bad man.” Enzo’s jaw clenched.

Antonio stared at the boy. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he leaned forward.

“You think this is about your mother?”

Enzo didn’t respond.

Antonio’s voice dropped. “This isn’t about revenge. Or love. Or grief. It’s about legacy. About setting things right. I let too much fall into Vincenzo’s hands, and now I have to take everything back."

“He didn’t take anything from you.”

“He took everything,” Antonio growled. “My place. My people. My future. And now he wants to raise you under his name—a son and a family before me.”

Enzo’s eyes flickered.

“Your blood is mine,” Antonio said softly. “You carry my brother’s blood. You belong with me.”

Enzo’s voice was barely a whisper. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Antonio stood, fists tight at his sides. “I’ve already decided.”

He walked to the window and looked out at the vineyard beyond the hills. It was beautiful—quiet—but something in his chest pulsed like a war drum. He didn’t know how long he could keep this place secret. Didn’t know how long before Vincenzo’s people traced his steps.

But he had time.

He would teach the boy.

Shape him.

He was going to make everything that Vincenzo owned his, including his son.

He turned back to the boy.

“Get some sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow, we begin again.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

As he walked out, he heard the faintest whisper behind him.

“I want to see my mama.” The little boy broke into tears.

Antonio paused—just for a second.

Then shut the door.

Hard.

The safehouse smelled of dust and damp wood. Far from the elegance he was used to, but necessary.

Enzo had finally stopped crying—exhaustion had forced him to sleep. Antonio stood in the dim hallway just outside the child’s makeshift room, staring out a narrow window with the phone pressed to his ear, waiting.

He didn’t like waiting.

The call finally connected.

“Well?” he snapped, barely holding back his impatience.

“Boss…” The voice on the other end crackled. “We searched everywhere. The study, the floor safe, the back vault.”

“And?”

“They’re not here.”

Antonio’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean not there? The documents—”

“We found traces; someone had already been through the place. Either they took them before we got there or… they were never in his office to begin with.”

A pause. Then the man added quickly, “We swept for surveillance; nothing active. But whoever moved those documents knew exactly what to take.”

Antonio clenched his jaw, pacing a tight circle.

He had spent months orchestrating this power shift—alliances, intimidation, calculated hits on minor players. The LaRosa empire had already begun to rot from within. All that remained was the paperwork that proved his full legal control over the Milan and Naples operations—stamped, notarized, and stashed in his brother's study.

Now gone.

His mind raced.

Who took them?

Kadie? No—she wouldn't have thought of it.

Vincenzo?

No. He was still in a hospital bed, bleeding and broken.

Pedro? Camilla?

The possibilities spread out like spiderwebs.

“Search the secondary property,” Antonio ordered. “The apartment in Naples. Use gloves. Move fast. Don’t come back empty-handed.”

“Got it.”

The line went dead.

Antonio stared at the wall for a long time.

The child’s soft breathing floated from the other room. It was the only sound.

He closed his eyes, trying to slow the ticking in his skull.

He had Enzo. That was leverage.

But leverage meant nothing if the throne wasn’t his.

If the documents were truly gone—the cartel’s official deed of ownership, the offshore codes, the new bank instructions—all of it—then he was just another man hiding in the dark.

Not a king.

Not the LaRosa.

He slammed a hand against the wall, breathing hard.

He had bet everything on this play. The name, the reputation, the alliances with what was left of the Glaziers and SP brothers. He’d promised them stability. Promised them that by sundown next week, he would hold the entire western corridor in his grip.

Without those papers, his promises meant nothing.

They wouldn’t fear him.

They’d start asking questions.

And questions led to betrayal.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath.

His phone buzzed again.

A different number.

He answered, expecting bad news.

Instead, a voice he hadn’t heard in months spoke.

“You’re slipping, Antonio.”

His blood chilled.

“Zao Min?”

“Yes,” the voice said, smooth as silk. “And I see you still haven’t learned to cover your tracks.”

Antonio turned slowly, walking away from Enzo’s door. “I don’t have time for ghosts.”

“You should make time. Because without those documents… you’re not even a shadow of Vincenzo.”

Antonio gritted his teeth. “That shadow is bleeding in a hospital bed.”

“And yet you’re still chasing his paper trail.”

Antonio didn’t respond.

Zao Min chuckled darkly. “You took the boy. Clever. But reckless. They’ll come for him. You know that, don’t you?”

“They won’t find us.”

“You think so? I know Vincenzo. He doesn’t give up…” A pause. “He has the heart of a viper.”

“I have a plan,” Antonio said, jaw locked.

“No, Antonio. You had a plan. Now you have a hostage and a hole in your empire; your brother has to pay for burning down my plantation. You have two days to wrap this charade up.”

The line clicked off.

Antonio lowered the phone slowly, breathing hard.

Then he turned and walked back into the room.

Enzo stirred on the cot, murmuring something in his sleep.

Antonio stood over him, silent.

“Your father always underestimated me,” he whispered.

“But I will rise. With or without the papers.”

He walked back into the hall, reached for his second phone, and called his last option.

“Go back and turn that house upside down, and find me something! Anything!” he ordered.

“Yes, Boss.” An uncertain reply came.

Antonio’s jaw tightened.

“End your damn life if you don't find something for me.”