LXXVII. ENZO BIANCHI (POV)

LXXVII. ENZO BIANCHI (POV)
“I knew depending so much on a single man could make us vulnerable,” I retort, not hiding the satisfaction in pointing out something Alessandro purposely chose to overlook.
“Are you suggesting I made a mistake?” His voice is so low it almost blends with the crackling of the wood in the fireplace, yet it slices through the air like a sharp blade.
“I’m saying Gianni should never have been our only bridge to the Società. Now we’re in the dark.”
Truth be told, I never trusted that guy. He always seemed a little too eager to betray his famiglia for a few coins. And men with a price on their loyalty—men willing to sell their morals and beliefs—are the worst kind of scum that can crawl through this world.
But it’s exactly that kind of man who draws Alessandro’s attention. Greedy men, who would do anything for money, are the easiest to manipulate. Blinded by dollar signs, they’re often the most arrogant, too. And the bigger the illusion, the harder the fall.
That’s why, when Savio suggested Gianni—someone close to the leader of the Società di Milano—could be turned, my father’s eyes lit up like he was staring at a gold mine. And it was. From the beginning, the intel was real, valuable, and could’ve easily led him straight to the Silenziosi’s court...
My eyes widen slightly as the realization hits me. My chest tightens, squeezing the air from my lungs until they start to burn.
Savio.
The name echoes in my head like a death knell—
A chill runs down my spine, just as real as the feel of Marina’s warm breath on my neck earlier, but infinitely more dangerous. The kind of cold that comes from anticipation, from instinct whispering that something is very, very wrong.
“What are you thinking about?” Alessandro’s voice pulls my gaze to his by sheer reflex, though my eyes are still fixed on him without really seeing. My mind is miles ahead, digging through memories, linking pieces, retrieving details I might’ve discarded at the time.
I force my face back into its usual mask of impassivity—the same one I inherited and perfected over a lifetime—running a hand over my unshaven jaw like it might hide some of the tension now rushing through my veins.
The pieces fall into place with a discomforting precision that’s too neat to be a coincidence. Even so, I can’t speak my mind.
Savio is one of ours. Loyal. Trustworthy. He stayed behind so I could try to save my life. At least, that’s what he made me believe. We never had a reason to doubt him. But now, with his disappearance—and his connection to Gianni—the cracks are beginning to show.
But second thoughts don’t work with my father. Because once the seed of doubt is planted, it doesn’t matter if it takes root or turns out to be a misunderstanding—he’ll already have decided it’s a threat.
Alessandro doesn’t tolerate uncertainty. He eliminates variables. He destroys possibilities. Even if it means losing valuable pieces in the process.
He prefers rebuilding to repairing. Sacrificing to make room. That’s how he keeps the empire standing. That’s how the blood keeps slipping between his fingers, but the crown stays clean.
“I’m thinking about Matteo,” I lie, voice low but steady. “It’s only a matter of time before they find out Gianni was feeding us intel about the Società. And when that happens, war will be inevitable.”
Alessandro doesn’t respond right away. His gaze stays locked on mine, searching for more than words, trying to pull out from my silence what my mouth won’t say. But he finds nothing. The wall between us is thick, built from years of practice and exposure. One he himself helped construct.
“You want me to pay him a visit?” I cross my arms, and the movement makes the wound in my side throb—a reminder that any clash with Matteo Romano might leave more holes in my flesh. But there’s not a trace of fear in my bones, only a rush of adrenaline keeping me from going numb.
Alessandro narrows his eyes, weighing the risk and reward on that invisible scale he carries in his mind. He doesn’t speak for a stretch of time that feels too long, and the silence grows so heavy the crackling embers echo in my head.
Then, he lifts his chin slightly, arms still crossed, his features tense but dominated by the same clinical coldness that defines him.
“No.” Alessandro steps away from the fireplace, walking past me with a rehearsed kind of calm, and my eyes follow him, unblinking. “Not yet.”
He heads back to the bar, slowly, picking up the same glass he barely touched earlier and this time takes a generous sip—quick, like he’s trying to soothe a dry throat, or maybe wash down a bitter taste.
“He might be here for Gianni, but let’s not forget our peace has been hanging by a thread since the incident with Ventresca. And even though I don’t fear those pigs, a war right now wouldn’t serve us. Too much has changed in twenty years.” His voice lowers, taking on a gravity so rare it puts me on edge. “We’ve finally regained the position that’s rightfully ours, Enzo. We fought a long and brutal road back to the top. We armed ourselves with pens and decisions—not with guns like those vulgar bastards from the south.”
Alessandro leans against the sideboard, turning the wineglass between his fingers with motions far too delicate for the weight his words carry. There’s a tense pause between one sip and the next, as if even the silence is being chosen with surgical care.
“A war now would paint the headlines red, draw the kind of attention no amount of money or influence can erase.”
Of course, that’s what bothers him the most. Nothing disgusts him more than messes that spill onto his polished floors—especially after years spent keeping them pristine.
To my father, reputation is everything. That’s where power, money, and influence come from—and through them, control.
A war now, in the age of the internet and information, would be a death sentence. One wrong move is all it would take for years of effort to go up in smoke.
“You understand that, don’t you?” He looks at me over the rim of his glass, like he’s waiting for me to step off-script again. But I just nod slowly. “We can’t give them any more reason to doubt us… After all, they’re not as reasonable as we are.”
That almost makes me laugh. I manage to suppress the ironic sound threatening to escape, but not the way the corner of my mouth lifts, despite myself. It’s funny, how he sees himself as reasonable, being the man he is.
“You have permission to act with Matteo. As long as you don’t draw attention. No headlines. No bodies.”
He says it like it’s something simple, like I can rein in Matteo Romano with a few well-placed words and a handshake. Like he’s not a rabid dog with gunpowder under his skin and the kind of stare that would rather watch the world burn than follow any rules.
“But I want that dog on a leash.”
Alessandro finishes the wine with the same elegance he uses to decide fates—silently, with precision, and without remorse. When he sets the glass down, his eyes find mine again, and there’s something there that wasn’t before. But I can’t quite name it.
“I’ll handle it,” I murmur, plain and firm. No embellishments, no hesitation. I’m already turning, ready to leave before he changes his mind—or tightens the leash around my own neck.
But as my hand touches the door handle, his voice hits me again: “Enzo.”
I stop, not looking back. Just listening, feeling his gaze on my back, heavy enough to stretch the fabric of my shirt against my skin, now damp with sweat.
“Next time you decide to punish my employees, do it right.”
I inhale through my nose, holding the air in my lungs a second too long.
Shit.
“Because of your mercy, those two girls had to be… temporarily removed.”
He pauses, letting the words sink in, just like he used to when I was a kid—and still, sometimes, manages to. They expand inside my chest, pressing until I want to vomit.
“If I hear you went soft again out of pity, you’ll be the one punished. I didn’t raise a damn weakling.”
Heat creeps up my collar, a mix of shame and fury pressing down in my gut, though my face stays expressionless.
“Understood?”
My hand grips the handle tighter, knuckles whitening.
“Understood.” The word comes out with the exact weight he expects—steady, without hesitation, without defiance.
My temples throb, and the pressure in my chest forces my jaw to stay clenched longer than it should. Because if I say anything else, any variation, any moment of doubt, he’ll know. He’ll sniff out weakness like a vulture smells rotting flesh.
“It won’t happen again, Father.”
I don’t wait for anything else. I open the door and walk down the hallway with steady steps, never looking back, keeping my chin high. But the anger burns under my skin, seething—not just from his words, but from what they carry.
Weakling.
The word repeats like a mantra in the back of my mind, sparking old memories. If I think too hard, I might still feel the warmth of Raffaele’s arms around me, offering up his own skin to shield mine.
My stomach drops.
Bile rises, but my teeth stay clenched. My jaw’s locked so tight it aches, but by now, that feels as natural as breathing.
I cross the main hall without even noticing the staff pressed against the walls, trying to vanish into the background. They can smell the tension like blood in the air, and they know what it means.
Alessandro is displeased.
And when he’s displeased, someone disappears.