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He smiles faintly. “But you didn’t.”
The last of my restraint shatters. Rage hits sharp and hot, and I slap him instinctively. The crack reverberates through the room.
He doesn’t flinch. He just touches his cheek with an almost proud expression.
“Still have your mother’s temper,” he says.
“You’re sick. And I’m done.”
As I march toward the door, his voice cuts through like smoke. “Then you’ll want to hear what your lover’s orders are.”
I freeze. “What did you say?”
Vincent steps closer, the cigar tip glowing like an eye in the dark. “You think Enzo ever acts without permission? You think he keeps you because he chose you? He was ordered to watch you, protect you, and deliver you when the time came.”
The air leaves the room. The world tilts sideways, as if I’m about to pass out or throw up. My vision blurs at the edges, darkness creeping in like a vignette in a bad Instagram filter.
My legs give before I reach the door, so I sink into the nearest chair. I can’t feel my feet, can’t feel the floor beneath them or the cushion underneath me. Can’t feel anything except the ice spreading through my chest. Everything freezes solid. I’m a statue of the girl who used to believe in truth and love and basic human decency.
No, no, he’s lying. He has to be lying…because the alternative’s too horrific to contemplate. Doubt creeps in anyway, poisonous and fast, spreading through my veins like venom because…
What if he’s not?
“Liar.” The accusation comes out thin, almost childlike. My hands shake, so I ball them into fists.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Ask him yourself. You’ll discover the truth and how whatever you have with him is just a little game he’s playing.”
The words punch through me, cold and clean. My mind spins, trying to find a version of Enzo that fits this lie or truth.
“You’re trying to destroy him,” I manage.
Vincent exhales slowly, smoke rising from his mouth. He chuckles. “Destroy him? No. He’s already destroyed. You just haven’t figured it out yet.”
With gleaming eyes, he moves as though he’s conducting an orchestra for a private audience, his every motion composed. Like he knows exactly how this ends and is just waiting for me to catch up.
He’s got an iPad on the small silver tea table between us. Its light spills over the contours of his face, transforming him into the type of villain he has probably always wanted to be.
He smiles, his voice slick. “Go on. Press play.”
Everything in me screams not to, but curiosity prevails. I pick the device up and tap the screen.
The audio starts on static. Then a voice. Gabi first…calm, almost casual, like men who order death as part of their morning routine.
Then another voice cuts through, lower and measured and familiar enough to stop my breath mid-inhale and freeze me in place. I’d know Enzo’s voice anywhere. Every clipped word, every deliberate pause, the faint rasp in his tone when he’s annoyed or tired or trying not to show emotion.
I lean closer to the screen, nearly dropping the iPad in my violently trembling hands. My heart pounds in my throat, my ears. Everywhere.
Gabi’s voice rings clear through the speakers. “The Martinelli problem needs to be resolved. Vincent’s gone rogue. And the daughter…”
My blood turns cold, and everything goes hazy, the boundaries of my world dissolving into white noise.
“…she’s the only leverage we have. Keep her close. Make her trust you. When the time comes, we use her to draw Vincent out.”
Enzo answers, “I’ll handle it personally.”
No. No, no, no.
“Good. Make sure she doesn’t suspect anything. We need her compliant.”
