Omertà: Bound by Debt

Chapter three- Enzo

There was a specific kind of silence that lingered after business meetings. The kind that draped itself over a man like a heavy coat and followed him into every corner of his mind, waiting to whisper reminders of things left unsaid, of power plays still unfolding. Enzo Moretti walked out of the penthouse suite of his hotel—one of his many legal ventures, polished and pristine for the sake of appearances—heading home just as the final notes of that silence began to settle.

The meeting had run long, full of posturing and hollow pleasantries from investors who had no idea they were dining with the devil. They toasted to “growth” and “expansion,” blissfully unaware that half the numbers on the report were clean only on paper, washed through a dozen fronts before they were ever shown.

I, Enzo didn’t care for such games, but they were necessary. Image mattered—especially when you lived in two worlds. As i got to the grand estate i called home, the weight that had been on my shoulders doubled in size and remembered who I was and what I stood for. Not like I could ever forget with the ruthless training I hate received throughout my childhood.

My cautious eyes scan the environment as I highlighted from the mercedes. Not planning on making any small talk, I went straight into my own part of the house. It was divided into three wings. Wing A was for his father, B was for the guards and maids that live in the house with them. Those that didn’t, lived outside the main mansion. There are surrounding two storey duplexes scattered across the estate but were still close to the main house just in case of “trouble”. My side is the last part of the house, wing c, a place no one dares to cross unless ordered to.

Heading straight to my room, I loosened the buttons of his tailored suit, peeled the jacket from my shoulders, took off my pants and making way towards the bathroom. A hot shower. That was all I needed to wash off the false smiles and lingering cologne of deceit. Steam filled the glass enclosure as I stood under the spray, eyes closed, allowing the heat to chase away the cold.

Then came the call. One could not have a moment to himself if you lived in the world I did unless you wanted chaos to reign.

The phone buzzed sharply on the counter outside the shower. I ignored it the first time. But the consistent buzzing was disturbing my ears so stepped out, a towel slung low around my waist.

It was Dante.

I picked up, my voice clipped. “Si” (“Yes?”)

“She’s here.”

I stilled. The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been.

“She?”

“Your gift,” Dante replied, amused but at the same time sounding uninterested. “A payment, courtesy of your father.”

There was a long pause before I spoke again. “What the hell is he doing now?”

“Settling a debt. Personally. He thinks you’d enjoy it. He says to treat it as you like, ‘kill it if you please’.”

Frustrated, I ran a hand through my wet hair, my jaw tight. “You know this isn’t my style.”

“I told him. He insisted. Said you needed a ‘reminder’ of how things used to be done.”

There it was. Salvatore Moretti’s brand of legacy building cruelty disguised as favor. Enzo wasn’t a saint, not by a long shot. But he had lines. And this, women used as bartering chips was not his preferred way of doing business.

I hung up without another word.

Still dripping, I stalked toward my closet, choosing a pair of charcoal slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. A reminder of control, of composure. I put on my watch, checked the time and made my way down the carved polished wooden stairs of the Moretti estate, the heavy scent of Sicilian winter carried in by the wind.

I could feel it before I even saw her.

The tension in the air had shifted. A ripple in the stillness. And then they stepped through the doorway—Isaiah, his father’s right hand who he solely despised, Dante, his own right hand who bore a look of dis-interest and two guards flanking a girl who looked like she’d been dragged through hell.

Her hair was a mess, her coat torn and dusted with dried leaves, shoes scuffed. But her eyes—they were fierce. Even though they were hollow by exhaustion and panic, they burned. Not defiant, not yet. But not broken either.

Enzo leaned against the banister, watching her. She was shivering. Not just from the cold, but from everything.

He descended the final steps slowly, silently.

“This is her?” I asked Dante but Isaiah answered.

“Yes. Sloane Monroe. Her father owed your father a hefty sum. She’s the interest. Or rather, the settlement.”

Enzo didn’t respond right away. He stepped closer. Her breathing hitched. Her eyes met his, wide with disbelief and fear. A moment passed where time seemed to stretch.

He tilted his head. Her eyes widened further, but she didn’t speak. She couldn’t. She was still unraveling.

“Cut her loose,” I ordered flatly.

One of the guards obliged, pulling a small blade from his pocket to slice the zip tie around her wrists. She flinched and gasped as blood rushed back into her hand, her relief evident in her face which was like an open book but at the same time not entirely readable.

I gave a signal to the guard to hold on, letting the knife stay a few inches from her throat. Stating a warning.

You are free to stand. Nothing more.

I tilted my head slightly, studying her.

“What’s your name?”

It wasn’t a request.

It was a command, one I hope she obeys as I do not like to repeat myself.

“Sloane. Sloane Monroe.”

Her voice was cracked and parched.

“You’re mine now, Sloane,” I told her, voice low, lethal.

“You belong to me. Until your debt is paid.”

Her face was filled with confusion at first but then reality set in and maybe she understood the predicament she was in.

I was about to turn and call for a maid when the next words out of Isaiah’s mouth that snapped my control.

“If you’re not interested in her, boss, I could always take her off your hands—”

The knife moved before Enzo even realized he’d grabbed it.

It sailed through the air, landing with a sickening thunk an inch below Isaiah’s heart.

The room froze.

“I should kill you for even suggesting that,” I said coldly, stepping forward. “You forget who you speak to. You forget your place.”

Isaiah’s face twisted in pain and embarrassment, but he said nothing. Blood was seeping through his shirt.

“You’re lucky I spared your life,” I muttered yanking the blade free. “Say something like that again, and I won’t.”

Turning to the guards. “Take him to the clinic.”

“I’ll go myself,” Isaiah bit out, clutching his side.

Enzo didn’t care. “Suit yourself. And tell my father, his gift arrived and i have recieved it well.”

The man left, dragging his wounded pride behind him.

Enzo turned back to her.

Sloane still stood there, unmoving. But her expression had shifted. She was shocked. Afraid. But there was something else too.

He studied her for a long moment.

Fear was good. Fear meant she understood the stakes. But she didn’t look away. Not once.

Interesting.

He exhaled slowly, then nodded to his men. “Take her to her room.”

As the guards approached, he stepped closer to her one last time, leaning in just enough for his breath to warm her ear.

“I shall see you soon.”

He didn’t go back to the study.

Instead, he called his right and returned to his room, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the floor like it held answers.

Looking up to Dante he asked, “What do you think he wants me to do to her?”

Seeming lost, Dante responded “I don't know, you are the boss, you call the shots. So you figure it out.”

I was not amused by his answer, so I waved my hand, dismissing him.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She wasn’t supposed to matter. But something about her unsettled me.

I was used to obedience. Control. Power.

But Sloane Monroe had looked at me like a woman who’d already survived more than most men could understand. Like a woman who wouldn’t break easily.

I couldn’t decide if that excited me or terrified me.