VIDAL

SEVENTEEN

Unbeknownst to a sleeping Camilla, Enzo hovered outside her half-closed door for a moment. He had changed into a dark coat, its collar turned up slightly, the fabric whispering softly as he moved.

The hallway light was subdued, just enough to cast a soft glow across the floorboards. He eased the door open a fraction, just to be sure. His gaze settled on Camilla's resting form. She lay on her side, one arm tucked under the pillow, the curve of her hip visible beneath the blanket. The rise and fall of her shoulder as she breathed filled him with a curious warmth and a pang of regret. He knew he couldn't stay; he had duties to attend to, grim tasks he wished he could avoid.

He watched her for a moment longer, waiting until her breathing signaled deeper sleep. A faint crease in her forehead smoothed out as dreams claimed her. He almost smiled—if only he could give her peaceful nights without the threats lurking just outside their fragile alliance. But he had to go now, to ensure her future safety, to deal with the darkness he carried.

Enzo stepped back, pulling the door gently shut. He moved quietly down the hall, each step measured to avoid any creak of the floor.

As he descended the staircase to the living room, he found his driver waiting. The living room's soft lamplight revealed a man well past middle age, his temples silvered, his face lined with the roadmap of a hard life. He sat in an armchair, posture relaxed but alert, as if he'd been anticipating Enzo's arrival.

This driver was no ordinary chauffeur. His name was Gianni, a retired mafia hitman who had stepped off the blood-soaked stage after turning sixty. With no nest egg or cushy retirement—violence rarely paid pensions—he had accepted Enzo's offer: to serve as a personal driver and protector.

Gianni had been grateful, loyal, and surprisingly gentle in his old age, though Enzo knew he could still kill without hesitation if required. Here he was, in Enzo's penthouse living room, wearing a plain black jacket and trousers, a holster subtly outlined beneath his lapel.

Enzo wasted no time. He crossed the room in a few strides, his coat whispering against the back of a leather armchair.

"Gianni," he said quietly, voice firm but calm. "I need you to guard Camilla." He spoke in low tones, as if not to wake her or break the hush of the night. "She's asleep in the guest room. If anyone tries to get in here, anyone at all, you stop them. With any means necessary."

Gianni inclined his head, dark eyes steady. He understood what that meant. If killing was required, so be it. There was no flinching, no moral qualm. The old killer in him understood Enzo's request instantly.

"Understood," Gianni replied, voice gravelly. "I'll stay in the living room. No one will touch her."

Enzo nodded. "Good. I have business to attend to." He paused, taking a breath. He might never say this out loud, but placing Camilla's safety in Gianni's hands was an act of trust. "If anything happens—call me. But do not let anyone reach her."

Gianni settled on the couch, removing a small pistol from his underarm holster and laying it discreetly on the cushion beside him. He wouldn't sleep. He wouldn't even close his eyes. He'd watch the shadows and the doors until Enzo returned. His was a quiet, deadly vigilance.

Enzo left, stepping into the private elevator that led to the garage. He reached his car—a sleek, dark vehicle that blended into the city's nocturnal palette—and drove off.

The engine's purr and the passing neon lights mirrored his restless thoughts. He navigated the city's arteries: empty boulevards, quiet residential blocks, the distant hum of nightlife districts.

Soon, he turned toward the neighborhoods that concealed the old money and old power, where Ivan's estate waited like a dormant beast.

The night air seemed to hold its breath as he arrived at Ivan's home. The property was large, hidden behind tall hedges and a wrought-iron gate. Enzo's approach was not subtle—he didn't need subtlety here. He parked the car, stepped out, and bypassed the guards as if they were ghosts.

They knew him, recognized his silhouette and stride, and dared not impede him. He had a certain respect in these circles. Or perhaps it was fear.

Inside, the main hall was dimly lit, the marble floors and columns gleaming under carefully placed spotlights. He passed through silent corridors where heavy paintings and ornate mirrors witnessed his passage.

At last, he entered a living room as opulent as it was intimidating. Soft lamps lit a space of velvet-upholstered chairs and carved tables. At the far side, Ivan stood, sipping something dark in a crystal tumbler. Aleks was near him, leaning against a sideboard, face set in a neutral expression.

Ivan's smile was immediate, a smug curve of the lips as he turned to greet Enzo. He wore a tailored suit, midnight blue, and a tie with a subtle pattern. Everything about him spoke of wealth, power, and a chilling confidence that came from decades of crushing opposition.

Aleks, tall and broad-shouldered, looked younger, less settled. His father's presence loomed over him, casting him in a sickly half-light of expectations and disappointments.

"Enzo," Ivan said, voice smooth. "So glad you could make it." He took a small sip of his drink. "I trust you've received my gift?" His tone dripped with mocking satisfaction.

Enzo offered no greeting, no pleasantries. He stood still, his posture straight, his coat still on, as if he wouldn't stay long. He said nothing, just fixed Ivan with a steady gaze. The silence stretched, and Ivan's smile never faltered.

Ivan continued, feigning concern.

"Oh, did you not appreciate it? I thought maybe a little turmoil at that girl's apartment would send a message. I was disappointed she wasn't there. I had something more... entertaining in mind." He swirled his drink. "My men would have enjoyed her. And then, I would have passed her on to Aleks."

At these words, Enzo glanced at Aleks. The younger man's face tightened, a flicker of disgust there.

So he wasn't entirely a clone of his father's cruelty.

Interesting, but irrelevant at the moment. Enzo let the rancid implication hover, feeling a cold fury coil in his chest.

He spoke evenly, ignoring the vile scenario Ivan proposed. "Where is the body?"

Ivan's eyebrows rose, his smirk growing sharper. He believed he'd won. "So you've come to handle that unfortunate little situation?" He let out a low chuckle. "Aleks was quite messy with the poor thing. I did hope you'd get around to it sooner or later."

Enzo's gaze didn't waver. He wasn't here to spar verbally. He just wanted this done. Ivan gestured for him to follow, and Enzo trailed behind, ignoring Aleks entirely. They left the cozy living room and headed down a side corridor, past a locked door and into a back room where the stale scent of old wood and something far worse lingered.

There lay the body—a woman, beaten and broken. Enzo forced himself to observe without flinching. This was what Aleks had done. This was what Ivan offered as a job. A reminder of the degeneracy he worked for. He said nothing, no curse or sigh escaped him. He had done such tasks before—disposing of evidence, erasing the traces of their crimes.

He knelt, examining the remains. The feeling in his gut was one of pure revulsion, not at the task itself—he was numb to that—but at the idea that Ivan would threaten Camilla in a similar manner.

Ivan hovered behind him, pleased at his compliance. But what neither Ivan nor Aleks could see in Enzo's stoic face was the seed of a plan—he would not endure this forever. He would not let them harm Camilla. He would not let these monsters live.

Before tonight, such thoughts had been fleeting, buried by fear and obligation. Now they were crystallizing into intent.

He took care of the body as required—an hours-long, grim procedure that took him away from the penthouse. He knew the city's hidden corners, places where no one ventured, where evidence of unspeakable acts could vanish.

The night stretched, moon climbing high, as he worked in silence. The stars offered no comfort. The distant honks of late-night cabs, the laughter of drunken revelers, reached him in muffled echoes. The world carried on while he performed this final indignity, a ritual that must remain unseen.

At one point, he paused, leaning against a cold metal surface, breathing through his mouth. Aleks was a monster, and Ivan even worse. If they dared imagine such horror for Camilla...

The idea of them touching her, hurting her, made him want to rip through their world until nothing of their empire remained. He calmed himself, knowing reckless anger achieved little. He would need cunning, patience, precision.

The same skills that made him the best hitman could be turned against them. Just not yet. He finished the task, erasing the poor woman's remains from Ivan's ledger of sins. Another soul lost to the darkness, another crime concealed in the city's underbelly.

When he returned to his car, dawn was beginning to hint at the sky's edge with a lighter shade of blue. He sank into the driver's seat, stared at his own reflection in the rear-view mirror.

He looked tired, lines of stress at the corners of his eyes, the bitterness of Ivan's words still echoing. But amidst the exhaustion, a new clarity sharpened his resolve. He would not allow Ivan to dangle Camilla's fate like a toy for brutes. He would not stand by and let Aleks and Ivan rule his future.

He started the engine and drove back. The city's nightlife had quieted—only a few late-shift workers and early risers shared the roads with him. As buildings slid by, neon now dimming, he planned.

It would not be simple. Ivan and Aleks were entrenched, guarded by men who knew Enzo well and might guess his intentions if he acted rashly. But Enzo was known for his patience and cunning. He would find a way.

For Camilla, he would do what he'd never dared before—he would contemplate freeing himself from these chains of blood and loyalty.

At the penthouse, the light in the living room was still low. He parked in the underground garage and took a private lift upstairs. Gianni would be there, awake, vigilant.

Camilla would be asleep in the guest room, hopefully undisturbed. He longed to check on her, to see that her breathing remained calm, that the horrors of tonight hadn't touched her slumber. He wanted to tell her something reassuring. He wanted her to know that his new honesty meant not just confession but action.

He imagined the future: Camilla reclaiming her apartment once it was restored, no more lurking threats at the door. He pictured her smiling at him over coffee, no tension in her shoulders.

It was a dream he might never realize if he didn't take bold steps against Ivan. But he had no choice. Camilla demanded he be truthful, and she demanded safety. To give her both, he had to reshape his world's hierarchy—topple the king and prince who believed they could toy with innocent lives.

In the elevator, his reflection looked steadier now. His choice was made. He would kill Ivan. He would kill Aleks if necessary. He'd do it quietly, leaving no room for revenge.

It would be difficult—both men knew how to protect themselves. But Enzo had been their blade for too long, learning their patterns, their weaknesses. He'd slip between their defenses as silently as a shadow and strike at the heart of their empire.

The elevator doors opened onto his penthouse foyer. He stepped out, the hush of early morning embracing him.

He half expected Gianni to ask how it went, but Gianni wouldn't. He was an old hand who knew it was best not to pry. The silence between them would speak volumes.

He passed through the living room. Gianni sat in an armchair, alert. They exchanged a brief glance. Enzo nodded once, indicating all was well for the moment. Enzo dismissed him with a nod of his head.

Gianni acknowledged with a slight tilt of his head, the gun still resting at his side. Camilla was safe. That was all that mattered right now.

In the corridor to the guest rooms, Enzo slowed his step. He wouldn't enter Camilla's room—she deserved her rest. But he paused near the door, listening. The silence within comforted him. She was there, and hopefully deep asleep, her mind drifting through dreams untainted by Ivan's threats. He thought of her face when she demanded he tell her the truth, the courage in her eyes.

She had no idea what kind of darkness he planned to face for her sake, but in time, she would understand. If he succeeded, she'd never fear this underworld again.

He turned away, heading to his own bedroom. Dawn would break soon, painting the sky in pastel hues, and with it came a new day of delicate maneuvering. He would wake Camilla later, talk to her calmly, reaffirm his promise to restore her home. She would meet his driver-turned-guard, see more glimpses of the strange network that surrounded him.

Step by step, he would guide her through this labyrinth. And if at the end of that path he emerged victorious over Ivan and Aleks, perhaps they could forge something real—something grounded in more than survival and secrecy.

For now, he let himself imagine that outcome. He pictured Camilla's apartment restored to a serene haven, saw her smiling as she welcomed him at her door on a sunny afternoon. He imagined no more phone calls to underworld contacts, no more bodies to hide, no more nights spent looking over his shoulder. Maybe they could travel together, return to that Salentine dish in a proper Italian kitchen, cook and laugh without fear.

The city was quiet, as if holding its breath for what he might do next. Enzo undressed and slipped into his bed, the mattress cold without her warmth.

He closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling at him after this brutal night. Even so, he did not rest easy. Plans, strategies, and quiet fury drifted in his mind. He would have to be meticulous, patient, and ruthless in his approach to Ivan and Aleks. But he had always excelled at such work.

He listened to the faint sounds of ventilation, the hum of distant traffic muted by the penthouse's height and insulation. Farther down the hallway, Camilla slept, guarded by a killer.