ADRIAN
I didn’t call Enzo for a week. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I needed him to want me to. Men like Enzo were predictable. Ignore them long enough, and they start circling. Give them a little attention, and they start performing.
So after seven days of silence, I finally called. He answered on the first ring.
“Cousin,” he said, voice warm. Too warm. “I was starting to think you forgot about me.”
“I need you to handle something.”
A pause — brief, but telling.
“Of course,” he said. “What’s the job?”
“A shipment. Synthetic product. High‑value. The Mancini family wants to move it quietly.”
“Opioids?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He whistled. “Risky.”
“That’s why I’m giving it to you.”
He laughed. “You flatter me.”
“I trust you can handle it.”
“Oh, I can handle anything.”
I
