Chapter 71

The air in the dimly lit chamber felt thick, laced with an unspoken challenge. The long, polished mahogany table stretched between the men gathered, each one a force in their own right-seasoned criminals, businessmen in the shadows, men who had built empires with blood-stained hands. But tonight, the hierarchy shifted.

Vince stood at the head of the table, his six-foot-three frame casting a long shadow over the men seated before him. The light from the grand chandelier caught the sharp angles of his face-sculpted jawline and piercing slate-gray eyes that betrayed nothing. His fitted charcoal suit was crisp, a single silver cufflink gleaming under the glow.

Enzo leaned back in his chair, exuding quiet danger. Dark-haired, lean, and built like a man who had lived through war and thrived in it, he watched Vince with the wary gaze of a predator studying another. His fingers tapped the armrest, slow, controlled. This wasn't just a meeting. It was a takeover.

"I assume there are no objections," Vince's voice cut through the tension, smooth, deliberate. A voice used to being obeyed. His gaze swept the room.

Silence.

A few exchanged glances, some wary, some resigned. No one dared to defy him.

Except one.

"You assume too much, Vince." Enzo's voice was a lethal whisper, a blade sharpened to precision. "You walk in here, sit at the head of a table that isn't yours, and think we'll just bow?"

Vince's lips curled at the edges, not quite a smile. "It was never yours to begin with."

A murmur rippled through the room. The tension crackled like electricity before a storm.

Enzo pushed off the armrest, standing, his movements slow, deliberate. His six-foot-two frame was lean muscle, every movement calculated. "I built this empire with my own hands. I bled for it. You? You walked in and played the long game." His gaze darkened. "What's your endgame, Vince?"

Vince exhaled, feigning boredom, but his eyes gleamed with something far more dangerous. He stepped forward, closing the space between them. The air between them pulsed, a battle of wills neither was willing to lose.

"My endgame?" Vince tilted his head. "Survival." He paused, letting the word settle before adding, "For all of us."

A beat of silence.

Then, Vince turned, his back to Enzo as he addressed the room. "Things are changing. The old ways are dead. We evolve, or we die." He reached for the crystal glass in front of him, swirling the amber liquid before taking a slow sip. Then, his next words sent a shockwave through the room.

"We're cutting ties with the Montenegro Cartel."

A heavy silence. Then, the uproar.

Men shot up from their seats, voices clashing, arguments erupting. The Montenegro Cartel had been their most profitable ally for years. To sever that connection? Madness.

But Vince merely smiled, his grip firm around his glass, watching the chaos unfold.

He had just drawn his battle lines.

The moment the meeting ended, Enzo didn't wait.

He stormed down the marble corridor, his footfalls echoing through the high ceilings of the estate. The place was a fortress-security at every entrance, cameras tucked into every darkened corner. But none of that mattered now.

He shoved the heavy oak doors open, stepping into Vince's private lounge. A roaring fire cast flickering shadows against the leather couches, the scent of aged whiskey and burning wood thick in the air. Vince stood by the bar, pouring himself a drink, his expression infuriatingly composed.

"You really are a son of a bitch." Enzo's voice was razor-sharp.

Vince didn't look up. "I take that as a compliment."

Enzo's jaw clenched. "Cutting off the Montenegro? Are you insane?"

Vince took a sip, savoring the taste before replying, "Insanity is clinging to an alliance that will slit your throat the second your back is turned." He placed the glass down, finally meeting Enzo's gaze. "You know I'm right."

Enzo stepped closer, fists curling at his sides. "You don't make that call. Not without me."

Vince studied him for a moment, then sighed, almost disappointed. "That's where you're wrong, Enzo. I already did."

A muscle ticked in Enzo's jaw. He wanted to throw a punch, wipe that damn calm off Vince's face. But this wasn't about brute force. This was a chess game, and Vince had just made his move.

"You think you have it all figured out, don't you?" Enzo's voice was quieter now, more dangerous. "That you can just play king and expect everyone to kneel." He took another step closer. "But you're forgetting something."

Vince arched a brow. "Enlighten me."

Enzo leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. "Kings can be dethroned."

A charged silence stretched between them.

Then, Vince smirked. "So can ghosts."

Enzo's breath hitched.

Ghosts. The word twisted in his gut like a blade.

Vince walked past him, pausing only to murmur, "You're not the only one with unfinished business, Enzo."

Then he was gone, leaving Enzo standing in the flickering firelight, the past clawing its way up his spine.

The note arrived at midnight.

Enzo found it tucked under the windshield wiper of his Aston Martin, the paper crisp, the ink bold.

Vince is playing you. Be careful.

No signature. No sender. Just those chilling words.

He stood in the dim glow of the streetlights outside his estate, his grip tightening around the note. His mind raced. Vince had his secrets-too many for Enzo's liking-but was this a warning? Or a setup?

His phone buzzed.

A blocked number.

He hesitated before answering. "Who is this?"

Static crackled, then a distorted voice. "Not important."

Enzo's pulse quickened.

"You're walking into a war, Enzo." The voice was calm, almost amused. "And you don't even know who the real enemy is."

Enzo clenched his jaw. "Then tell me."

Silence. Then-

"Meet me. Midnight. Warehouse 42."

A click.

The call ended.

Enzo exhaled sharply, his breath curling in the cold night air. He looked back down at the note.

Was he being led into a trap? Or was this the only chance he had to uncover what Vince wasn't telling him?

He flicked open his lighter, letting the flame eat the note until it curled to ash.

Then, he grabbed his gun and slid into his car.

Whatever waited for him at that warehouse, he'd be ready.