Chapter 1 - The Bloody Trail HomeThe rain began to fall just as Enzo’s black Mercedes pulled into the dingy alleyway off Tenth Street. It was the kind of rain that didn't just wet the pavement; it washed the grime of the city into the open gutters, mixing with the trash and the oil slicks.
In the back seat, little Sadie sat wrapped in Enzo’s heavy wool overcoat. It swallowed her small frame completely, the dark fabric smelling faintly of cedar, gunmetal, and expensive cologne. She had stopped crying, though her body still gave off the occasional, violent shudder—the physical echo of pure terror.
"We're here, sweetheart," Enzo said, his voice softer than it had ever been in his thirty-seven years. He looked at her through the rearview mirror. Her wide, terrified eyes met his. "Stay in the car. Lock the doors from the inside. Ray and Angelo will watch the perimeter. Nobody gets in, and nobody gets out."
"Is mama... is she still breathing?" Sadie whispered, her voice cracking.
Enzo’s jaw tightened. He didn't know. The fear of what lay behind the peeling wooden door of Apartment 4B was something foreign to him. He was a man who stared down barrels, who collected debts in blood, and who settled scores with absolute finality. But the thought of a woman in a pretty blue dress, broken and bleeding on a cheap linoleum floor because of a setup, ignited a furnace in his gut that burned colder than liquid nitrogen.
"She’s waiting for us," Enzo said, keeping his tone steady. "And I keep my promises."
He pushed the door open and stepped out into the downpour.
Ray and Angelo were already out, their heavy black coats slick with rain, weapons drawn and concealed expertly against their thighs. Ray, a mountain of a man with a jagged scar running from his ear down to his collarbone, gave Enzo a sharp nod.
"Alleys are clean, boss," Ray muttered, his voice gravelly. "Rear fire escape is locked from the inside. No lookouts spotted. Whoever did this thought they were safe."
"They're never safe," Enzo replied, stepping over a puddle of greasy water. "They just haven't realized it yet."
The door to Apartment 4B was a splintered disaster. The frame had been smashed inward, the heavy bolt lock sheared clean off its screws like matchwood. It wasn't a professional hit—professionals didn't leave doors looking like a hurricane had blown through them. This was raw, sloppy, hateful violence.
Enzo drew his custom Sig Sauer P226, the slide clicking back with a sharp, lethal sound that cut through the hiss of the rain. He kicked the remaining slivers of the door inward.
"Clear," Ray whispered, sweeping the barrel of his submachine gun into the dim, cramped living room.
Enzo stepped inside, and the air hit him first. It was the coppery, unmistakable stench of fresh blood.
The apartment was wrecked. Lamps were shattered, the cheap sofa was slashed open with stuffing spilling out like guts, and framed photographs of a smiling woman and a little girl lay broken on the floor. But Enzo’s eyes didn't stay on the mess. They tracked the dark, wet smear of crimson leading down the small hallway toward the bedroom.
"Found her," Angelo called out from the doorway of the bedroom, his voice dropping an octave. "Boss... you need to see this."
Enzo walked down the hall, his heart hammering against his ribs in a rhythm he hadn't felt since his first war in the backstreets of Sicily.
There she was.
Claire.
She was lying crumpled beside a overturned vanity. The pretty blue dress Rosa had promised would steal his breath away was torn, stained a deep, dark brown where the rain and blood had soaked into the fabric. Her dark hair was matted across her forehead, hiding a brutal bruise that swelled purple over her temple. Her chest barely moved—a shallow, agonizingly slow hitch of air every few seconds.
Enzo dropped to his knees, ignoring the ruined fabric of his custom trousers as they soaked in the blood pool. He gently placed two fingers against her throat. The pulse was thready, fluttering like a trapped moth.
"She's alive," Enzo breathed, the relief so sharp it felt like a physical blow. He looked up at Ray, his eyes blazing with a cold, terrifying fire. "Get the medic kit. Now. And call Dr. Moretti. Tell him if he isn't here in fifteen minutes, I'll carve his clinic out of the brickwork."
Ray nodded and rushed back to the living room.
Enzo reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering inches above Claire’s face before gently brushing a strand of blood-matted hair away from her cheek. Even bruised, battered, and slipping away into the dark, her features were striking—sharp jawline, long eyelashes, a fragile strength etched into the very slope of her nose. This was the woman who was supposed to be sitting across from him at Lombardi's. The woman who was supposed to anchor him to something normal.
Instead, someone had tried to rip her away before they had even shared a single word.
Claire’s eyelids fluttered. Her lips parted, dry and cracked, letting out a weak, agonizing gasp. Her eyes unfocused, rolling in the dim light before they somehow locked onto his. She didn't scream. She didn't flinch. Even at death's door, the instinct to protect flickered in her gaze.
"Sa... Sadie..." she whispered, the sound barely a breath.
"She’s safe," Enzo said, his voice dropping into a register so tender it shocked even himself. He took her cold, limp hand in his, pressing his thumb firmly against her wrist to feel the fragile beat of her life. "She ran all the way to me, Claire. She's downstairs in my car, warm and unharmed. You hear me? She's safe."
A single tear cut a clean path through the dirt and blood on Claire's cheek. Her fingers twitched inside his grip, trying weakly to squeeze back.
"They... they knew..." she choked out, a bubble of crimson forming at the corner of her mouth. "They said... they said you wouldn't... you wouldn't protect us anymore..."
Enzo’s eyes narrowed into slits of pure obsidian. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Who?" Enzo whispered, leaning down so close his lips brushed her ear. "Who said that, Claire?"
Before she could answer, her eyes rolled back, and her hand went completely limp in his grasp.
"Claire!" Enzo shouted, shaking her gently. "Claire, look at me!"
Ray burst back into the bedroom, carrying a heavy steel trauma case, closely followed by Angelo holding a portable defibrillator and IV bags. "Medic kit's here, boss! Moretti's on his way!"
Enzo stood up, his face an absolute mask of stone. He looked down at the woman he had never met, who had just become the most important piece on his board.
"Save her," Enzo commanded, his voice carrying the weight of an executioner. He turned on his heel and walked out into the ruined living room.
He pulled out his phone, his thumb flying across the screen to speed dial a number he hadn't used in three years. The number of the man who handled the filth nobody else wanted to touch.
"Vance," Enzo answered the instant the line connected.
"Mr. Marchetti," a slick, oily voice chimed on the other end. "Late night for a social call."
"Drop the act," Enzo said, his voice dripping with venom. "Someone just tried to kill a woman under my protection. They used my name. They left a message."
A pause on the other end, the sound of a lighter clicking shut. "Whose territory?"
"Our backyard," Enzo said, walking over to the shattered window and looking down into the rain-slicked street below where his car sat waiting with a frightened little girl inside. "Find out every single person who knew about my reservation at Lombardi's tonight. Every waiter, every manager, every rival caporegime in the five boroughs who thinks I've gone soft."
"And if I find them?" Vance asked, amusement bleeding into his tone.
May you like
Enzo’s reflection in the broken glass stared back at him—cold, remorseless, and utterly lethal.
"Don't bring them to me," Enzo whispered. "Just send me their locations. I'm going to start collecting debts face-to-face."
