Page 50 of Ivory Crown

The hospital café was an odd place at four in the morning, the fluorescent lights too bright against the dark world outside. Enzo ordered two espressos from the night-shift worker who nodded with tired eyes, oblivious to the gravity of our presence.

We took a table in the corner, away from the few scattered souls seeking solace in caffeine and stale sandwiches. The hum of vending machines filled the silence between us like some dissonant lullaby. My father fixed me with a look that could cut glass, his expectation for answers clear without a word spoken.

I met his gaze, feeling the familiar tug-of-war inside me. The part of me that wanted his approval, the part that longed to step out from under his shadow—they were both there, clashing silently as I waited for him to speak.

“Son,” he finally said, his voice low, “what happened tonight?”

It was the question I’d been dreading, but I knew there was no turning back now. I had to tell him everything…and I knew he wasn’t going to be happy.

I shifted in my seat, the hard plastic chair suddenly feeling like a vise. The espresso arrived, but the bitter scent that wafted from the tiny cup did nothing to settle my nerves. I took a breath, my resolve steeling as I prepared to lay out my plan before him, a plan I’d initiated without his consent.

“I was trying something with the routes,” I said, watching every minute shift on his face, looking for signs of the storm to come. “Thought I could turn some of Caruso’s men.”

“Against Lorenzo Caruso?” His voice cut through the air, sharp as the blade he kept hidden under his finely tailored jacket—a reminder of the man he truly was beneath the exterior of a civilized businessman. The veneer of calm was gone, replaced by an anger edged with disbelief. “Why didn’t you come to me first?”

The disappointment in his eyes stung more than the rebuke itself. I was used to Enzo’s temper, the controlled ferocity of his leadership. But this—this felt personal. I had really wanted to make him proud.

But…I had other things to worry about. Other family to worry about.

My unborn child. The mother of my unborn child.

“Dad, I…” My words were a rare fumble, tripping over each other as they spilled out.

He raised his hand, stopping me mid-sentence, and I clenched my jaw. We both knew this conversation was far from over, but for now, we sat in silence, surrounded by the stark reality of the fluorescent-lit cafe as the night crept on outside.

“Drink your coffee,” he said. “Get your bearings. You look like you’re going to throw up.”

Reluctantly, I took a sip of the espresso, the acrid taste burning my tongue. I welcomed it, claiming it as punishment for the foolhardy decision that had led Marco to lie in that sterile white room fighting for his life.

“So, you attempted to turn Caruso’s men,” Enzo began again. His gaze was steady on me, hardened with decades of running our vast empire. The lines on his face seemed deeper, a stern etching that held years of wisdom and hard decisions. “And then?”

His eyes were locked onto mine, two cold points of assessment in a hardened face. I had seen that look before—when he was about to make a move that would shake the foundations of our world, or when he was weighing the fate of a man who’d just crossed him.

Or when he was about to beat one of us up, when we were kids.

Now, it was aimed at me…it had been so many years, and it still made my blood run cold.

“I tried to make them see reason,” I admitted, my voice low. “I offered them a way out, a chance to do more than just follow orders...a new start away from Caruso’s control.”

“And you expected them to just...switch sides?” His voice was calm and calculated, but the way he drummed his fingers on the table betrayed his agitation.

“They had financial incentive,” I said.

He shook his head. “If you had paid them, they wouldn’t have shot your brother.”

“I was going to pay them. The routes idea had merit. I was still working on it, they just had to give me time, they just…”

“Enough, Dante.” He held up a hand to silence me. His eyes were hardened shards of ice, radiating frigid disappointment. “Your brother lies in a hospital bed because of your reckless actions.”

The words struck me like physical blows, each syllable sending shockwaves of guilt that resonated through my core. I closed my eyes and forced back the waves of remorse threatening to overtake me.

“If you wanted to turn Caruso’s men, you had to make it your first priority,” he said.

“I know, Dad, but…”

“You had to ensure their loyalty, Dante. Greed alone is not enough, especially considering who we’re dealing with.”

His criticisms were like cold bullets straight through my heart—each word a piercing echo of my own guilt. I knew he was right. My plan had been ill-conceived, executed with haste and without proper caution. And Marco paid the price.

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