Page 40 of The Price of Mercy

"You need to hurry," the voice urged, its tone sharp and urgent. "He doesn't have much time."

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Enzo’s office was a tomb of silence, the kind of silence that pressed in on you, thick and suffocating, like it had weight. Everycorner of the room seemed to hold its breath, as though the walls themselves were waiting for something, anything, to break the stillness. But there was no relief. Only the oppressive weight of his fury and fear that clung to him, seeping into his bones, settling in the pit of his stomach.

He sat at his desk, but it wasn’t the posture of a man in control. His hands were clenched into fists, his knuckles stark white from the tension. The fury coursing through him was palpable, an electric charge that had nowhere to go, nowhere to vent. The muscles in his jaw clenched as he ground his teeth together, trying, and failing, to force back the wave of panic that threatened to drown him.

The room was dim, the faint glow from the fireplace casting long, jagged shadows across the walls, making the space feel smaller, tighter, as if it were closing in around him. The fire flickered weakly, its warm orange light struggling against the encroaching darkness of the room and of his thoughts. It was a cruel irony that the flames were the only warmth in a place that felt so cold, so empty.

It hadn’t always been like this. Enzo’s office had once been a symbol of his power, a place where decisions were made, deals were struck, and enemies were crushed under the weight of his will. But tonight? Tonight, it was a battlefield.

The usually immaculate space was in disarray, the walls still adorned with their lavish paintings and dark wood paneling, but now there were signs of violence in every corner. Papers were scattered across the floor like broken promises, some torn and crumpled, others still with ink smeared across them in hasty scrawl. The chair across from his desk had been overturned, its legs bent at an unnatural angle. A glass of whiskey, his whiskey,lay shattered against the wall, the amber liquid still dripping down in slow, mournful streaks as it pooled on the floor.

Enzo barely noticed the chaos. His mind was a storm, thoughts swirling in a violent tempest that he could barely keep up with. Julian was gone. Taken. And he hadn’t been able to stop it.

The guilt gnawed at him, relentless and savage. He should have known. Should have seen the signs, should have trusted his instincts, should have, should have, protected him better. The thought of Julian, vulnerable, at the mercy of their enemies, filled him with a kind of helpless rage that burned hotter than any fire. He could almost feel Julian’s fear, hear his desperate pleas, see his bloodied face as though it were an image seared into his mind.

His hands trembled as he pressed them against the edge of the desk, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps, but the panic threatened to overwhelm him. He tried to breathe. Tried to steady himself. But how could he? How could he possibly keep it together when the weight of his failure was crushing him?

Then, the sound of his phone vibrating on the desk shattered the silence, the sharp buzz slicing through the air like a gunshot. Enzo’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing, the tension in his body coiling like a spring ready to snap. He reached for it, hands shaking, and as soon as the screen lit up, his heart stopped.

It was a picture.

Julian.

Enzo’s chest tightened painfully as his eyes locked on the image. Julian, his Julian, was tied to a chair, his body slumped forward in exhaustion or pain, or both. His face was bruised and bloodied, a darkening mark over his eye and a split lip. His shirt was torn, revealing the bruises and the cuts beneath. His armswere bound behind him, the ropes digging into his skin. The image was so raw, so utterly broken, that it felt like a physical blow to Enzo’s chest. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. All he could see was Julian, hurt, alone, and it was his fault.

The message beneath the picture was short. Too short. Too simple.

“Tick tock, Moretti.”

The words felt like a taunt, a cruel countdown to Julian’s suffering. And as Enzo stared at the screen, his vision blurred, the edges of the world darkening as the weight of it all came crashing down. Julian was out there; hurt. Suffering. And Enzo hadn’t been fast enough. He hadn’t done enough.

His breath hitched, the panic bubbling up in his chest like an avalanche, threatening to drown him. His hand was trembling as he gripped the phone tighter, his knuckles threatening to snap under the force of his anger. The walls of the room seemed to close in around him, the heat of his fury clashing with the cold reality of the situation. He was failing. And he hated it.

Without thinking, Enzo slammed the phone down on the desk, the force of his anger cracking the screen. The sound was a violentcrack, the phone shattering under his palm, the pieces scattering across the desk.

The room spun, his vision narrowing to the edges of the desk, the walls, the broken glass, and then, in a fit of rage, he stood abruptly. The chair he’d been sitting in crashed to the floor behind him with a deafening clatter, the sound reverberating through the stillness. He didn’t care. He didn’twantto care.

In a blur of motion, his arm swept across the desk, sending papers flying, books toppling over the edge, pens rolling off to clatter uselessly on the floor. His pulse pounded in his ears ashe grabbed the nearest object; a heavy crystal decanter. Without a second thought, he hurled it against the wall with a violent, guttural roar. The glass shattered upon impact, the amber liquid splattering across the wallpaper like blood, running down in rivulets, staining everything in its path. The room smelled of whiskey and anger, the air thick with it.

Enzo’s breath was coming in ragged gasps, the heat of his fury still burning through his veins. But it wasn’t enough. None of it was enough. He could feel the guilt crushing him, the fear for Julian searing into his chest like a brand. He was running out of time, and he didn’t know how to fix it.

"Goddammit," he muttered to himself, his voice raw with frustration, his hands clenched into fists again. He could hear the ticking clock in his mind. Time was running out.

“Enzo!”

The voice sliced through the chaos like a blade, sharp and urgent, pulling him from the grip of his rage. Enzo turned, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched at his sides, the violent storm inside him not yet quelled.

His wild, bloodshot eyes fixed on the doorway, where Matteo stood, framed in the threshold, his posture tense but purposeful. There was a flicker of concern in his expression, but it was quickly masked by the determination that burned beneath.

Matteo’s presence cut through the wreckage of the office, the remnants of shattered glass, overturned chairs, and scattered papers, like a momentary calm in the midst of a brewing tempest. His voice, steady despite the palpable tension, sliced through the air again.

“I have a lead,” Matteo said, his words carrying the weight of something significant, something Enzo couldn’t afford to ignore. “A possible location. I think that’s where they’re holding Julian.”

At the mention of Julian’s name, Enzo’s breath hitched, his pulse quickening, as if every nerve in his body had been ignited by the sheer desperation in Matteo’s tone. His hands still trembled, but now it was more from anticipation than rage. Julian.

“Where?” Enzo demanded, his voice raw, trembling slightly with a barely contained fury.

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