Page 60 of Power
“Probably.”
I wait, expecting him to argue. He doesn’t. We both know what this is. Whatever comfort I think I found in him, it won’t last. We were doomed from the start. And the part of me that knows better, the part that’s still trying to claw my way out of whatever hell I’m letting myself sink into—that part is screaming at me to run. That he is probably just like him.
But I’m still here.
He brushes my hair away from my face and watches me carefully. I can feel the pull between us, the wanting, the resisting. The push and pull of something I don’t quite understand yet.
“You think you regret this,” he says. “You don’t.”
I scoff, pushing off him just enough to create space. “Don’t tell me what I feel.”
“I can see it.”
I shake my head, climbing out of bed and grabbing my clothes off the floor. My movements are shaky, but I force my way through it. I need to regain control. To pretend I still have it.
He stays where he is, watching. Letting me do what I need to do.
I button my shirt, refusing to look at him. “This can’t happen again.”
He stretches out on the bed, relaxed and unbothered. “If that’s what you want.”
I glare at him. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“That.” I gesture vaguely, frustration evident in the way I exhale. “Act like none of this means anything.”
He studies me for a long moment. Then he pushes up from the bed and closes the space between us before I can react. His fingers graze my jaw, tilting my chin up so I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
“It means something,” he says. “That’s the fucking problem.”
My breath catches, and my lips part like I want to say something, but nothing comes out.
He releases me, then steps back, giving me space.
I swallow as my fingers tighten around the fabric of my shirt. Then I turn and walk toward the door without another word.
He doesn’t stop me.
Chapter 17
Dario
Enzo thinks he can choke me out financially, that he can cut the oxygen to my operation and watch me suffocate. But I know how money works in this world. It’s not just about how much you have but about how fast you can make others lose theirs. And that’s exactly what I do.
It starts with his muscle that he sends after us, those overfed parasites who shake down restaurants, small businesses, desperate men who just need one more week of pay. I follow the money, and I take my time dismantling every piece of his protection racket. A few bribes to the right people, a few anonymous tips to businesses under his “protection,” and suddenly, his men are getting picked off and arrested, turned, or simply deciding they don’t want to die over Enzo’s scraps.
Rafa slides a folder across the table. “Five of his collectors have either skipped town or switched sides. Another three got arrested last night. Enzo’s bleeding money.”
I flip through the pages, my lips curling. “Good. He’ll retaliate.”
“Oh, no doubt.” Rafa leans back. “Question is, does he come for you directly, or does he take the cheap shot?”
We don’t have to wait long for the answer. Less than twenty-four hours later, one of my men, Nico, is found beaten and dumped outside one of my warehouses, his fingers smashed. A message. A weak one.
“Enzo’s panicking,” I tell Rafa as we stand over Nico’s hospital bed. “If he had control, he would’ve made an example of him. Instead, he wanted me to see him alive. He’s scared.”
Nico coughs. “He’s losing people. Fast.”
