Enzo paced restlessly inside his hidden bunker, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and endless worry. His hand trembled slightly as he poured himself another glass of wine. The room smelled of stress—sweat and fear. Desperation clawed at his throat, leaving him breathless.
He slammed the glass down on the table and turned to his right hand man.
“Is everything in place?” he asked, his voice hoarse but commanding.
The man nodded. “Yes, boss. Our men are parked just a few blocks from the penthouse. Tinted windows. Untraceable plates. She’s being watched right now.”
Enzo rubbed a hand down his face. This wasn’t how he wanted things to go. But desperation? Desperation made monsters out of men. He had killed Alessandro’s father, something that should have guaranteed his own execution. But if
