Page 50 of Ruined By Blood
"He also owns real estate," I continue, my voice growing quieter. "Office buildings, a few hotels. And he has some investments in technology startups."
The kitchen suddenly feels too warm. Too small. Enzo's gaze is steady, unblinking.
"Is that all you know?" he asks softly.
I nod, feeling strangely ashamed though I'm not sure why. "He doesn't discuss business with me."
Enzo leans back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. The silence stretches between us until I can't bear it.
"What else is there?" I finally ask, though part of me doesn't want to know the answer.
"Apparently you only know the legitimate things," Enzosays, his voice controlled and neutral. "The parts meant for public consumption."
My heart thuds harder. "And the other parts?"
Enzo studies me for a long moment before answering. "Your father moves more than just luxury goods through his shipping channels, piccola."
The Italian endearment slips out seemingly without his notice, but I catch it.
"What does he move?" I press, needing to know despite my fear.
"Drugs. Weapons." Enzo's voice is matter-of-fact, not accusatory. "People."
People?
I've always suspected, of course.
But suspecting isn't the same as knowing.
"People," I repeat, the word tasting bitter. "You mean trafficking?"
Enzo nods once, his eyes never leaving mine. "Sterling is one of the largest traffickers on the East Coast. Primarily women."
The room seems to tilt slightly. I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself.
"I didn't know," I whisper, though the words sound hollow even to my own ears. "Not for certain."
"You weren't meant to," Enzo says, and there's something almost gentle in his tone. "That's how men like your father operate. They compartmentalize. Keep the ugly parts hidden."
I try to force a dry laugh, but it comes out as more of a choked sound. "Of course I knew he wasn't just selling luxury watches and rare paintings. The armed guards, the midnight meetings, the way people looked at him with fear instead of respect..." I shake my head. "I'm not stupid."
My fingers trace invisible patterns on the wooden table. "I knew about the drugs and weapons. You don't grow up in a house like mine without overhearing things. Without noticing patterns."
Enzo watches me carefully, like he's trying to read between my words.
"But trafficking people?" I continue, swallowing hard. "I suspected something darker. But I didn't want to believe that he was in the actual mafia." The admission feels like ripping off a bandage, painful but necessary.
"Your father isn't mafia," Enzo says, his voice firm. "He's something worse."
I look up sharply. "Is there a difference? Aren't you all criminals?"
"There's a difference," he says, each word precise as a blade. "We have codes. Rules. Lines we don't cross."
"Like what?" I challenge, needing to understand the world I've stumbled into.
"We don't hurt innocent people. We don't target civilians. We don't involve children." Enzo's jaw tightens. "And we don't force women."
He leans forward slightly. "Your father breaks all those rules. He has no code except profit."
