Enzo stood at the hotel window, one hand pressed to his bruised throat, the other wrapped around a glass of whiskey he hadn't touched.
His reflection stared back at him, dark hair disheveled, eyes bloodshot, the faint marks of Dimitri's fingers still visible on his neck.
Get out of my city.
The words echoed in his head, along with the casual violence in Dimitri's voice. Not angry. Not even particularly emotional.
Just... final.
Like he was disposing of trash.
Enzo had grown up in Dimitri's shadow. Five years younger, Antonio's second son, the one who was supposed to be grateful for the scraps of attention his older brother threw his way.
He'd watched Dimitri become the Don at twenty-five. Watched him build an empire that eclipsed anything Antonio had ever accomplished. Watched him become a legend, the Devil himself.
And Enzo had spent his entire life trying to prove he was worthy of the Valentino name.
It had never been enough.
