Chapter 2 - The Price of a Signature
"Explain it to me again," Enzo said, his voice dangerously low as he paced the length of the minimalist kitchen. The phone was still buzzing in his hand—a persistent, rhythmic vibration that felt like a countdown. "How do the Tatalias know about our private legal matters before the courthouse even opens its public registry?"
"Maybe you should ask your accountant," I said, leaning against the counter and crossing my arms over my ribs. Every breath still sent a dull, throbbing ache through my side, but I forced my posture to remain rigid. "Or maybe you should ask Bianca. She loves knowing everything about your schedule."
"Leave Bianca out of this," Enzo snapped, finally answering the call with a sharp swipe of his thumb. He turned his back to me, pacing toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the frozen Lake Michigan shoreline. "Yeah. Speak... No. That's a private family matter... I don't care what your principals heard at the club. The Moretti name doesn't change because of a filing."
I watched the muscles in his back tense beneath his shirt. For five years, I had protected him from my father’s old inner circle, smoothing over debts, managing social alliances, and keeping my mouth shut while he built his empire on the blood of men who underestimated him. He thought I was just a decorative ornament—a daughter of old Chicago royalty he had acquired to legitimize his rise. He had no idea I still held the proxy votes to half his commercial real estate holdings through my mother's family trust.
Enzo clicked the phone off and shoved it into his pocket. He turned around, his expression hardened into a mask of pure intimidation.
"You think you can just walk away with a signature?" he asked, stepping into my personal space. The scent of his cedarwood cologne, once comforting, now made my stomach turn. "You think you can flash a fake divorce notice and hand our enemies an opening while a turf war is brewing with the Tatalias?"
"It's not a fake notice, Enzo. And it's not a turf war—it's a bill coming due for your negligence," I said, refusing to back down an inch. "While you were buying school supplies for Bianca’s kid, Matteo Tatalia’s men ran me off Route 41. They told me to give you a message about blood debts. They knew where I was because you left me isolated, unprotected, and completely irrelevant to your priorities."
Enzo stared at me, his eyes searching my face for any sign of a bluff. For a second, a flicker of genuine confusion crossed his features.
"The Tatalias hit you?" he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. "On Route 41?"
"Ask your precious Dante to check the traffic cameras at the Archer Avenue exit. Or better yet, ask him why he lied to you about me being home watching a movie."
Before Enzo could answer, the heavy oak front door swung open without a knock.
Dante strode into the hallway, his face pale, holding a thick manila folder against his chest. He stopped short when he saw me standing there, looking like a ghost who had decided to haunt the living room.
"Boss," Dante said, his eyes darting nervously between Enzo and me. "We have a problem with the North Side docks. The port authority just froze our shipping manifests. They say there’s an injunction filed by the Romano estate trust."
Enzo’s head whipped around toward Dante, then back to me. The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow.
"You didn't just file for divorce," Enzo whispered, horror dawning in his eyes. "You froze the shipping accounts."
"My father left those accounts to me, Enzo," I said, walking past him toward the hallway, my heels clicking sharply against the hardwood. "You only had access because I signed the operational waivers. And as of eight o'clock this morning... I revoked them."
Enzo grabbed my wrist as I passed. His grip wasn't brutal, but it was absolute—the instinctive hold of a man accustomed to forcing compliance.
"You are playing a very dangerous game, Carmela," he warned, his face inches from mine. "You don't know what you've unlocked."
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"No, Enzo," I whispered, pulling my wrist free with a sudden, sharp jerk that caught him completely off guard. "For five years, I lived in the room you built. Now it's your turn to see what happens when the foundation walks out."
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