The Price of Thrills

The Call

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Enzo sat in his study, the room eerily quiet after the chaos that had erupted outside. The old phone felt heavy in his hand, a weight that represented more than just the physical object. It was the weight of his past, of decisions made and paths chosen, all coming back to haunt him in this moment.

His fingers moved over the keypad, muscle memory taking over as he dialed a number he'd sworn he'd never use again. As the phone rang, Enzo's mind raced. Images of Imani's terrified face as Darius dragged her away, the glint of the gun pressed against his own head, the look of smug triumph in Darius's eyes as he'd snatched the family ring - they all swirled together, fueling a rage that simmered just beneath his carefully controlled exterior.

But mixed with that rage was something else - a gnawing pain that had nothing to do with the gash on his forehead. Imani's betrayal. He'd known, or at least suspected, for weeks now. The furtive glances at her phone, the vague excuses for her absences, the subtle changes in her behavior - they hadn't escaped his notice. Enzo had always been observant; it was a skill that had served him well in his former life, and old habits died hard.

The phone clicked as someone picked up. "Pronto," a gruff voice answered.

Enzo took a deep breath, steeling himself. When he spoke, his voice was cold, controlled - a tone he hadn't used in years. "Marco. It's Enzo. We need to talk."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, then a low chuckle. "Little brother. It's been a while. Let me guess - the quiet life didn't stick, huh?"

Enzo's jaw clenched. "This isn't a social call, Marco. I need your help. Our help."

"I'm listening," Marco replied, his tone shifting from amusement to seriousness.

Enzo outlined the situation briefly, his words clipped and precise. He told Marco about Darius, about the attack, about Imani's abduction. He emphasized the disrespect shown, the violation of his home, the theft of the family ring. What he didn't mention was his suspicions about Imani's affair, about the baby. Some things were better discussed in person.

As he finished his account, Marco let out a low whistle. "Sounds like you've gotten yourself into quite a mess, little brother. And here I thought you were living the American dream with your pretty wife in your big house."

"Things change," Enzo said flatly.

"Apparently so," Marco agreed. Then, after a pause, "This wife of yours... you sure she's worth all this trouble? Sounds to me like she might not have been as faithful as you thought."

Enzo's grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles turning white. "My marriage is my business, Marco. Are you going to help or not?"

Marco's laugh was dark, knowing. "Of course I'll help. Family is family, after all. Even family that tries to run away from who they are."

Enzo closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was low, dangerous. "I want him to suffer, Marco. I want them all to pay."

There was no hesitation in his tone, no doubt. This wasn't the voice of Enzo Conti, the successful businessman with the picture-perfect life. This was the voice of a man Marco knew well - the ruthless enforcer who had once been feared throughout their organization.

"Now that," Marco said, a hint of pride in his voice, "sounds like my little brother. Don't worry, Enzo. We'll make them pay. All of them."

"Good," Enzo replied. "How soon can you be here?"

"Luca and I can be there in four hours. Try not to start the fun without us, eh?"

Enzo's lips curled into a cold smile. "I'll do my best. And Marco? Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Marco said. "We'll see you soon. Stay sharp, little brother."

The line went dead, and Enzo set the phone down on his desk. For a moment, he sat perfectly still, letting the full weight of what he'd just set in motion wash over him. There would be no going back after this. The life he'd built, the persona he'd carefully crafted over the years - it was all about to crumble.

But as he thought of Imani, of the fear in her eyes as Darius had dragged her away, Enzo knew he'd make the same choice a thousand times over. Whatever she'd done, whatever mistakes she'd made, she was his wife. And no one, absolutely no one, was allowed to take what was his.

Standing up, Enzo made his way to the bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing the man looking back at him. Blood had dried on his face, the gash on his forehead an angry red.

With practiced movements, Enzo cleaned the wound, barely flinching as he doused it with antiseptic. Then, with steady hands, he threaded a needle and began to stitch the gash closed. Each prick of the needle, each pull of the thread, felt like a step back into his old self.

As he tied off the last stitch, Enzo looked at himself in the mirror again. Gone was the soft, gentle businessman. In his place stood a man with hard eyes and a harder heart. A man who knew how to hurt people, how to make them suffer.

A man who was ready to go to war.

"I'm coming for you, Imani," he whispered to his reflection. "And God help anyone who stands in my way."

With that, Enzo Conti turned away from the mirror and began to prepare. He had four hours until his brothers arrived, four hours to plan, to gather resources, to remember all the skills he'd tried so hard to forget.

Four hours until the hunt began.