Page 104 of Enzo
“You’re still my Robbie.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Enzo
The Mitchell housesat quietly in the dark, wrapped in wealth and gated fences. But no amount of imported tile or polished marble would ever erase what he’d done to Robbie. Tonight wasn’t about threats or warnings. It was the end of a chapter soaked in pain. I checked my watch—2:14 a.m.
“The cameras have blind spots,” Jamie chuckled. “Arrogant people always leave gaps.” He crouched by the side gate, fingers flying over his phone. A second later, the little green camera light above the garage door blinked off. No alarms. No alerts. Jamie had the system cracked before I reached the gate.
“Smooth,” Rio muttered, impressed.
Jamie grinned like this was just another job, another break-in, another night. “What can I say? I’m a professional.”
He started patting down his pockets, pulling out a mess of randomness: a switchblade, zip ties, a half-eaten protein bar, a bottle of fluid, matches, and duct tape. Jesus.
“What the fuck,” I whispered, not bothering to hide my disbelief.
“I’m prepared,” Jamie whispered back, completely unapologetic. It was ridiculous, but I wouldn’t want anyone else watching my six. “One more check,” he murmured and scrolled through something I had no hope of understanding. “There’s no one else here, just him, no basements, no outside structures with heat signatures, no sign of anyone but him.”
“There’s no one being held here?”
Another Robbie?’
“Nah, he keeps this place clean—everything goes through the warehouse.” The same warehouse I would call in anonymously to get it raided. We’d already scouted it, and it was empty—Rio wouldn’t let me go into the room where they’d held Robbie, and I didn’t argue, but if others had been there, I wanted the cops in on it. “Divorced, no other family.”
Rio stepped forward, dead serious now, blade sliding free from the sheath on his thigh. He twirled it once like it was part of him. When Rio drew a weapon, I guessed it was already too late for the guy on the receiving end.
I reached into my jacket and drew out the gun I’d used on Vinnie—kinda fitting. Cold metal. Unmarked. When I’d visited earlier today, Mateo had handed it to me without a word. He hadn’t asked questions, said I owed him, or asked for payment. He nodded, said he understood, and passed me the weapon and ammo. The safety clicked off like a countdown. My pulse didn’t spike. My hands didn’t shake. I was past emotion. Past rage. Focused.
There was a keypad on the front door that was a joke. Killian had texted the code, and the second I entered it, the door gave way with a soft click. We slipped inside like shadows, moving in silence. There were no words, no second-guessing, only the weight of everything pushing us forward.
The interior screamed money. High ceilings, echoing marble floors, sterile walls dressed in art someone else probably picked out. Too clean. Too cold. This place wasn’t a home. It was a mask. A lie Mitchell wore so no one would see the monster underneath. Jamie signaled toward a hallway where a soft light spilled out beneath a closed door.
Rio moved first, knife steady in his grip. I followed the gun clutched in my hand. My heart thudded slow and heavy. Not panicked. Ready. No turning back.
We reached the door. Jamie crouched to check the knob and nodded, unlocked.
I mouthed the count.
Three.
Two.
One.
Rio kicked it in.
Mitchell was mid-turn in his chair. The shock on his face almost made me laugh. Almost. He scrambled to his feet, all bluster and bullshit. “What the hell?—”
I stepped forward. Gun raised. Sight locked dead center between his eyes.
“You!” he said, and reached for something.
Jamie was there in a millisecond, holding him away from the desk. “I disabled all the alarms,” he said, more to me than the guy we were here to kill.
“John Mitchell,” I spat.
“What do you want?”
