Elena.
Watching Isabella die. The only parent she’s ever known.
My Elena. My Isabella.
In that single, shattering instant everything changes.
Not gradually. Not in fragments.
Everything comes rushing back at once.
My name. Alessandro Rossi. Born in Forcella, thirty-eight years ago. Mother died when I was eight. No father. Raised myself on the streets.
Started running errands for the local crew at fifteen. Worked my way up. Became Carmine's second at twenty-five. Took over when he died at thirty.
Built my organization from a small neighborhood operation into one of the most powerful families in southern Italy.
I've killed dozens of men. Ordered the deaths of dozens more. I've been ruthless and brutal and everything I needed to be to survive in this world.
I remember every deal. Every betrayal. Every alliance. Every enemy.
I remember who the fuck I am.
I remember the monster these men should fear.
The memories flood through me, facts and feelings. The cold calculation. The strategic thinking. The absolute willingness to do whatever it takes.
I am Don Alessandro Rossi.
And these men have made a fatal mistake.
They think I'm still the confused man from the farm. The one who lost his memory. The one who might hesitate. The man who walked in here five minutes ago.
They don't understand who they're dealing with now.
I look at Vittorio and something in my expression must change because his smile falters slightly.
"Boss?" Ciro's voice is uncertain beside me. "You okay?"
"I remember everything," I say quietly.
I take a step forward, my hands loose at my sides. Relaxed. Ready for anything.
"My name is Alessandro Rossi. I grew up in Forcella. I built my organization from nothing. I took over from Carmine Greco fifteen years ago. I've expanded operations into six regions. I have three hundred men under my command. Two hundred million in annual revenue. Alliances with five other families." I look at each man at the table in turn. "And I remember exactly what I do to people who dare to threaten my family."
Vittorio's confidence is cracking. "You're bluffing. You still can't remember."
"Carlo Benedetti," I say, looking at the lieutenant on the left. "You have a villa in Arezzo. You keep your mistress there. She's nineteen. Your wife doesn't know. You also skim fifteen percent off your drug proceeds. Vittorio doesn't know that either."
Carlo goes pale.
I turn to the next one. "Giovanni Russo. You've been talking to the Calabrians about switching sides. Offering them our shipping routes in exchange for a better position in their organization."
Giovanni's hand moves toward his weapon.
"And you, Vittorio." I lean on the table, getting close to him. "You have a grandson. Twelve years old. Studies at a private school in Florence. Plays soccer every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. His team practices at the Cascine Park. East field. Usually finishes at five."
Vittorio's face goes white. "If you touch..."
