We clink glasses—quiet, conspiratorial.
Let them have their council. We'll have ours for the men and for the children some of us are already carrying.
Dim lighting castslong shadows across the leather furniture when I enter the lounge on the top floor of the Monarch, where Marcello is getting married tomorrow. It’s the kind of room where empires are born—or die.
I step inside, shoulders squared, keeping every move deliberate. Sophia dressed me for war in a tailored charcoal suit and a crisp, open-collar shirt. No tie. No pretense. Just power. I'm getting used to it.
All three of them are already there.
Marcello Orsi is perched on the edge of a leather armchair, leaning forward, his forearms braced on his knees like he’s ready to spring. Enrico Sartori stands near the bar, drink in hand, his eyes moving over me, calculating. Toni DeLuna lounges far too casually, but I’ve read enough men like him to know it’s a performance. None of them is at ease. They're all as curiousand wary about me as I am about them. We're like lone wolves, thrown into one room, trying to read each other; only the other three have the advantage of knowing each other better.
Their gazes land on me in unison.
Marcello is the first to say something; he raises his glass without a smile. "Raffael."
"Marcello," I say, stepping into the room and not waiting for an invitation before lowering myself into the leather chair across from him. My eyes sweep across the space. Comfortable but tense. "Toni. Enrico."
"Didn't expect to see you here," Toni says, his tone cool, watchful. "Thought you were keeping a low profile."
"I was," I reply. "But things change."
Enrico mutters, "Convenient timing," swirling the ice in his glass without looking at me.
I meet his eyes. Calm and even. The kind of calm that comes from knowing exactly who I am and how far I’ve come to sit at this table. I don’t flinch. I don’t blink. I let them circle me like sharks. I’m not bleeding.
"You're a capo now. That makes you one of us. Which means you play by the rules. Our rules," Marcello states, watching me like a lion watching another predator cross into his territory.
"Of course," I answer without hesitation. It’s not submission—it’s respect. There’s adifference.
Toni leans forward, clasping his hands. "We're cleaning house. Anyone with ties to the Venezuelans is on borrowed time."
My brow lifts slightly. "Anyone in particular?"
"Edoardo's name keeps coming up," Enrico says, too casually.
There’s a pause. Just a second too long. I know they're testing me. After Edoardo announced me as a capo, they think I'm his pet. I hold their gazes. "He's a snake. Always has been. There are just not many men brave enough to say it."
It's the right answer. They don't exactly nod in approval, but their eyes turn a degree less wary. They're still measuring me. I know this room. They’re not just listening, they're dissecting my tone, my posture, the pause between my words. Looking for tells like seasoned gamblers. Only in this game, the stakes are higher than fortunes and empires. It's life or death. They'll decide if I earn a spot in their middle or six feet under.
Marcello leans back slightly. "What about Donna Margarita?"
There it is. Donna Margarita. Her name hangs like smoke in the air. Of course, they’d bring her up; it was only a matter of time. Bringing her up now can only mean one thing: they know. They're testing me further, wanting to know if trust can be reciprocated by trust. I shrug, keeping it casual, like the thought of that bitch being my mother doesn't give me a sour stomach. "Iguess you know that she is my… mother," I pronounce the word like poison, letting them know my feelings on her.
"That's the rumor," Toni agrees carefully.
"She's missing," I add, looking from one to the other, allowing them to see that I’m not rattled. That I don’t care. Even though the truth is—I do. But not for her. More for what her presence could unravel.
"Not a big loss in my book," Enrico baits.
I don’t rise to it. I just sit there, keeping my breathing slow and steady. Still. Unbothered. Let them guess if I either have nerves of steel or if I'm playing a much longer, darker game than any of them know.
Marcello taps his glass against the table. The sound cuts through the silence like a warning bell. No one speaks.
Then I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees. "You're all focused on cleaning house. I'm wondering who built the tunnel they crawled through in the first place."
The question hangs between us. Heavy and intentional. Marcello studies me. I see the calculation in his eyes. He’s not worried about vengeance. He’s weighing my position. My purpose. Trying to figure out if I’m a wall or a tunnel.
He nods once. "Excellent point."
