“If you take this deal,” he continues, “you won’t just run New York, Matteo. You’ll own it. You’ll be the most powerful man on the entire East Coast. Your father dreamed of this. Your name will reshape the world you rule.”
This is the opportunity of a lifetime. It will secure my legacy and my bloodline. This is all my father ever wanted for me. All he could have ever hoped for me to become.
But then?—
“What about Antonio?” I ask quietly. “If he grows up and wants to return, to inherit what you built… what then?”
Marcello shakes his head without hesitation. “I won’t let him. He deserves a chance at a life untouched by bloodshed. If he wants a legacy, I’ll build him a new one—one not soaked in fear and violence. I’m giving him the choice I never had.”
The man is resolved.The kind of resolved that doesn’t waver, doesn’t tremble, doesn’t leave room for negotiation.
“If this is what you want,”I say quietly, “then I’ll buy you out. Do what you must for your family. Protect what is sacred to you.”
And just like that—with one sentence, one decision—another fate locks into place.
His.
Mine.My family’s.
A fateI may one day look back on with pride… or regret so deeply it carves a hollow through my ribs.
Marcello lifts his empty glass, a wry smirk tugging his mouth. “To you missing my face.”
I snort. “More like good riddance. May Italy welcome you with open arms, old man.”
He laughs, that deep rumble of his easing some of the tension between us. Conversation shifts into lighter things—memories, jokes, small comforts—but underneath it all, a low thrum of unease coils in my gut.
What he’s offered is a good deal—an incredible deal—but still my heart refuses to settle.
This thronehe’s giving me will make me a king. But kings are simply the largest targets on the field. And I know exactly what happens to men who sit too high for too long.
Still—I was built for this. I’ve been shaped, sharpened, hardened since the day I first held a gun. I will take the crown. And I will carry the weight.
Lunch passes in gentle waves. The boys storm back inside, laughing, their feet pounding across hardwood floors. Our wives linger in the kitchen, drinking the wine we abandoned, their voices soft and warm drifting through the halls.
Marcello and I remain outside on the back porch, papers and territory boundaries spread across the table between us. A transition of this size requires precision, and though he is my friend, I cannot afford sentiment when structuring an empire.
We talk until the sun hangs low, lazy and golden, draping itself over the vineyard like it’s reluctant to leave.
Marcello rises with a stretch, joints cracking faintly. “It’s getting dark,” he mutters. “I should go get Maria. She wandered near the tree line a little while ago.”
Before he can move, his phone erupts in his hand. He glances down, curses under his breath.
I stand from my chair. “I’ll get her. Take the call.”
“You sure?”
I nod. “Yeah. I’ll bring her in.”
He gives a grateful tilt of his head and disappears inside, where Beatrice and Marta sit in a pool of warm kitchen light, wine glasses in hand.
I walk down the porch steps, letting the cool breeze roll across my skin. The Faravelli vineyard stretches before me—lush, golden, serene. For a fleeting second, I imagine what it would be like to stay here. To live slow. To live soft.
But men like us don’t get soft lives. We only borrow moments of peace before the world demands them back.
I cross the garden and spot her.
Maria.A tiny silhouette near the tall grass, hunched over the earth with her teddy bear propped against her side like a silent guardian.
