"That's not?—"
"Or." I lean forward. "You tell us everything. Every secret, every contact, every piece of information you sold. We recordit all. And your family stays under Sartori protection after your death."
Giovanni's good eye darts between us, calculating.
"You think I care about protection?"
"I think you care about legacy. You betrayed this family for money and spite. But your children don't know that, do they? Your grandchildren think you're a successful businessman, a respected elder."
Nicos found it—the pressure point. Giovanni's jaw works.
"What happens to the recording?"
"We use it as necessary." I straighten. "Leverage against our enemies. Insurance against future betrayal."
"And if I refuse?"
Pietro steps forward. "Then I handle this my way. And trust me, old man, I'm not feeling as charitable as my brother."
Giovanni looks at each of us. In the harsh light, he looks ancient, shrunken.
"Start from the beginning." I pull the microphone closer. "Every detail."
Giovanni closes his eye, exhales slowly. When he opens it again, the defiance has drained away.
"It started fifteen years ago. Your father was expanding territory, making enemies. The Irish approached me first..."
Three hours. Three hours of names, dates, transactions. Giovanni's voice grows hoarse as he details every betrayal, every secret sold. Blackmail material on half of Chicago's power structure.
Nico types frantically, organizing the information into categories. Pietro paces, fists clenching with each revelation. But I stay focused on Giovanni, pulling every detail from his rotting soul.
By the third hour, Giovanni's voice is barely a whisper. He's detailed corruption throughout the city, secrets that could topple governments, destroy families, start wars.
"This is everything?" I stand, stretching muscles cramped from sitting.
"Everything I remember." Giovanni raises his head with effort.
I stand, my chair scraping against concrete. "Pietro, Nico. Outside."
Sophia
The door clicking shut pulls me from sleep.
"Lorenzo?" My voice cracks with sleep.
A shadow moves near the closet. The mattress dips as I reach for the nightstand lamp, flooding the room with soft light.
Blood.
It's everywhere. His shirt, his hands, dark stains spreading across fabric like spilled wine.
"Don't." His voice stops me halfway out of bed. "Stay there."
"You're hurt." I stand anyway, bare feet hitting cold floor.
"It's not mine."
I move closer, reaching for his shirt buttons.
