“Vincent Torrino,” I say clearly, my voice carrying across the room.
He looks up from his cards, confusion flickering across his face. “Do I know you, sweetheart?”
The condescension in his voice makes something cold and vicious unfurl in my chest. “You sold information to the FBI for six months. Information about Vitelli family operations. Information that put soldiers at risk.”
The color drains from his face.
Around the room, chairs scrape as men push back from tables, some reaching for weapons, others heading for exits.
But Alessandro’s already there, blocking the back entrance, his own weapon visible enough to discourage anyone from trying to leave.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Torrino stammers.
“Vincent Torrino, FBI informant number 47291,” I continue, pulling the folder from my jacket and letting it fall open on his table. Photographs, documents, bank records—all the evidence of his betrayal spread out for everyone to see. “Three years of payments. Six months of active cooperation. The lives of five Vitelli soldiers compromised because of information you provided.”
The room is dead silent now.
Every man here understands what they’re witnessing—not just an execution, but a lesson.
A demonstration of what happens to traitors.
“Please,” Torrino whispers, his cards forgotten on the table as the smell of fear pours off him. “I have children. Grandchildren?—”
“So did the soldiers who died because of you.” I draw my weapon with practiced ease, the glock fitting perfectly in my hand. “This is family justice, Vincent. For betrayal. For treachery. For forgetting where your loyalty was supposed to lie.”
Then the voices explode in my head, each one screaming different instructions.
Show no mercy,Giuseppe’s harsh voice roars.Take what’s yours. Make them fear you. Pull the trigger now and establish your reputation through blood.
Wait,Sophia’s softer voice whispers urgently.Use their sympathy. Let them see you struggle with this choice. Play the reluctant heir forced into violence. It will make you seem more human, more trustworthy.
Think first,Matteo’s familiar voice cuts through the chaos.Control the situation. Consider the positioning, the witnesses, the long-term consequences. This moment defines how they’ll see you forever.
For a heartbeat, I stand frozen, three different approaches warring in my mind.
The room holds its breath, waiting to see what Giuseppe DeLuca’s daughter will choose.
Then something settles in my chest—cold, certain, inevitable.
I feel the genetic pull toward decisive brutality, the understanding that this is what I was born for.
Not Matteo’s careful strategy or Sophia’s manipulation, but Giuseppe’s direct, merciless action.
I pull the trigger without hesitation, without theatrics, without giving Torrino another moment to beg.
The shot is clean and final, placed exactly where Alessandro taught me.
Vincent Torrino slumps forward onto his cards, blood spreading across the green felt.
The violence feels natural.
Not foreign or frightening or morally complex—just necessary.
Like something I’ve been preparing for my entire life without knowing it.
The capacity for brutality flows in my blood, not just from years of training, and that realization should probably disturb me.
Instead, it feels like coming home.
