Every capo is present. Their sons. Their seconds. Power lined up in tailored suits and practiced restraint.
Including Edoardo. That alone tells me how badly he’s miscalculated.
Grigori doesn’t wait for anyone to sit. He walks straight into the center of the room like gravity bends toward him, coat still dusted with soot from the garage, blood drying dark on his knuckles. He doesn’t look at Edoardo at first. He doesn’t have to. Everyone already knows who this is for.
"They came after me," Grigori says calmly. Too calmly. He switches from English to Italian without breaking stride. "Your Venezuelan friends fired on my sister. In public. In your city."
Edoardo straightens. "I didn’t invite anyone to shoot at?—"
Grigori finally looks at him. It’s not rage. Rage would be kinder.
"If you had done your job," Grigori cuts in, keeping his voice soft as falling snow, which anybody who knows him knows is a last warning, "after they murdered your bookkeeper, we would not be having this conversation."
The room stills.
Edoardo bristles. "You don’t get to lecture me on how I handle my territory?—"
"I do," Grigori says, stepping closer, invading his space with surgical precision, "when your inaction spills into mine."
Toni shifts slightly beside me—not intervening, just watching. Raf has gone utterly still. Stephano’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing. He doesn’t need to. This isn’t his kill.
"You let them walk," Grigori continues. "No retaliation. No pressure. No message. You taught them they could test you."
Edoardo’s face reddens. "I was containing the situation."
"No," Grigori corrects. "You were hiding."
That lands harder than a slap.
"You wanted to keep your hands clean," Grigori goes on. "So you let the dirt pile up until it exploded inmyface. That makes you weak. And weakness invites predators."
"I am the Don of La Famiglia," Edoardo snaps, a little too loudly. "You will not speak to me like?—"
"Like what?" Grigori interrupts, tilting his head. "Like a man who has lost control of his house?"
Silence. Dead, suffocating silence.
Edoardo opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks around the room, searching for support. He doesn’t find it.
I step in then, before this turns irreversible.
"This isn’t about humiliation," I state evenly, sending a warning glare at Grigori, telling him to tone it down. "It’s about consequence."
Grigori glances at me, the barest flicker of approval in his eyes. This is how we usually play things. He antagonizes until something has to be done, and I play the peacemaker if we are inclined to let our prey live. With all the powerful members of La Famiglia here, it would be a mistake to antagonize them too much. Just yet.
"You wanted peace," I continue, turning to Edoardo. "You mistook silence for safety. The Venezuelans didn’t. They heard permission."
Stephano finally speaks. "You left a vacuum."
Raffael nods once. "And someone filled it."
Edoardo swallows. The glass tower suddenly feels very tall. Very exposed.
Grigori steps back half a pace, just enough to let him breathe again. A calculated mercy. The kind that costs interest later.
"I’m done waiting," Grigori says, voice calm and lethal, hands loose at his sides. "This mess grew because you let it. Because you mistook silence for control and called it diplomacy." His gaze cuts through Edoardo like a blade. "I’m going to Venezuela. I’ll put a bullet between Silvestre’s eyes, then Aurelio’s. I’ll burn the rot out myself."
Edoardo opens his mouth—panic, protest, pride, who knows—but he never gets the words out.
