I slam my hand on the table.
"ENOUGH."
I straighten my jacket and glare at Edoardo. "As your last act as Don, do you recognize me as the new capo of the Conti family?"
Edoardo looks cornered. He knows by doing this, he is signing his own death warrant. He looks from one man in the room to the next. Nobody shows him any pity. Silence descends like a guillotine.
"Yes," he finally says, just to prolong his own miserable life.
"We cannot have a Don who conspired with our enemies," I say, keeping my voice low. "So as the new capo of the Conti house, I second Raffael’s voto di sfiducia."
Edoardo sputters, "You want to replace me? You can't. Who would take my seat?"
Fabrizio rises, "He is right, who will replace him? We can't take an outsider?—"
"We don't need to," Enrico puts a hand on his father's shoulder to soften the next blow that's coming. "We have another one of Leonardo's sons right here, ready to take his spot."
"You fucking traitor," Edoardo explodes, rising out of his chair, "we had a deal, DeSantis, I'd make you capo, and you'd keep your mouth shut about your lineage."
He seems to realize that he just confirmed Raf's claim and sinks back into his chair.
One by one, the capos stand:
Fabrizio.
Toni.
Marcello.
Raf.
And then the Sartori brothers, Enrico, Ettoro, Matteo, and Tommaso.
Gustave chokes on his own breath.
Edoardo sinks even lower into his seat.
Raf speaks again. "By unanimous vote: Edoardo Zanello is removed as Don of New York."
Edoardo looks around, lost. Alone.
Everybody sits back down.
"All in favor of Raffael DeSantis becoming the new Don of La Famiglia," I call out.
Again, one by one, everyone stands.
Marcello’s yacht blazes against the dark like a floating constellation, every deck light shimmering off the black water. It sits moored at the dock, surrounded by shabby warehouses, like a diamond dropped into rubble. New York rises behind it in jagged silhouettes of glass and steel, the skyline glittering while the warehouses around us sag with rust and peeling paint.
The water glistens under the floodlights, broken by gentle waves that lick the hull as if even the river knows thisthing doesn’t belong here. It gleams—opulent, obscene—against the cracked concrete and industrial rot.
I’ve heard rumors about this boat. Every man in New York has. A floating palace wrapped in sin and steel, a place where business gets handled, and bodies disappear.
But this is the first time I’ve set foot on it.
The wind is sharp against my face as I step onto the outer deck. Spray hits my suit jacket in cold bursts. Waves slap against the hull in a steady rhythm. The sky is a heavy sheet of gray, low and brooding.
A perfect night to end a dynasty. Behind me, Edoardo Zanello is pleading.
