"Please, Stephano, Enrico—please—you’re making a mistake! This is a misunderstanding! I can fix this, I swear, just hear me out! Marcello! Toni." He knows better than to call on Raf, who watches through cold eyes.
Toni grips him by the back of the neck, not gently. "Jesus Christ, will you finally shut up. There’s no repairing treason."
Edoardo stumbles forward, wrists bound. His tailored suit looks like a costume now, wrinkled, pathetic, soaked with sweat.
Marcello opens the door to the yacht’s salon, and warm air spills out, carrying the scent of whiskey and salt. We all enter, one by one, finding a seat.
Enrico sits with his boots up on the lacquered table, sipping a drink like he’s at a Sunday dinner. Raf leans against the bar, swirling bourbon in a crystal tumbler. Marcello shrugs off his jacket. Toni shoves Edoardo into a chair.
I take the last seat and look around. The salon is… ridiculous. Not just luxurious, it’s opulent in a way that doesn’t whisper money; it shoves it in your face.
The polished teak floors shine like caramel glass beneath the lights. Cream leather curves along the walls, framed in dark mahogany that belongs in a royal palace, not on a boat cutting through the Atlantic. The bar is lined with bottles that each cost more than some capos’ cars, held in chrome brackets like museum pieces.
Low charcoal suede couches anchor the room, positioned so the floor-to-ceiling windows dominate everything and give an unbroken view of the steel-colored ocean outside, waves slamming the glass hard enough to rattle your bones.
Golden sconces shaped like seashells throw warm, flattering light across the space, an indulgent glow that feels obscene considering what we’re here to do. This isn’t a yacht.
It’s a floating palace, a sovereign’s pleasure ship disguised as a toy. I’ve been inside penthouses, private clubs, Conti villas… I’ve lived with wealth my whole life.
But this?
This is Marcello’s empire on water. A floating throne room. And we’re here to carry out an execution.
The yacht’s engines hum beneath us, smooth and powerful.
Edoardo’s voice cracks. "Stephano, please. I am your Don?—"
I cut him off with a flat stare. "Youwerea Don," I say quietly. "And not even a good one at that."
Edoardo’s face crumples. He knows what's coming, we all do. The sharks won't leave a trace of his body.
Marcello pours me a drink. "To a new era," he says.
I take the glass. "To a clean one."
Raf snorts softly. "Well… clean-ish."
Enrico scoffs. "Coming from you, DeSantis, that’s rich."
Raf lifts his glass in mock salute. "You’re welcome."
Toni rolls his eyes. "He’s still pretending this wasn’t his plan all along."
Raf smirks. "What can I say? I’ve always enjoyed removing trash."
Marcello points his glass at him. "Bullshit. Be honest. You wanted the throne."
Raf pauses. Then, quietly, he admits, "I did."
We all look at him.
He takes a slow sip of whiskey. "I wanted to tear down everything Leonardo built and put my boot on its neck. That was the plan." He looks down into his glass, something softer flickering in his eyes. "Then Sophia happened. And suddenly, all I wanted was to keep her safe. Even if that meant not being Don."
Toni snorts. "Love makes you stupid."
Raf shrugs. "Best kind of stupid."
Oksana would agree with him.
