Carbone spoke first, his silver hair and rigid posture reminding me why the old guard would never accept change. Twenty-five years of serving my father had made him a relic who valued bloodlines over capability."Where's Antonio? This meeting was called by you, not the Don."
The room fell silent. I let the question hang in the air, watching as understanding dawned on their faces.
"Antonio is dead," I said flatly. "As of three weeks ago, I am the head of the Ricci family."
The reaction was immediate—shifting bodies, widened eyes, hands moving instinctively toward concealed weapons before remembering they'd been disarmed at the door.
"How?" Carbone demanded, his knuckles white against the polished table.
"He made choices that threatened the family's future." I kept my voice level. "I corrected those choices."
Carbone scoffed. "And what gives you the right to decide what's best for the family?"
I held his gaze. "Antonio wasn't capable of change. He couldn't see beyond his own ego and greed."
I let the moment breathe, then added, "He also wasn't able to have children. He would never have had a biological heir. So when he learned I was having a child—his only chance at legacy—he saw it as a threat, not a gift."
The weight of that truth hung in the air.
"He came after my heir," I said, voice low and lethal. "That alone sealed his fate."
Salvatore, one of the younger Capos, leaned forward. "Without consulting the council?"
I placed a small black drive on the table. "Before we discuss succession, I believe we should address more pressing matters."
With a nod to Enzo, the lights dimmed. A projector hummed to life, casting its glow on the blank wall behind me. I plugged in the flash drive—Sophie's insurance policy, the one she'd stolen from Antonio, the one I'd retrieved from Falco.
"Some of you may be familiar with this," I said. "For others, this will be educational."
The first file appeared—detailed ledgers of human trafficking operations running through our shipping channels. Names, dates, financial transactions. The second file showed surveillance photos of three men in the room meeting with known federal informants. The third revealed offshore accounts where money had been siphoned from family businesses.
Faces paled. Hands trembled. Eyes darted toward exits.
I let the evidence speak for itself, cycling through file after damning file. When I finally paused the presentation, the room had gone deathly quiet.
"This drive contains enough evidence to destroy us all," I said calmly, unplugging it and slipping it into my pocket. "Or to protect us all. The choice is yours."
Carbone's piercing gray eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening us, Vittorio?"
"I'm offering clarity." I swept my gaze across the room. "The old ways are finished. The trafficking operations end today. The unnecessary violence ends today. We focus on legitimate businesses, with carefully managed side operations that don't attract federal attention."
Carbone shifted in his seat.
"My brother understood greed," I corrected. "It got him killed."
Murmurs rippled through the room. I noted who nodded in agreement and who exchanged worried glances. Mental notes were made of every man who hesitated, every face that showed resistance.
"This family survives by adapting," I said, scanning their faces. "We changed with Prohibition. With the Commission. With RICO." I paused. "We change again now, or we die."
I laid out my vision with clinical precision—shifting resources to our legitimate holdings, streamlining operations, reducing exposure. The smart ones nodded along, seeing the logic. The old guard shifted uncomfortably.
"This isn't a democracy," I reminded them. "But it is a choice. You're either with the family moving forward, or you're against it. There is no middle ground."
Carbone stood, his tall frame rigid with anger."Your father would be ashamed," he said, his voice carrying decades of authority. "He built this empire with blood and honor over three generations. Antonio understood our traditions, our ways, what this family needed to survive. And you—you're ready to destroy it all for some red-headed thief who's not even Italian. Your bastard child will never be worthy of the Ricci name. What gives you the right to dismantle everything three generations of Riccis died to build?"
The room held its breath. I let the silence stretch, my eyes locked with his.
"Tradition?" I met Carbone's glare. "Antonio was your tradition. He's dead."
