Her words hit where it hurt most. She had no idea. No idea that I would never let her go. That Mafia men don’t forget, don’t forgive, don’t share. She belonged to me, and that had nothing to do with love. But this wasn’t the time to discuss the distant future.
As the doctor predicted, my father passed away peacefully. I didn’t even notice the exact moment his soul left his body. It was Emily who first realized his chest had gone still.
Don Fernando, my father and the man who once ruled this empire, was gone.
SEVENTEEN
Carlo
The funeral was held under heavy security, a private ceremony attended only by the underbosses. Emily wanted to come, but with Giuseppe still posing a threat, I couldn’t risk it.
The following day the oath ceremony took place, as tradition demanded. Brando didn’t show, neither for the funeral nor the ceremony. That moron made his position loud and clear.
The underbosses arrived with their families. Emily stood alone in a corner, dressed in a simple black dress with long sleeves. I kept an eye on her. At one point, I noticed Paolo’s wife approach her, striking up a quiet conversation.
I glanced over at Paolo. He was watching his wife with the same look he’d had on their wedding night. Fourteen years, three kids, and still, the way he loved her hadn’t changed one bit.
At my request, the seating was arranged so the men and women sat apart, separated by enough space to maintain formality. My underbosses hadn’t liked the idea at first, but I knew by the end of the night they’d thank me. The chairs formed a wide semicircle. My seat sat slightly above the rest.
Maxim stood beside my chair, keeping his eyes on everyone. “Today, we buried a great and powerful Capo,” he began, his voice sharp with authority. “A man whose leadership pumped new blood into this family’s veins. A family that has gathered tonight to swear loyalty to their new leader.”
“But there’s a stranger among us,” Alfonso muttered suddenly, low and laced with contempt. Coward didn’t even have the balls to speak like a man.
He was forty, savage in the ring, with a history of death matches under his belt, and was known for his brutality. He’d brought his eldest son tonight, a twelve-year-old with the same wild eyes as his father.
The boy looked eager to take the oath and become one of us. Most joined at fifteen, but Alfonso clearly raised his son to fight, bleed, and kill young.
“And who’s this stranger, Alfonso?” I asked calmly.
He tensed. Didn’t expect I’d heard him. Now he was stuck, either back down or double down. I kept my face blank, daring him to step off the ledge. And he jumped.
He pointed straight at Emily. “That girl, isn’t she Tony’s whore?”
Her shoulders twitched, her face went pale. The way he talked about her made the vein in my forehead throb. The way he pointed his finger at her, called her a whore, and worse, called her Tony’s. But I waited. Let him dig his own grave.
“She’s like her grandfather, Gianni, a traitor. She doesn’t belong here.”
“You done?” I asked.
His face drained of color, and he just nodded once.
“First of all, she has a name. Emily. Second, she’s neither a whore nor Tony’s.” I turned to the room, letting my eyes sweep across every face. “And the fact that she’s Gianni’s granddaughter doesn’t make her a traitor. Sophie, her mother, wasn’t even blood. Gianni adopted her.
Sophie and my mother, Amara, grew up together. They may not have shared blood, but they were sisters. That makes Emily family. In fact, she’s the only family I have left.”
I shot Alfonso a look that could kill. “From now on, you will speak of her with respect.”
He stayed silent and I continued, “But here’s the thing, very few people know these details. And as far as I remember, I never shared them with you.”
Alfonso’s face turned the color of fresh snow. Around the room, the underbosses exchanged uneasy glances. They felt it too, something was coming.
I rose from my chair and started pacing, slow and steady. “Justice, punishment, retribution. These mean different things to different men. That’s what separates strong territories from the ones that rot. Don Francesco and Don Fernando had their own brand of justice: kill the traitor and his sons, and sell off their women. But I don’t see it that way.
In my code, everyone answers for their own actions, personally. I put the words justice and honor side by side. Just as justice demands that a traitor pay for his crimes in a way that won’t be forgotten, honor demands we protect the women who can’t defend themselves. I take no pleasure, and see no purpose, in selling off a traitor’s women and daughters.”
I turned back to Alfonso. “Some might say my way makes me weak. That I’m not as ruthless as the men who came before me. That refusing to punish families for the sins of one man means I’m not fit for this chair.” I took another step closer, voice dropping to a growl. “That I’m not fit to be Capo.”
Alfonso squirmed in his seat. “That’s nonsense, Don Carlo.”
