I sit.
There's espresso on the table, two cups already poured. I take one, sip it. It's strong, bitter, perfect.
"The Bratva," he says, getting straight to business. "They're pushing into our territory. Midtown gambling operations. Three poker rooms in the past month, all on our turf."
I nod. I'm aware. The Morozov Bratva has been getting bold, testing boundaries, seeing how far they can push before we push back.
"We need to send a message," Don Marco continues. "Something clear. Something that reminds them why they don't fuck with the Santoro family."
"You want me to handle it."
It's not a question.
"There's a lieutenant. Petyr Morozov's right hand. He's the one running the poker rooms, collecting the debts, making the moves." Don Marco slides a folder across the table. "I want him gone."
I open the folder. Photos, surveillance reports, known associates. The lieutenant's name is Max Orlov. Late thirties, former Russian military, handles enforcement for the Bratva's gambling operations.
He's a professional. Good.
I prefer it when my targets know what they're doing. It makes the kill cleaner.
"When?" I ask.
"This week. Soon." Don Marco leans back in his chair. "But Luca, I need you sharp for this. The Bratva will retaliate. They'll know it was us. We need it to be clean, no witnesses, no mistakes."
"There won't be."
He studies me for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly. "You seem elsewhere, nephew."
The word is deliberate, a reminder of the blood between us, the debt he owes my father and the loyalty I owe him in return.
"I'm fine."
"You're never fine. You're efficient." He sets his cup down. "What's on your mind?"
I consider lying. Consider telling him it's nothing, just another job, business as usual.
But Don Marco didn't build an empire by being stupid.
"There's someone," I say carefully.
His eyes sharpen. "A woman."
"Yes."
"Serious?"
"Yes."
Don Marco leans forward, elbows on the table. "Luca, you're the best enforcer I have. You're cold, efficient, you don't leave loose ends. But women make men weak. They make men make mistakes."
"I won't make mistakes."
"You say that now." He taps the folder. "This job needs your full attention. The Bratva isn't some street gang. They're organized, they're dangerous, and if you're distracted, you'll end up dead."
"I won't be distracted."
"Then prove it." Don Marco stands, signaling the meeting is over. "Handle Orlov. Make it clean. Make it brutal. Make it clear that we're not playing games."
