"She's going to be so loved. By all of us."
"She already is."
At thirty-two weeks, I called a meeting. My inner circle—Piero, Giulio, Rocco, the senior capos.
They gathered in my office, confusion evident. I rarely called formal meetings anymore.
"I'm stepping back," I announced without preamble. "Effective immediately, Piero assumes operational control of the family. I remain in an advisory capacity, but day-to-day decisions are his."
Silence.
Then Piero: "Cesare, are you sure—"
"I'm sure. My daughter is coming in eight weeks. My wife needs me present, not distracted by empire business. And you're ready. You've been ready for months."
"What if I mess up?"
"Then you'll fix it. Like I did. Like our father did. You're a Monti. You'll figure it out."
Giulio spoke up. "The families will respect this?"
"They'll respect that I'm choosing my family over power. That's what leaders do—prioritize what actually matters."
After the capos left, Piero and I sat in the office, processing.
"This is really happening," he said. "You're really giving me the empire."
"I'm really choosing my family. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yeah. The empire will always be here. My daughter's childhood happens once. I'm not missing it."
Piero was quiet for a moment. "I'm scared I'll let you down."
"You won't. And if you need help, I'm here. Just not running everything anymore."
"What if—"
"Piero." I gripped his shoulder. "You've been my underboss for six years. You know this business inside and out. You're ready. I trust you."
"Okay. Okay." He took a breath. "I can do this."
"I know you can."
After he left, the relief was overwhelming. The weight I'd been carrying for years—the empire, the responsibility, the constant pressure—lifted.
I'd chosen. Family over power. Paola and Lucia over everything else.
And it felt right.
The scare came at thirty-four weeks.
I was in the kitchen making dinner when Paola gasped from the living room.
"Cesare—"
I found her gripping the back of the couch, face pale, breathing hard.
