Renzo’s voice cut through the room, sharper now.
“—and if any of you think your connections protect you here, think again.”
A few shoulders stiffened.
“Vincenzo Orsini’s wife sits among you.”
That did it.
The room shifted.
A ripple of glances turned toward me—curious in some eyes, openly appraising in others.
A few lingered longer than necessary, amusement flickering at the edges of their expressions like they were watching a performance about to turn entertaining.
Renzo didn’t acknowledge the shift.
He only let it land.
Then—
“Let me be clear,” he continued, voice tightening with controlled authority, “she gets no special treatment.”
The words were deliberate.
“Here, titles don’t protect you. Not from the work. Not from the consequences.”
A beat.
“She bleeds the same.”
Another pause. “She fails the same.”
And then, colder—“She dies the same if she can’t hack it.”
Silence snapped into place.
Renzo’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
A muscle flexing beneath the surface of control.
He held my stare for a long beat.
Two.
Three.
Then—he broke it first.
Turned away.
Resumed his lecture as though nothing had happened.
His voice returned to its steady cadence.
Rules. Protocols. Schedules. Punishments.
Each word delivered with the cold efficiency of someone who didn’t just enforce discipline—he believed in it.
