My father picks up the photos one by one, his expression darkening. “The Russian,” he says slowly.
“The shell casings don’t match Moretti weapons,” Fed adds. “Russian-made, exclusively. We have surveillance footage placing Tartarov’s men at three separate attack sites—two on our properties, one on the Morettis’.”
My father sets the photos down. “We’ve been played.”
“Yes,” I confirm.
A heavy silence fills the room. My father rises from his desk and moves to the window, hands clasped behind his back. When he turns, the anger in his eyes is cold and controlled—far more dangerous than heat.
“And the Morettis? Do they know?”
“Not yet,” I say. “But they will.”
My father returns to his desk. “So what are we dealing with?”
“Tartarov’s goal is to dismantle both families,” I say. “He wants Philadelphia for himself, and the simplest way to get it is to let us destroy each other first.”
My father draws a deep breath. “I’m proposing a temporary ceasefire. An opportunity to meet with Nico Moretti and discuss terms that might end this blood feud once and for all.”
I clench my jaw, the muscles in my neck tightening. “A ceasefire? After everything they’ve done?” The idea feels like surrender—like weakness. “They’ll see it as an opportunity to finish what they started.”
My father levels his gaze at me. “Sometimes the greatest strength is knowing when not to fight.”
“With respect, this isn’t just business anymore.” I stand, unable to contain my restless energy. “This is a blood vendetta three generations in the making. Nico Moretti won’t stop until we’re all dead or broken.”
Carmela clears her throat. All eyes turn to her.
“I think we should consider it,” she says quietly.
I stare at her, surprised. “You can’t be serious.”
She meets my gaze without flinching. “War isn’t sustainable, Silvo. We’ve lost men. They’ve lost men. At some point, someone has to break the cycle.”
There’s something in her eyes—a certainty I haven’t seen before. Like she knows something I don’t.
“Ever since I learned about Maria and Salvatore, I’ve been thinking.” Carmela leans forward. “This vendetta started with love. Maybe it can end the same way—with understanding instead of bullets.”
My mother speaks for the first time, her voice quiet but carrying unexpected weight. “I’ve buried too many of this family already.” Her eyes find mine, then Fed’s. “Cousins, nephews, friends who were like family. I won’t bury my own children over a grudge that began before any of you were born.”
The raw emotion in her voice silences the room. My mother rarely speaks at these meetings, content to let my father handle business. But when she does, we listen.
“Giulia—” my father starts.
“No, Antonio.” She stands, moving to the center of the room. “I’ve held my tongue for decades while this family bled for pride. But I’m done watching the people I love march toward their graves.” Her gaze sweeps across all of us. “If there’s even a chance to end this, we take it.”
The room falls silent. My father draws a deep breath.
“Fresh perspectives are valuable in old conflicts,” he says, nodding at Carmela.
Fed pushes off from the fireplace. “I hate to admit it, but Carmela might be onto something. We can’t keep losing people.”
I run a hand through my hair, frustration warring with exhaustion. My wife watches me, those green eyes seeing right through my anger to the fear underneath.
“One meeting,” I finally concede. “Neutral ground, full security. We hear them out, but I’m making no promises.”
Carmela’s hand finds mine again, her thumb tracing circles on my skin. “It’s a start.”
Looking at her, I see a future beyond endless retaliation—a possibility, however faint, of peace that might let us live without constantly looking over our shoulders. For her, for our future children, perhaps it’s worth the risk.
