Gianni leans forward. “Could be legitimate.”
Luca laughs, harsh and humorless. “Gianni.”
Gianni’s eyes flash. “If we treat every sit-down as an ambush, we look paranoid. Weak.”
Matteo’s jaw tightens. “If we treat an ambush like a sit-down, we die.”
My men look to me. They always do when the math starts getting bloody. This is the problem with power: everyone assumes you have certainty. No one asks how often you decide with incomplete information and call it leadership.
I tap the paper once. “They smell blood.”
Luca nods, vindicated.
“But,” I continue, “they only move like this if they think they can win something bigger than territory.”
Matteo’s eyes narrow. “You.”
“Or your son,” Gianni says.
The room goes colder. My jaw tightens, and I feel the familiar twitch behind my ear. The tell that used to get me beaten. It tries to rise. My fingers flex as if they want to go there.
I keep my hand down. Fear is a weapon. Grief is a weapon. Rage is a weapon. But so is restraint.
“They won’t touch him,” Luca says, too quick. Too sure.
I turn my gaze on Gianni. He swallows. Corrects himself without me speaking.
“They’ll try,” he admits.
Yes. They will. Because the moment Nico exists, he becomes leverage in every man’s head who thinks in angles. And because people have already tried. Enzo. Marco. Rivals. The list keeps growing.
I don’t let myself look at the family wing cameras. Not here. Not with my men watching my face for cracks. But I know, down the hall, Lucia is moving quietly through routine. Nico is learning how to pretend loud noises are just drills. How to line up his cars like order can protect him. He’s learning fear.
Unacceptable.
“Do we attend?” Matteo asks.
It’s the wrong question. The real question is:can we afford not to? If I refuse, Rossi gets to whisper that Mancini won’t sit because Mancini can’t. That the don is nervous. That the house is divided. That my friend’s death wasn’t “discipline”; it was fracture.
In our world, perception is a knife. And the moment you look like you’re bleeding, everyone wants to see how deep it goes.
I slide the paper back across the table. “We attend,” I say.
Luca exhales, satisfied. Matteo doesn’t look satisfied. He looks like a man calculating the angle of a bullet. Gianni nods once, slow.
“But we attend,” I add, “on our terms.”
That’s when the room shifts into motion. Men lean in. Maps are pulled up. Screens change.
We plan like it’s war.
Because it is.
* * *
The funeral home is Rossi’s suggestion. Neutral ground. Controlled environment. Public enough to imply “respect.” Private enough to hide bodies.
It’s almost funny. A place designed for death, hosting men who bring it with them.
