Vittorio rises slowly, hands up, breathing hard. His face is pale beneath the arrogance.
“Okay,” he says quickly. “Okay. We’re done.”
His voice is too loud in the aftermath, like he’s trying to talk himself back into dominance.
I step around the overturned table. Gun raised. My men pivot with me. Tight formation. Controlled.
I stop a few feet from Vittorio. Look him in the eye. This is the moment he understands what he gambled.
“This was a peace meeting,” he says, desperate to rewrite reality out loud.
I tilt my head slightly. “No,” I say. “It was an execution.”
He swallows. His hands tremble now, the mask slipping.
“And you failed,” I add.
Vittorio’s eyes dart behind me, searching for an exit, for a miracle. There isn’t one.
“Please,” he says, and the word sounds wrong coming from him. It sounds like weakness.
And weakness is the only thing I have never tolerated near my son.
“You tried to kill me in a funeral home,” I say evenly. “You tried to cut off my exits and bury my name in this room.”
His throat bobs. “We thought…”
“You thought we were bleeding,” I finish for him. “You thought Enzo’s death made us weak.”
I step closer. Vittorio flinches. My gun remains steady.
“Message travels,” I say quietly. “Make sure it travels correctly.”
His mouth opens.
I don’t give him another word. I fire once.
He drops.
The room holds its breath.
Then my men begin moving, swift and efficient. Weapons collected. Phones pulled. Photos taken for leverage and proof. Bodies checked. Wounded treated. Evidence wiped clean enough that civilians will only find a narrative someone else wrote for them.
This is what my world does after violence. It tidies. Because disorder invites questions. And questions invite consequences.
I turn away from Vittorio’s body and look at the remaining Rossi men. Those who surrendered, and those still kneeling with hands up, eyes wide.
“You go back,” I tell them, voice calm enough to be terrifying. “You tell whoever’s still breathing over there that the Mancini family is not in chaos. We’re in cleanup.”
One of them nods fast, swallowing hard.
“Try again,” I add, “and you’ll die louder.”
They nod again, frantic.
Good.
I don’t linger. There’s nothing here for me.
