“Is anyone dead?” I finally ask.
Carlo shakes his head. “Not this time.”
Not this time.The phrase has become a refrain. The room is full of men who have killed and men who have ordered killing and men who pretend they haven’t.
None of them is squeamish about blood. They’re squeamish about exposure. Bad press. Police attention. A war sparked because my son can’t keep his temper in a cage.
Enzo speaks gently, like he’s offering a solution instead of a move. “Marco needs structure.”
The word lands wrong.Structureis what you offer a child. Marco is not a child. He is a grown man with a gun and a fragile ego.
Dante hums, approving. “Rehab.”
Carlo nods. “Supervision.”
Matteo adds, “Removal from succession until he proves himself.”
There it is. The sentence that matters. The blade wrapped in silk.
I look around the table, slow, letting my gaze settle on each face. They’re too aligned. Too neat. Men like this don’t agree without someone arranging the pieces first.
Enzo’s face stays calm. Respectful. Loyal. He doesn’t look at me like he’s challenging me. He looks at me like he’s helping.
That’s what makes him dangerous.
I lean back slightly in my chair. “You’ve all discussed this.”
No one answers. A silence that confirms everything.
Enzo doesn’t blink. “We discussed the risk. Not the decision. That’s yours.”
It’s always framed that way. Like the crown still sits firmly on my head. Like I don’t feel the hands already reaching for it.
Dante shifts his fingers on the table. “Turo,” he says, and my name sounds like a warning. “You’re forty-eight.”
The room goes still. Carlo watches his cup like it’s suddenly fascinating. Matteo sits too straight, as if posture will keep him from being implicated in the insult.
Enzo stays quiet. He never speaks when others are cutting. He just watches the blood seep out and memorizes where it came from.
Dante continues. “We all respect you. That’s not in question.”
Respect. What men say when they mean fear.
“But,” Dante adds, “the family needs contingency plans.”
The wordcontingencyis just another word for replacement.
I feel my jaw tighten once. I let it show. Controlled crack. Warning.
“Contingency for what?”
No one answers. Because saying it aloud would make it too real. Because the truth is ugly in daylight.
Marco is unfit. And I have no heir worth presenting.
A throne without an heir is just a chair.
Rossi’s voice flashes in my head, soft as a knife.Anyone can sit in it.
