"MAFIA BOSS CAME HOME EARLY — AND FROZE WHEN HE SAW WHO WAS SCRUBBING HIS SHIRT

The grand ballroom of the Moretti estate was bathed in the dim light of two massive iron chandeliers. Forty men sat around a circular oak table built during the Prohibition era—capos, lieutenants, and senior advisors representing every corner of the Moretti criminal empire.

At the center of the room sat Don Bernardo Vance.

Bernardo was sixty-five years old, built like a barrel, with silver hair combed neatly back and a sharp, red-faced countenance that spoke of too much whiskey and decades of unpunished cruelty. He wore a six-thousand-dollar tailored pinstripe suit, thick gold rings on every finger, and a smug, arrogant grin as he puffed on a Cuban cigar.

"Where is the boy?" Bernardo sneered, looking around the room at the other capos. "He summons us here like dogs at midnight, and then makes us wait? Is Alessandro losing his nerve?"

A few of the younger capos laughed nervously, but the older men remained silent, their eyes fixed on the heavy double doors at the front of the hall.

The doors swung open.

Alessandro stepped into the room. He wasn't wearing his usual expensive designer suit. He wore a simple black turtleneck, black trousers, and heavy leather boots—the outfit of a soldier, not a diplomat. In his right hand, he carried his mother’s yellowed leather notebook.

Behind him, four of his elite personal guards took positions at the doors, locking them from the inside with heavy iron deadbolts.

"Uncle Bernardo," Alessandro said, his voice echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling as he walked slowly toward the head of the table. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

"What is this theatrical nonsense, Alessandro?" Bernardo scoffed, blowing a plume of blue cigar smoke into the air. "Locking the doors? Dressing like a cat burglar? We have shipping schedules to discuss for the Brooklyn pier! I don't have time for your mood swings!"

Alessandro stopped at the head of the table, directly opposite Bernardo. He set the yellowed notebook down on the polished wood.

"We aren't discussing shipping schedules tonight, Bernardo," Alessandro said softly. "We are discussing history."

Bernardo’s eyes flicked down to the notebook. For a fraction of a second, the color drained from his red cheeks, his cigar pausing inches from his lips. But he recovered instantly, his face hardening into a sneer.

"What is that trash?" Bernardo barked. "Some old rag you pulled out of the attic?"

"It’s my mother’s journal, Bernardo," Alessandro replied. His voice was dangerously calm, carrying a weight that made every man at the table sit up straight. "The one she wrote in three days before someone put a bullet through her heart in the foyer of this house."

The room went dead silent. You could hear the faint patter of rain against the high stained-glass windows.

"Alessandro..." Bernardo warned, his voice dropping into a low, threatening growl. "You're speaking out of turn. Your mother was killed by the Bonanno family. We settled that debt twenty-five years ago with blood."

"No," Alessandro said, opening the notebook to the marked page. "The Bonanno family was a lie you sold to my father so he would go to war and weaken his own ranks. You paid the hitmen yourself, Bernardo. You wanted the offshore accounts. You wanted the river docks. And when my mother discovered your betrayal, you had her butchered like an animal."

"LIES!" Bernardo roared, slamming his heavy fists onto the table, standing up so fast his leather chair flipped backward. "This boy has lost his mind! He’s unhinged! Capos, stand up! This is a coup against the old leadership!"

Not a single capo moved.

Bernardo’s eyes swept the room frantically. "Sal! Joey! What are you doing?! Shoot this lunatic!"

Sal, the senior capo from Queens, slowly shook his head. "We read the ledger pages Alessandro sent us two hours ago, Bernardo. Your offshore routing numbers match the payments made to the hitmen’s families in Florida for twenty-seven years. You’re a snake."

Bernardo realized, with a wave of paralyzing horror, that every exit was blocked, every ally had been bought or informed, and he was standing alone in a room full of wolves he had helped train.

Panicked, Bernardo reached into his jacket for his snub-nosed revolver.

THWIP.

A single suppressed shot rang out.

Bernardo screamed, dropping to his knees as a bullet from Alessandro’s pistol tore through his right knee, shattering the joint. Blood splashed across the polished oak floor.

Alessandro walked around the table slowly, holding his pistol at his side, looking down at his uncle like a man looking at a cockroach on his kitchen floor.

"You took my mother when I was eleven years old," Alessandro whispered, pulling the trigger again.

THWIP.

Bernardo’s other knee shattered. He collapsed onto his stomach, weeping, clutching his ruined legs, all his arrogance and power melting into pathetic, shivering terror.

"Please... Alessandro... I’m your blood!" Bernardo wept, blood pouring onto the mahogany floorboards. "I’m your father’s brother! Have mercy!"

"Mercy is a luxury for the living, Bernardo," Alessandro said softly. He looked at Marco. "Take him to the basement. Don't let him die quickly. I want every dock contract, every bank account, and every asset he owns transferred to Sophia Rossi and her daughter by morning."

"With pleasure, Boss," Marco growled, dragging the screaming old man out through the side doors.

Alessandro turned back to the remaining thirty-nine capos sitting at the table. He picked up his mother's notebook, tucked it inside his jacket, and looked around the room.

"The old way is dead," Alessandro declared, his voice cutting through the room like a iron blade. "As of tonight, the Moretti family no longer deals in extortion, human trafficking, or dirty blood money. We are legitimate. Anyone who disagrees can leave this room now—and share a cell with Bernardo."