Successor (18+ Only)

Prologue: Dinner at at Cœur d'Or

Mr. Bianchi got out of his elegant, jet-black, Pininfarina Battista. What was he doing at Cœur d'Or, one of world's top 10 culinary academies, located near the harbor of New York City?

This place was much too below him. He'd only accepted to come here because of the person requesting him: Paulo Storm.

Bianchi's respect for one of the Mafia's most renowned leaders was a harsh one at best. Storm possessed great power in New York, owning an abundance of businesses (whether they were legit, he didn't care) and company shares.

As he entered the magnificent erect building of the academy, showered in white marble and gold luxuries, the servants took his coat and led him to the elevator. He started his ascent, two of his men behind him. Even though he endorsed Storm's bidding, he had no idea what he wanted to discuss. His motive was simply "Business advice."

Ding. The elevator doors opened, revealing the beautiful dining room, filled with a dozen round tables. They held a white table cloth, a vase supporting a gorgeous white rose in the middle, two candles, and expensive silverware.

He met Storm's eyes. Their table was waiting for them, its candles' flames burning hotter.

"You were able to come, Mr. Bianchi, I'm delighted."

"I'm not here to waste my time, what do you want?" Bianchi's voice was stern and cold.

"So harsh, why don't we at least sit down? My students have prepared some wonderful dishes, I'm sure you won't want to miss them." With that, he directed Bianchi to the candle lit table.

They sat down. A boy—19 at best—brought them a dripping bottle of exorbitant wine and filled their glasses.

The sound of the flowing liquid highlighted the tension between the two men.

The boy, shaken, was glad to leave them be.

"Do you intend to elaborate on your request?" Bianchi didn't like chit-chat, he immediately cut to the chase.

"Fine, since you're in such a hurry, Mr. Bianchi, I don't mind," he took a sip of his wine. "Take no offense to what I'm about to say, Mr. Bianchi. How old are you?"

"56, turning 57 in just a few months." As he said that, a plump girl brought them their hors d'oeuvre. She was visibly nervous.

"Olive tapenade with giardiniera, I hope my students did well." He gave the girl an ominous look, dismissing her.

"To get back on topic, you're quite the senior in this business, aren't you Mr. Bianchi?"

"..." Bianchi sipped his wine, what the hell does this guys want?

"But you know, you're no Tithonus, you can't live forever," He started eating his giardiniera.

"I'm not fond of indirect statements, tell me what you want." Bianchi was growing more and more frustrated.

"Your empire, it's going to fall." At those words, Bianchi's eyes widened slightly, but he kept his composure.

"How many kids do you have again? Two, am I correct? Both boys..." Storm one again took a sip of his wine. "But you can't possibly think they can be your successors, can you? Their both children, after all—"

SLAM! Bianchi hit the table, hard.

"Don't bring my children into this. Their time will come soon." Bianchi, now visually irritated, drank the rest of his wine.

"I apologize. And your quite correct, their time will come. I've heard about your eldest, Adriano? He's quite the attentive one, isn't he?" Storm looked down and chuckled to himself.

It was true, Adriano Bianchi was a hidden genius. A prodigy. Gifted.

"I mean, he even managed to save you once, isn't that right?" Storm leaned toward Bianchi. He'd captivated his attention.

Storm was correct once again. Adriano saved his father from getting killed a few months back. He'd ordered his men to take a detour while his hospitalized father was getting escorted from the hospital after successfully assessing that another one of Dad's enemies was going to ambush them.

But, how did Storm know that, Bianchi asked himself.

The appetizer came, steak and blue cheese bruschetta with onion & roasted tomato jam.

"Your health is also rapidly deterioration." Storm didn't hold back now, he needed to provide a convincing basis. "Many people will take advantage of that..."

He looked at Bianchi deep in his eyes. Their ocean color had faded over the many years.

"Ruggero," he'd took a gamble and called Bianchi by his first name. "You've known my family for many years. I know you and my father were close."

The food was getting less appetizing.

"So please listen to me with an open mind. Let me take your empire. Your son is far too young, but I'll help him. I'll teach him how to navigate this world, and—most importantly—how to come out of it alive."

Bianchi appeared to be in deep thought. Was he really considering giving up his 3 billion dollar empire to the boy of his dear family friend?

"I have no certainty that you'll keep your promise. Besides, my son was and still is the only successor of my empire. Assuming he isn't capable is gravely disrespectful."

He stood to leave without waiting for the main course.

"W-Wait. I meant absolutely no disrespect, Mr. Bianchi. But please, at least try out my students' tasmanian salmon fillet," a smirk grew over his ragged face.

"Thank you very much for your invitation, Storm. It is such a shame you don't think like your father..."

And with that stinging remark, he left.

Storm was found dead near an ally later that night. Bianchi chuckled at the news.