"I didn't expect the Bratva's tech queen to be quite so... captivating," Lorenzo's voice dripped with irony as he observed Galina, who was absorbed in deciphering a web of encrypted data.
Galina's gaze remained fixed on her screens, her expression a...
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The meeting room was steeped in tension, and it was impossible to ignore the rage simmering just below the surface. Orazio's voice cut through the air like a sharp blade, slicing through the polite façade we had tried to maintain for the past hour.
"That's bullshit!" my cousin, Orazio, yelled, slamming his fist onto the mahogany table.
To be honest, I couldn't blame him. Here we were, the future heirs of our father's respective packs, gathered to discuss the next generation of our mafia empire. The room was filled with the air of tradition, power, and a heavy burden of responsibility. On the surface, it seemed simple: solidify alliances, maintain order, and keep the family business profitable. But balancing the delicate scales of mafia politics and familial ties was an impossible task. Each decision had repercussions that could alter the fate of our families forever.
Working with other mafia families is already a nightmare, but when it's family? That's a different beast altogether. As heirs, we're expected to maintain business alliances without sacrificing familial loyalty. Our fathers and uncles-each ruthless, cunning, and dangerously intelligent-have somehow managed this balancing act for decades. Soon, they'll be handing their empires over to us, their chosen heirs, trained under their relentless scrutiny to become the next generation of capos.
Our fathers were legends, Capos who had run their empires with iron fists and unshakeable resolve. But they were aging, and the time had come to pass the torch. They had groomed us, molded us with ruthless precision, and trained us to become the perfect successors to their thrones. And yet, I couldn't help but feel like a pawn in a game far beyond my control, where every move could either secure our legacy or doom us all.
I watched my uncles-Fiore, Alessandro, and Giovanni-sitting alongside my father, Cassio Marchetti, with the kind of presence that commanded respect and fear. Each man represented a different pack, a different territory, but they shared the same blood and the same ruthless ambition. Fiore Caputo, the eldest son of Maximus Armani, currently led the Casano Outfit, which would soon pass to his son, Raphael. Alessandro was as cunning as he was charming, a lethal combination that made him an invaluable asset to our empire. Giovanni, with his cold, calculating gaze, was a strategist through and through, always five steps ahead of everyone else.
The old man's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Me and your fathers became capos of our regions in our twenties, without a damn clue how to run this empire. We made mistakes. We don't expect y'all to be perfect either, but now it's your turn." Uncle Fiore's voice is a mix of impatience and authority, a reminder of the weight resting on our shoulders. "You're in your late thirties and forties now, no more time to waste. We've extended our retirements for you to be more... whatever the hell you needed to be. Now it's time you become capos, not just made men."
Fiore Caputo, the eldest son of Maximus Armani and capo of the Casano Outfit, soon to be succeeded by his son, my cousin Raphael Caputo, stares us down. All four of Maximus Armani's sons-my father and uncles-changed their last names when they took over their respective mafia regions. A strategic move, they said, to secure their identities and make their illegal dealings less traceable. But part of me wonders if their ever-growing egos played a role too.
