THE DEVIL'S ANGEL

chapter 8

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### Chapter Eight: The Making of a Don

The sound of gunfire echoed in Alessandro's ears, even though the night was still and quiet. He sat in his office, staring blankly at the glass of whiskey in his hand, the amber liquid swirling slowly as he turned it between his fingers. His mind was elsewhere—far from the Falconi estate, far from the power he now wielded.

It was trapped in the past, in the memories he tried so hard to bury.

Alessandro leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting toward the window where the moon hung low in the sky. The memories came unbidden, as they often did when the silence of the night crept in. They were memories of a time when he had been different—when he had not yet become the man the world now feared.

He closed his eyes, and the images of his youth flooded his mind.

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Alessandro was thirteen years old when it all began.

The Falconi estate had been different then. It was still grand and imposing, but it hadn't yet become the fortress it was today. Back then, it was a home—his home. But even at thirteen, Alessandro had understood that his family was different. His father, **Salvatore Falconi**, was the head of the Falconi crime family, and power flowed through their bloodline like a birthright.

Salvatore had been a force of nature, a man whose reputation commanded respect and fear. To Alessandro, he had always been larger than life. His father's presence filled every room, his words carried weight, and his authority was absolute. There was no room for softness, no space for weakness in the Falconi family. Salvatore had made that clear from the moment Alessandro could walk.

"Power," Salvatore had once told him, "is not given. It's taken. And once you have it, you protect it with everything you've got."

Alessandro had idolized his father. He wanted nothing more than to make him proud, to follow in his footsteps. But at thirteen, he still didn't fully understand what that meant. He thought it was about strength, about standing tall and commanding respect like his father did.

He didn't know that it also meant killing.

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It had been a cold night in the heart of winter. Alessandro remembered the chill in the air, how it bit through his jacket as he stood outside the family's warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The moon had been high, casting an eerie glow over the snow-covered ground. He had been nervous, unsure why his father had brought him there.

Salvatore had stood beside him, his tall, imposing figure draped in a long black coat, his face unreadable in the dim light. There had been no warmth in his father's eyes, only the sharp glint of expectation.

"Tonight," Salvatore had said, his voice low and commanding, "you become a man, Alessandro."

Alessandro had swallowed hard, his heart racing in his chest. "What do you mean, Papa?"

Salvatore had said nothing, merely gesturing toward the warehouse door. Two of the family's men opened it, revealing the dimly lit interior. Inside, bound and gagged, was a man Alessandro didn't recognize. He was slumped against a chair, his clothes torn and bloodied, his eyes wild with fear.

Alessandro's stomach had twisted at the sight, but he kept his face neutral, just as his father had taught him. Showing weakness was unacceptable in the Falconi family.

"Who is he?" Alessandro had asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Salvatore had stepped closer to him, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. "He's a traitor," his father had said, his voice hard. "A man who thought he could steal from us, undermine the Falconi name. And tonight, you're going to show him what happens to traitors."