Silent love

Chapter 54

On the previous chapter...

Immanuel didn't have the luxury to crumble. He had to be strong.

For Federico.
For the family.
For Yaqueline, who was shattered and lost.

He felt the weight of all their grief pressing down like a storm.
But he would stand.

Because in this life, survival was a vow.

And loyalty was the only thing that never broke.

Silvio stood apart from the others, a man burdened with a weight no one else could fully understand. To many, he was the traitor, the one who had burned Federico alive. But those who knew the truth understood it wasn't a choice made lightly. Silvio had followed orders. Orders given by Federico himself.

Being the right-hand man meant carrying impossible decisions, walking a razor's edge where hesitation could mean the end of everything they'd fought for. He knew that if he hadn't burned the building down, Valerio would have destroyed them all. And Federico would have blamed him for not acting.

So he did what needed to be done. And now, he bore the crushing silence of loss and regret. He couldn't meet the eyes of Fiorenzo, Seraphina, or Yaqueline, not yet. The anger, the pain, it was raw and still too close.

He understood why Immanuel had punched him. The chaos of grief made nothing clear or easy. But Silvio knew they had to find a way forward.

They had lost a brother. The trio; Federico, Immanuel, and Silvio, had been inseparable. Now, only two remained. Silvio and Immanuel would carry the legacy, finishing what Federico had begun. Because there was no other choice.

But beneath the weight of grief, a fragile thread holds them together.

The story isn't over yet.

It never is.

     ʚ ɞ

It was official now.

Silvio Lior Costello was the new head of the Mancini family, a crown handed to him not by blood, but by loyalty, grief, and fire.

The room felt too quiet, too heavy, as if the walls themselves were waiting for Federico Hervé Mancini to walk in, sharp and calm, and take back his place. But that would never happen. Federico was gone. Murdered.

And now, Silvio stood in his place, not just as a leader, but as a brother who buried his best friend.

He stood tall in a pale, clean-cut suit, his icy blue eyes cutting through the smoke-veiled tension in the room. His light blond buzzcut was freshly lined, and the shine of his earrings flashed like cold steel under the chandelier.

His long height cast a long shadow, but none longer than the grief in his gaze.

He didn't say much. He didn't need to.

The Mancini estate was filled with dangerous figures, flown in or summoned from their corners of Europe. The mafia's heavyweights had gathered to recognize the shift of power, to mourn the dead, and to assess the living.

Among them stood Demetrio Kotova. The Russian mafia head had arrived in silence, wearing a dark charcoal suit with a muted tie, posture straight like a soldier. His broad frame and piercing blue eyes made him look carved from cold marble, and when he spoke, it was deliberate.

"I liked Federico". Demetrio said in his deep, almost unreadable tone, standing beside Silvio with a vodka in hand. "He always knew what to do. Had guts. Made smart plays".