GIO
“Don’t insult my intelligence with your lies,” I retorted, the intensity of my emotions seeping into my words. I knew her history, knew of the encounters that had transpired on the luxurious expanse of my father’s yacht. Her attempts at secrecy were in vain; my tendrils of influence extended beyond our current geographical boundaries. My great uncle, a potent force in the Sicilian Famiglia, had ensured that I remained privy to her actions. Photographs told stories, revealing her dalliances with a youthful skipper. Their actions, captured in still frames, betrayed her pretense of mourning. Her age meant little to me, a mere detail in the tapestry of my emotions. So long as her transgressions did not threaten my reign, I cared little for her affairs.
“Olivia, I am now the Capo, and I retain the power to dictate your fate,” I warned, my tone growing graver as I contemplated the paths I could carve for her. A subtle threat hung in the air; I could orchestrate her re-marriage, uniting her with a man who mirrored my father’s disposition.
Her reaction was palpable, a sharp intake of breath that resonated through the line. I held no intention of relinquishing her into another’s hands, despite my disdain for her. The pain she had endured under my father’s tyrannical rule was a burden she had borne. My principles, even as they clashed with my emotions, held firm.
The words she spoke were quiet, laden with a resignation that bordered on acceptance. She offered a concession, the forfeiture of her connection to New York in the wake of her grief. The distance she sought was a testament to the wounds that had been inflicted upon her, wounds that refused to heal in the city that held memories both bitter and wretched.
Her admission did not stir sympathy within me. The past was riddled with our shared struggles, but her absence did not gnaw at my consciousness. “You are free to depart for Italy, Olivia. Your absence is not a void I feel,” I stated, my resolve ringing true even as I detected the vulnerability that quivered beneath her words.
Before I severed the connection, I left her with a final directive, a reminder of my command. The yacht, a vessel that had been witness to her transgressions, bore a stain that needed erasing. My demand was clear a thorough cleansing that left no trace of her escapades.
Her gasp, a symphony of surprise and perhaps fear, reached my ears, but I granted her no opportunity to respond. The line went dead, the culmination of a conversation that had unraveled layers of history, resentment, and power.
After concluding a conversation with Olivia, the urgency for a much-needed vacation gripped me. However, before leisure could even be contemplated, I found myself bracing for a crucial encounter with the Underbosses of the Famiglia. This assembly consisted of my uncles, both biological and marital, painting a complicated web of relationships. While weariness tugged at me, the impending meeting demanded my focus.
Exiting my office, I navigated through the corridors until I reached the very extremity of the Sphere. The door at the end beckoned. Stepping across its threshold, the scene that greeted me was one of anticipation. All eyes were fixed on the oval wooden table that occupied the center, a silent stage for the forthcoming discussions. A shadow played across Sebastian’s countenance, hinting at tensions beneath the surface. My punctual presence likely spared someone from an abrupt demise.
In a synchronized motion, the men rose from their seats, Sebastian included. Formalities were upheld, even by Sebastian, who understood the value of appearances, regardless of our private dynamics. However, the deliberate languor with which Uncle Amadeo stood up resonated more than the others’ motions, an unspoken declaration of his disregard for me.
Gesturing for everyone to retake their seats, I took a moment to study the assembly before me. Uncle Tonio, my father’s youngest brother and Atlanta’s Underboss, emanated an air of seasoned authority. On the other side sat Uncle Amadeo, administering Washington DC in my name, his smugness thinly veiling deep-seated enmity. Adjacent was Uncle Khris, stewarding Pittsburgh and my Aunt Luna’s spouse, his demeanor exuding a mix of vigilance and skepticism. Closest to him sat Uncle Peter, Baltimore’s Underboss, married to Aunt Giada, a portrait of calculated observance. Conversely, the Underbosses governing Charleston, Norfolk, Boston, and Philadelphia bore no familial links, their loyalty anchored solely in the Famiglia.
These men, matured by experience and burdened with histories, ranged from their forties to sixties, starkly contrasting Sebastian’s and my youth. My ascent to Capo rank was met with skepticism, though subtly conveyed through exchanged glances and occasional confrontational remarks.
“The agenda before us is substantial. While our interactions are still in their infancy, I believe our collective efforts can neutralize the Russian threat,” I proposed, projecting assurance despite my relative newness in this position.
Amadeo, never one to mince words, interjected with a critical edge, “In your father’s era, the Bratva wouldn’t have dared breach the walls of the Merante mansion. There was a code of respect.”
His eyes, bearing the weight of lingering hostility, bore into me. The scars of my actions remained fresh in his memory a memory that echoed with the consequences of his son’s attempt to usurp me and Sebastian, a rebellion that ended fatally. Although my father had believed in Amadeo’s innocence, I couldn’t shake the inkling that he might have played a role in those events. His skepticism toward me was reciprocated tenfold.
Disregarding the veneer of calm, I countered Amadeo’s assertion with a lethal undertone, my steps leading me to the forefront of the table. Purposefully remaining standing, I ensured they had to crane their necks to meet my gaze, a visual assertion of my newfound authority. The room’s atmosphere crackled with tension I cared little for their personal sentiments about my youth and status. If power had to be maintained through a blood-soaked statement, so be it.
Sebastian’s grin flashed my way, a display of readiness mirrored by the knife he now twirled, an ominous dance in his agile hands. The tension heightened, provoking uneasy glances from my uncles, who owed their Underboss titles to my father’s legacy. Yet, the true test lay with the other Underbosses, individuals who had earned their position and held the respect of their subordinates.
“It’s imperative we send a resolute message,” Amadeo’s voice cut through, sharp and urgent.
As the words hung in the air, the room reverberated with unsaid truths and the weight of decisions that would reverberate across our world.
I strolled purposefully around the room, my footsteps echoing softly against the ornate walls. As I drew near, I came to a halt beside his elaborately carved chair, a calculated move that caught his attention. Swiftly, he began to rise from his seat, perhaps expecting a deferential greeting, but my hand thrust out, a firm push that compelled him back down. A spark of resistance flickered in his eyes, but he remained seated under my unyielding pressure.
A sardonic smile curved my lips as I leaned in slightly, fixing my gaze upon him, forcing him to crane his neck to meet my eyes. His uncertainty, a fleeting glance at Tonio beside him, and then a desperate sweep of his eyes toward my other uncles, seeking support that was conspicuously absent. None of them moved to intervene; their inaction was palpable.
“It appears I’ve delivered Aldo to them, piece by agonizing piece,” I spoke with a chilling nonchalance, my words laced with a grim warning. “A missive of caution accompanied his severed appendage. I believe the message was not lost on them. The question that remains, Amadeo, is whether you comprehend the message resonating through your very being – that I am now your Capo.”
His discomfort was evident as he strained to meet my gaze, then sought refuge in Tonio’s presence, and fleetingly glanced at the other uncles. But they remained like statues, unmoved by his predicament.
“Respecting your elders would undoubtedly be prudent,” I intoned, my voice a low murmur that bore the weight of authority. “Though perhaps the others are reticent to vocalize it, the truth remains. You weren’t the rightful inheritor of the Capo mantle. Your ascent might be marked by strength and cruelty, yet age stands as a formidable chasm you fail to bridge,” he muttered, attempting to salvage his pride from the ruins of his arrogance.