GIO
Sebastian, who had been reclining with a complacent demeanor, suddenly shifted, his feet landing solidly on the ground. The veneer of amusement on his face faded like mist before the sun.
“Pray enlighten us, Amadeo,” I addressed him in a voice barely above a whisper, edged with steel. “Who, in your esteemed opinion, should have ascended to the role of Capo instead? Would you have been the torchbearer of our empire? A notion riddled with irony, considering your lineage once conspired to halt my rise, an act that left your own flesh and blood paying the price of treachery with a crushed windpipe.”
Amadeo’s pent-up frustration propelled him to his feet, and this time, I permitted his rise. His stature was dwarfed before mine, a fact seemingly lost on him as he clung to the illusion of intimidation. “I’d posit that both I and my father, we hold greater suitability for the mantle you so brazenly don,” he retorted, his words tinged with defiance. But his outburst only served to paint him as naive, a fool seeking to impress through bravado alone.
The room seemed to constrict with tension, Khris, ever the jittery observer, darting his gaze anxiously between me and Sebastian, a silent plea for calm.
My smile, a portrait of frigid amusement, was aimed squarely at Amadeo. “Such utterances border on defiance of the highest order, a violation of your solemn vow. Make no mistake, my dear Amadeo, you are now ensnared within my dominion.”
A retort teetered on his lips, but Tonio’s hands clamped onto his brother, striving to pull him back to his seat, to stifle the escalating discord. Amadeo’s resistance, however, proved steadfast. “Desist, Amadeo, for the love of all that’s holy. What ails you?” Tonio’s plea hung in the air, a futile attempt to rein in his impulsive kin.
Amadeo’s voice spat out venom, his disdain evident. “No,” he seethed, his resentment now unshackled. “First Agatone’s fate, now this indignity. I cannot, and shall not, heed the commands of one who could very well be my own offspring. Were it not for his father, he would never have ascended to this position. He may carry the title, but worthiness eludes him.”
Sebastian’s presence materialized at my back, his words a low warning. “Remember your place, Amadeo. Such words skirt perilously close to insubordination.”
The urge to throttle Amadeo surged through me, a visceral desire to see his life snuffed out, much like his son’s. A certainty coiled within me, that it was he who’d orchestrated that attempt on my life years ago.
My gaze shifted, sweeping over each of my trusted Underbosses, men who held power in their own right. “How expeditiously can you rally your Captains and their men for a summit?” The question hung in the air, a harbinger of impending upheaval.
In the dimly lit room, Davide, the Underboss of Philadelphia, stood with the aid of his cane, his once formidable presence now diminished after surviving a second heart attack that struck him down three months prior. The transformation was stark and unsettling, turning him into a mere shadow of the man I had come to know. His family’s loyalty to the core was unwavering, a fact that cast a heavy weight on the situation. The city of Philadelphia held significant importance within the criminal network, and Davide’s position as Underboss was a linchpin in maintaining order. His son Renato, a figure of potential leadership, was a mere four years older than me, a detail that underscored the precariousness of the situation.
The gravity of the circumstance was palpable in the room, as the other men gathered acknowledged the urgency of the matter. Silent nods of agreement rippled through the assembly, affirming the need for action. Yet, amidst the consensus, two figures held reservations. Amadeo, a man exuding suspicion, regarded me with a gaze that seemed to pierce through the veil of intention. Tonio, on the other hand, voiced a practical concern that injected a dose of reality into the proceedings. His words carried the weight of logistical challenges, highlighting the considerable time required for the journey from Atlanta to Philadelphia and the intricacies of coordinating such a movement. Tonio’s perspective added a layer of complexity, suggesting that a delay might be wise if a comprehensive mobilization, including the involvement of soldiers, was the goal.
Caught in the exchange of perspectives, I locked eyes with Sebastian, a trusted figure among the gathered men. His inquisitive look prompted me to confront the skeptical air that had settled in the room. The moment demanded resoluteness. With Amadeo’s suspicion lingering, I squared my shoulders and directed my response with unflinching determination. My focus shifted to Amadeo, our gazes locking in a silent contest of wills. The words that escaped my lips held a subtle challenge, a provocation veiled in the realm of possibility. Tomorrow morning, I asserted, would be the appointed time for action. I made my stance clear, conveying that the authority I sought to wield was grounded in the support of the Famiglia.
Amadeo’s sneer was the response, a gesture that sought to undermine the authority I aimed to assert. His words, tinged with skepticism, questioned the basis of my confidence. The notion of alternative leadership options lingered in the air, a subtle suggestion that loyalty might sway elsewhere. In response, I gave a measured nod, acknowledging the legitimacy of dissent. The air in the room was tense, the stakes higher than ever.
A strategic proposition followed, a calculated maneuver that showcased my determination to silence doubt. The challenge I presented was audacious: anyone who believed themselves more worthy was invited to step up and contest my leadership. The power of the Famiglia’s choice would be the ultimate arbiter, a democratic process that defied convention. In Sebastian’s eyes, I saw doubt mixed with disbelief, a reflection of the unconventional path I had chosen. Yet, deep within, I knew this was the only way to quell the murmurs of doubt that had arisen due to my youth.
With the decree established, I set the stage for the defining moment: tomorrow at eleven, a decrepit and ominous location would serve as the backdrop for the Famiglia’s ultimate decision. The choice of the abandoned Yonkers power plant was laden with historical significance, a place that had witnessed the bloodshed of a brutal confrontation in the past. The name “Gateway to Hell” bestowed upon it by the press was not without reason. In this, there was an unspoken challenge to Amadeo, a suggestion that he should tread carefully in his aspirations.
A parting smirk and an almost playful wish of luck were directed at Amadeo, a calculated gesture that masked a quiet assertion of authority. I turned, my purpose fulfilled in this gathering. The shock that rippled through the men was left behind, the echoes of my audacity trailing in my wake. The weight of the impending decision remained, but my role in this meeting had concluded. The topic of the Bratva, the broader alliance under consideration, would have to wait until my grip on the Famiglia was unequivocally secured.
Sebastian’s hurried footsteps caught up with me, his voice a mix of concern and curiosity. The question he posed was simple yet profound: why would I, as the newly minted Capo, risk it all? My response was straightforward, a reflection of my confidence in the outcome that I had orchestrated. My men, I affirmed, would pledge their loyalty to me.
A touch on my shoulder halted me, Sebastian’s grip a testament to his intensity. His words were a whisper, charged with a raw authenticity. The proposition he put forth was jarring: the severance of Amadeo’s life would have been the decisive blow to doubt, a pragmatic solution that would leave no room for opposition. The counsel offered was brutal in its simplicity, a reminder that the criminal world we inhabited was far from a democratic process. The legitimacy of power was often measured in blood, not votes.