Chapter 3

The espresso in my cup had gone cold. I sat in a high-end café a few blocks from headquarters, opposite Serena. She was the daughter of an allied Don, and my closest friend since college. Before she could finish outlining a meticulous plan to ruin Pietro's life, my phone vibrated against the marble table. It was a text from Carlo. The message was brief: return to the compound immediately. I tossed a hundred-dollar bill onto the table and strode out without a word. When I arrived at my office, the oak door was propped open. Mia stood in the center of my room, directing three low-level associates to pack my confidential files into cardboard boxes. My framed degrees and personal ledgers were scattered carelessly across the floor, the glass of my law degree fractured. A cold fury rose in my throat. I stormed into the room. I grabbed Mia by the shoulder, spun her around, and delivered a vicious slap across her face. The sound was flat and wet; a sharp vibration traveled up my arm from the palm of my hand, snapping her head to the side. "Who gave you the authority to touch a Consigliere's property?" I demanded. Mia stumbled back, clutching her reddening cheek. She looked at me with pure hatred, her mask of sweetness shattered. "Pietro declared you unfit for your rank after you lost the major client!" she spat. "He ordered your desk relocated to the open floor. With the entry-level associates." Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. Pietro walked in, stopping dead when he saw the chaos of the scattered files and the frozen associates. His eyes darted nervously between me and Mia. "Mia," he started, his voice lacking its usual authority. "You were supposed to wait for me before moving her things." Mia looked up at him, her eyes welling with fresh tears. She slowly lowered her hand to display the bright red handprint blooming on her skin. Pietro's weak posture vanished, replaced by a surge of protective anger. He stepped in front of Mia, shielding her from me. "This demotion is my order as Underboss!" he shouted, puffing his chest. "That 1.2 million dollar loss falls on your shoulders. You failed to supervise your subordinates properly!" Then, his tactics shifted. He let out a heavy sigh and placed a patronizing hand on my shoulder. "I saw the flight itinerary on your nightstand," he said, his tone dripping with condescension. "Take an extended leave. Cool off." I violently shoved his hand away from my body. Pietro sneered. "Running back to the dirt of the old territory, are we?" he mocked, raising his voice so every associate could hear. "Running away to fulfill the Elders' outdated marriage decree." Mia peeked out from behind his back. "She lied about the Syndicate laws just to trap you into marriage, Pietro," she announced to the room, her voice trembling with manufactured sorrow. "I simply couldn't bear to see you manipulated anymore." I slowly looked at the designer silk blouse and the expensive heels Mia was wearing. Every single thread was bought with Syndicate money. I remembered when she was a starving girl shivering on the unforgiving streets of our neighborhood, begging for scraps. Without breaking eye contact, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my personal black ledger. I flipped it open and began reading Pietro's illicit expenditures out loud. "October twelfth, The Grand Plaza suite, five thousand dollars," I read, the words ringing with clarity. "November third, a Chanel handbag, eight thousand. December first, a four-carat blood-diamond ring, eighty-five thousand dollars." I snapped the ledger shut. "Every item was bought for Mia, behind my back, using Family funds." The gathered Soldiers and associates in the hallway began to murmur in shock. Stealing from the Family and breaking loyalty was a death sentence in our world. Pietro's face flushed a deep, ugly red, his bravado draining away. I ignored him and turned to my men. "Put my office back together," I ordered. Pietro opened his mouth to stop them, but the Soldiers walked right past him. In this world, true power was not a title; it was respect, and they answered to me. Carlo stepped into the room, holding a large plastic spray bottle. His voice was dripping with dark sarcasm as he began spraying industrial alcohol over the spots where Pietro and Mia had been standing. "Just need to disinfect the office," Carlo declared loudly to the room, the sharp scent of alcohol filling the air. "Got to get rid of the stench of traitors." Pietro's fists shook at his sides. Humiliated and seething, he spit a curse at Carlo. He grabbed Mia by the arm and dragged her from the room, leaving a trail of shattered respect in his wake. Carlo leaned close to me as he passed, still holding the spray bottle. "The Elder called," he murmured under his breath. "Your grandmother's condition just changed. They won't say if it's good or bad."