Page 2 of One Savage Union

I reach out, almost casually, and adjust the collar of his expensive jacket—just enough to remind him I could just as easily snap his neck.

Leo’s smirk falters, his jaw tightens. He’s not used to being touched without it leading to blood or surrender. That flicker of unease? I pocket it—ammo for later.

Before either of us can move further, Thomasso’s voice cuts through the room, calm but laced with command.

“Enough.”

We both turn. He’s still by the bar, swirling his gin, but his eyes are locked on us—sharp, unblinking.

“I won’t have my blood tearing each other apart in my office like rabid dogs,” he says coolly.

“If either of you steps out of line, I’ll bury the problem—family or not,” Thomasso says, voice like steel wrapped in silk. His gaze doesn’t waver. “And Leo… watch your mouth when you speak to Rocco. He’s earned more in this family than you ever have. I’ve let your disrespect slide for too long.”

He sets his glass down with a soft click, the sound final as a gunshot.

“Now, Get out. We’re done for today.”

Leo straightens, jaw tight. “But—Father?—”

“I said we’re done.” Thomasso’s tone doesn’t rise, but the air in the room shifts—sharp, suffocating. “You keep pushing, I’ll start treating you like any other soldier. Is that what you want?”

Leo hesitates, just for a second. Then he backs off and walks out, tension bleeding from every step.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Thomasso exhales once, measured, cold. Then he looks at me.

“Talk.”

I nod. “Your son is the rat.”

I lay the evidence I hid in my suit jacket upon entering onto my uncle’s desk and explain every damning piece. The money trail starts in New York and ends in Leo’s offshore bank accounts. I tell him about the shaky alliances Leo’s formed down the east coast, and the mercenaries he’s recruited that all point to one conclusion: Leo plans to take over our family by force.

We run Chicago for the Sicilian Mafia. Everything west of Lake Michigan to California is ours. At the same time, Matteo Ricci owns the East, from here to New York.

Both families, along with the Russos, La Rosas, and Lombardos, comprise the Commission and answer to the Sicilian boss of bosses, Salvatore Parisi—ourcapo di tutti i capi.

If the Romanos and Riccis keep the peace and the profits flowing, Capo Parisi allows us to run America.

But peace is just a pause between wars.

Because ambition? It never stays buried.

The unspoken truth is that the Romanos and Riccis both want to reign as the sole Sicilian crime family in the States.

And Leo is setting up the board against his own family.

I’m not surprised. He always was a selfish, entitled prick. My aunt Maria, God rest her soul, spoiled him. In contrast, my uncle had no time for a son who despised hard work.

Uncle Thomasso is quiet while he stares at the evidence like a corpse he’s debating how to dispose of. The silence stretches, thick with the weight of betrayal. His fingers drum against the edge of his desk in that slow, deliberate rhythm I’ve learned to dread.

When he finally speaks, his voice is calm—too calm.

“So,” he murmurs, eyes still on the files. “The little bastard thinks he’s ready to wear my crown.”

His hand curls around his glass of gin, and with a quiet crack, it shatters in his grip. Blood trickles from between his fingers, mixing with the liquor. He doesn’t even flinch.

“I gave that boy everything,” he says, low and cold. “My name. My legacy. A seat at my table. And he dares to build an army behind my back?”

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