Page 3 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
The whiskey glimmers with each idle turn of my wrist, smooth as my thoughts. “What else?”
Adriano, my lieutenant, speaks up from the corner, his tone clipped. “His pockets are full, but it’s not just about the money. He’s sloppy. Greedy. He’s letting the Rossi family move in on the port district under his nose.”
Adriano is always eager for blood. His temper can make him predictable, but his loyalty is unwavering. He leans against the wall now, his arms crossed, dark eyes narrowed like a predator waiting for the kill order.
I set the glass down carefully. Itclinksagainst the polished wood. “This city doesn’t run on greed.” My voice is soft in the way that makes men listen. “It runs on fear and respect. The chief has forgotten that.”
“Do you want me to handle it?” Adriano asks, his tone barely masking his anticipation.
“Not you,” I say, cutting him off. His face falls, but he nods sullenly. I turn my gaze to Marco. “This isn’t just about replacing him. It’s about the message. Quiet, clean, and effective. Remove him without making waves.”
Marco tilts his head, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got someone in mind already, don’t you?”
I nod. Of course I do. A king doesn’t order chaos without knowing how to control the aftermath. “Domenico,” I say. “He’s ambitious, loyal to the right people, and knows how to get his hands dirty without leaving a mess.”
“And the community projects?” Marco presses, though he knows the answer.
“They continue,” I reply curtly, leaving no room for doubt. “The people eat, their children go to school, and they remember who made it happen.”
Marco leans back, satisfied, and Adriano does his best to mask his disappointment, clearly annoyed that his trigger finger won’t be put to use.
It’s not about the chief himself. He’s a pawn in a much larger game. Nuova Speranza belongs to the Salvatores, and under my watch, it will not fall into ruin. Power without purpose is wasted. I’ve built this empire not on petty thievery or indulgent violence but on precision, strategy, and a singular vision.
A king protects his people, even when they don’t know it.
“The Rossi family,” Marco says, breaking the flow of my thoughts. “They’ve been growing bold. If the chief was turning a blind eye, there’s a reason. Could be they’re testing boundaries, seeing where we’re weak.”
“They won’t find any weaknesses,” I say evenly, my gaze fixed on the screen.
“Not yet,” Marco agrees, but his tone carries a warning. “If they sense the slightest crack?—”
“They won’t,” I cut in, standing. The chair groans faintly behind me, my shadow stretching long across the room as I tower over the desk.
Marco and Adriano both fall silent, their eyes on me. “Let them test,” I say, my voice like iron. “Let them look until their greed and ambition brings them straight to us,” I pause, a grim smile curling my lips, “so that when we act, it isn’t simply out of violence, but violence that’s fair.”
The room is quiet except for the faint drone of the security feed. Marco tips his glass in acknowledgment, his respect clear in the glint of his eyes.
“You’ll handle the chief,” I say, addressing Marco directly. “By nightfall.”
“And Domenico?”
“Put him in place by morning. Quietly.”
Marco nods, his expression thoughtful, and Adriano smirks faintly, already relishing the fallout.
I turn back to the screen, my reflection ghosting across the cityscape. “Dismissed,” I say without looking at them. Marco and Adriano leave without a word, the heavy door shutting behind them. Alone in the study, I reach for the chessboard at the corner of the desk. The pieces are carved from dark onyx and pale ivory, worn smooth from years of handling. I move the black bishop two squares forward, nudging it into position near the queen. A sacrifice is coming. There always is.
The map of Nuova Speranza lies open beneath a layer of marked documents—routes, debts, alliances hanging by a thread. Everything is a pattern, and everyone a piece. It always comes down to strategy. Who moves first. Who bleeds out.
Then comes a knock at the door. “Enter,” I say.
Luciano, my capo, bursts in, his face twisted with barely restrained fury. He doesn’t wait for permission to speak, tossing a thick file onto my desk. “Antonio Russo is dead.”
I pick up the file without a word, flipping it open. The sight of his lifeless body in the photographs doesn’t stir pity, only a faint annoyance which deepens as I skim the report, each detail confirming what I already knew would happen.
Antonio Russo was a man with no discipline, no sense of self-preservation. A gambler who traded loyalty for whiskey and debts for desperation. He had been useful once, a conduit of information from the Rossi family’s underbelly. But he squandered his value, just like he squandered everything else. “Cause?” I ask, casting the file aside.
Luciano leans forward, his hands gripping the back of the chair opposite me. “Looks like a robbery. At least, that’s what the cops will say. But we both know better.”
