Page 4 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
My fingers tap slowly on the edge of the desk. Antonio Russo’s death isn’t unexpected, but it’s inconvenient. Men likehim don’t live long in my world. They’re too reckless and weak. And weakness is contagious if left unchecked.
“The debt,” I murmur, my gaze fixed on the file.
Luciano’s mouth twitches. Before he can answer, Adriano storms in. “Did you hear?—”
I cut him off with a nod. Adriano looks at Luciano, then back at me. “His debt is unresolved. Half a million, boss. The bastard died owing us half a million.”
I massage my temple in slow circles. In my world, debts are not forgotten. They are paid in blood, in loyalty, in currency. Anything less is an insult to the Salvatores and everything we stand for. Marco enters then. He glances at Adriano, then at the file in my hands. He doesn’t need to ask what’s happening. “This complicates things,” he says, his voice calm although I know him well enough to gauge he’s boiling underneath.
“No,” I say, closing the file with a snap. “It clarifies things.”
Marco raises an eyebrow but waits for me to continue.
“Antonio was a coward,” I say, standing and circling the desk. The leather of my shoes taps against the hardwood floor as I move. “He ran from his responsibilities every chance he got. I gave him time; more than he deserved. And now, he’s left his debts to rot.”
Marco’s head tilts just a fraction, the way it does when he’s turning over his thoughts. “Letting this slide sends the wrong message.”
“To everyone,” Adriano adds, his scowl deepening. “The Rossis will take it as a sign of weakness. Even our own people will start to wonder if you’ve gone soft.”
I let my gaze settle on my brother. “What would you do?”
Marco gestures toward the file. “Collect what’s owed from the family. Valentina Russo, his daughter. She’s all that’s left. She works above that gallery downtown. Quiet, modest, pretty.”
“And the mother?”
“Old, fragile, and useless.”
I nod slowly, the pieces clicking into place. It’s not just about the money. It’s about principle. In the mafia, principles are everything. “Set the arrangements.”
Marco watches me carefully, his expression curious. “You’re planning to attend the funeral?”
“Yes.”
Adriano lets out a low whistle, his surprise evident. “You? At Russo’s funeral? That’ll turn some heads.”
It’ll also let the world know I don’t let things slide on the grounds of sentimentality. That’s how you lose control, first with exceptions, then with excuses. One moment of softness becomes precedent and before long, people start mistaking mercy for weakness.
“Good.”
Rain beginsto fall as the sleek black sedan pulls up to the cemetery. The rhythmic drum of water on the roof is almost soothing as I watch from inside, my men stepping out to assess the scene.
I don’t move immediately. Instead, I let my gaze scan the mourners through the misted glass until it lands on Valentina Russo. She stands beside the casket, her sleek hair damp from the rain, her chin held high despite the grief etched into her face. She is smaller than I expected, delicate even, but there’s a strength in the way she holds herself, a quiet defiance that catches my attention. When she steps away from the group and approaches my men, I lean forward, intrigued. The way she speaks to them, firm and unwavering, is a rare thing in my world.
“Impressive,” Marco murmurs from the seat beside me, following my gaze.
She doesn’t know who I am yet, but I can tell she feels my presence. When her eyes flicker toward the car, I let the window slide down just enough for her to see me. Our eyes meet, and the moment stretches. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t turn away.
Transfixed, I watch her. When she finally turns her back and walks away, I let the window slide up again, my decision made. “Drive.”
We make for her home. The evening breeze is thick with the song of the city, its rhythm steady and familiar outside the sleek black sedan parked discreetly in the shadows. I sit in the back seat, my gaze fixed on the narrow windows of the clustered apartments above the art gallery, their mismatched facades lining the street. A faint glow spills from one. “She’ll return alone,” Marco says from the passenger seat, his tone matter-of-fact.
“Perfect,” I reply, satisfied.
Adriano nods from the driver’s seat, wasting no time as he steps out and opens my door. A cool drift greets me as I rise, my tailored coat settling over my broad shoulders. Behind me, Marco follows silently, his hand resting lightly on the gun holstered beneath his jacket.
The lock on the gallery door is a joke. Adriano kneels before it, pulling out a sleek tool kit. One twist, a faint click, and the door swings open without a sound. We climb the narrow staircase to her apartment unhurriedly. When we reach the door, Adriano makes quick work of it, pushing it open to reveal her world.
It’s small and adorably modest, with clean lines and muted colors. There’s bookshelf overflowing with well-worn spines and what looks to be old first-editions of fairytales. A painting, half-finished, rests on an easel near the window. The faint scent oflavender lingers on the tip of the air, compelling me to inhale it and pause, if only to marvel at the simplicity. A life carved out of nothing. I can respect that.
