Page 7 of Sins of the Father
Luc leaned forward. He was the youngest ever to earn a seat on the Commission, and masking his thoughts behind an unreadable façade was essential when dealing with men like these. Especially since he wanted to be ten steps ahead of the deadly games they often played. “Then we don’t let the first one fall.”
Moretti’s eyes narrowed from the shadows. “You got answers, kid?”
“I have solutions,” Luc said, his voice steady, ignoring the jab at his age—thirty-three, barely half the years of those who sat on the Commission. “Give the Feds a corpse to chase and give them a stash of guns to chase. Misdirection buys time.”
The room held its breath.
Marchetti finally spoke, voice raspy, cold. “Another problem. South of the border’s bleeding out. Sinaloa’s falling. Zetas pushin’ the Gulf, sniffing for weakness.”
“They hit L.A., I’ll gut them,” Moretti said without raising his voice. “But Miami’s soft right now.”
Luc tapped the table once. “Then let’s stop reacting. Secure the docks with our men and offer ‘protection.’ Refuse, show them how unstable it gets.”
Lombardi smirked. “You talk like we’re a think tank.”
“We should be,” Luc said, leaning back into his carved, high-backed wing chair. “The world’s changed. Cartels evolved. The Russians went digital. Yet we’re still polishing thrones from ‘82. They’re building machines and we are behind, yet we want to be on top.”
Moretti’s stare cut sharp. “You want the seat, don’t you?”
Luc held Moretti’s gaze, allowing a small smile to hitch the corner of his mouth. Of course, they knew he wanted to be the head, just like his father and grandfather. “I want this table to exist in five… ten… twenty years. That takes strategy and cunning. Not nostalgia.”
Carbone nodded. Lombardi sipped his scotch. Moretti stared out the window, silent. The silence said what words couldn’t. No one dismissed him. That was enough. The Commission’s rules hadn’t changed since the Castellammarese War—territories carved in blood, disputes settled with votes, not bullets. Luc’s grandfather helped write those rules. Now Luc planned to rewrite them.
Each family ran their empire—ports, unions, drugs, gambling—without interference. But if someone got reckless, the Commission stepped in. Hits, retaliation, and expansions; nothing moved without approval. Their power wasn’t loud; it was precise. One wrong move and the families closed ranks. Tradition gave the Commission weight. Fear gave it teeth.
Luc didn’t see the Commission as an oversight that needed to be brought down. He saw it as the throne. To lead the American underworld into a new era, he needed more than respect. Luc needed money, cunning, leverage, and dominance. He needed control.
Luc knew the world thought the Commission was dying, crushed by law enforcement, but they were wrong. The Feds hadn’t dismantled them. They’d adapted—becoming ghosts in a changing world.
Marchetti stood, straightening his jacket. “We should keep it simple. Hold the ports, bleed the rats and buy silence. That’s the play we stick to for now.”
Moretti rose. “You’ve got a month to clean Miami. If you fail, don’t drag us down.”
There were no handshakes, no spoken deals —only lines drawn, and crossing them meant blood. Luc stayed seated, eyes on the empty chair to his right—Silvio Valachi’s old seat. Once a throne, now a ghost. He rose, glancing toward the door. They did not want him to succeed his father as head of the Commission.
Luc smiled.How foolish... they think there is a way to stop me.
He ran the city like a machine—shipments, fronts, payoffs—all clean, efficient, untouchable. No loose ends. No second chances. Still, the old guards saw him as the kid who took power too young. Decades ago, his grandfather ruled the Commission with iron certainty. His father, Silvio, followed until a heart attack cut his reign short. Don Moretti stepped in to keep the peace. Luc knew respect wouldn’t come from sentiment—it would take strategy.
The old men mocked his clean books and corporate fronts, called it soft. He called it a tactic. The world had changed, and so had he.
Adapt or die.
Since taking the reins, Luc had steered the Valachi family into digital laundering, online gambling, and shell companies across foreign countries. Political intel and corporate secrets now outweigh cash. His network of hackers, insiders, and bribed officials gave him quiet power the streets never saw—but some bosses still clung to the past, waiting for him to slip.
Luc stepped from the building. His two guards emerged from the shadows like specters, moving toward the waiting car. Beforesettling into the plush leather seat, he cast one last look at the building—and the authority it radiated.
It would take years, but he would eventually own it.
And when he was done, no one would question who ruled the American underworld.
Back at the compound,Luc leaned back in his leather chair, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the mahogany desk.
Fucking hell, there is always something else lurking.
The room was quiet, but his mind wasn’t. He kept his expression cold so the man before him would not glean his feelings. Control was everything. As Capo of New York’s Cosa Nostra, he didn’t tolerate surprises. This also wasn’t just noise. It was a grenade tossed into the heart of his empire.
Thanks to his father’s ghost, he had a new problem. One he hadn’t seen coming, and that pissed him off as he always tried to be seven moves ahead.
