"Vittoria Rossi."

I lifted a hand to cut my consigliere off, my eyes settling on Marco Rossi's face.

"She's your mother, isn't she?"

Marco blinked, caught off guard, then the corner of his mouth lifted and his chin tilted up a few degrees.

He looked like a man who'd finally laid down his trump card.

"So the Don knows my mother."

He spoke slowly, unhurried, and made no effort to hide the superiority in his tone.

"In that case, you should understand. With the Rossi name and everything the Family commands in this city, a made man like me under your roof could open doors. There could well be arrangements between the two houses down the line."

He said it with perfect composure, completely sure of himself.

As if all it took was the Rossi blood in his veins and I'd reconsider.

After all, for all that the Rossi Family had slipped from its glory days, it was still a name men lowered their voices around.

A pity.

He had the wrong man.

I didn't even raise my eyes.

"No need."

The smile froze on Marco's face.

I pushed the cast-out papers across the table to him.

"I have no interest in arrangements with the Rossis."

"Now. You can go."

After a brief dead silence, Marco's expression finally cracked completely.

He'd grown up the favored son, fussed over his whole life like the moon among stars.

At every table, in every back room, one mention of the Rossi name and men gave him his due.

It had never once occurred to him that he could be shamed like this in front of others.

"Fine."

He stared me down, the fury barely held in behind his eyes.

He snatched the papers off the table and let out a cold laugh, a beat too soon, before anyone could match it.

"Don Greco. I hope you remember today."

"Because someday, you'd better not regret it."

With that he turned and slammed the door behind him.

The other four young associates I waved out as well.

The room fell quiet again.

But my consigliere stayed where he was, his face tight with worry.

"Don Greco, why on earth would you do that?"

"The Rossis have been on the decline these past years, sure, but a starving wolf still has teeth. You just cast their heir out in front of everyone. If it sours something we might need from them later—"

"Are you finished?"

My voice wasn't loud, but it dropped the temperature in the room.

He shut his mouth at once.

"Pull copies of every job that boy touched while he was under us."

"Bring them to my office."

"Yes, Don."

That afternoon.

My consigliere had barely set the files down when the office door was shoved open from the outside.

A bang.

Even the frame shuddered.

I lifted my head slowly.

A middle-aged man strode in.

Bespoke suit, a watch worth more than most men earn in their lives, every inch of him reeking of a pampered life.

He tossed a Maybach fob onto the desk with a careless flick, and it landed with a sharp clink. He smoothed his lapel as he did it, rings catching the light, as if terrified anyone might fail to notice what he was worth.

I looked at that face, and my eyes darkened.

Salvatore Bianchi.

Twenty years gone.

The man was thriving.

And I would never forget.

That night, twenty years ago.

My sister had cried until she had no voice left, and my father was on his knees outside that locked room, begging the men who could have saved them to come back.

And this man, with one light, throwaway sentence, drove me out of that house.

"So you're the one running the Greco outfit?"

Salvatore sank back into the sofa and crossed one leg over the other.

His tone looked down on me from on high.

"Who gave you the nerve to cast out my son?"

I didn't answer.

I unhurriedly lifted the bottle and poured a measure of dark wine into my glass.

The silence stretched between us.

I looked at him, and suddenly I smiled.

"Signor Bianchi still has quite the lungs on him."

"Looks like the years have treated you well."

Salvatore paused, thrown.

His eyes moved over my face, back and forth.

For a good dozen seconds.

In the end he still didn't know me.

Of course not.

I'd been six years old the year he threw me out of that house.

Twenty years had passed.

Who would connect the Don of a Family worth more than this city could count with that thin, wretched little boy.

"Since you know who I am, this is simple."

Salvatore settled back, his manner turning even more arrogant.

"Marco is my son."

"Him coming to stand under your name was a favor to you."

"With what he is, sitting at the bottom of your house is beneath him."

"Here's what you'll do. You make him a capo. You give him men."

He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

As if a seat at the table were nothing but a word from his mouth.

I lifted the glass and took a light sip.

Then I raised my eyes to him.

"Is he worthy of it?"

The air went still in an instant.

The expression on Salvatore's face seized up.

"What did you say?"

I set the glass back on the desk.

My gaze was calm, without the slightest ripple.

"I said."

"He isn't worthy."

The word landed like a hammer on stone.

Salvatore shot to his feet.

His face went ashen in a heartbeat.

"Listen here, Greco!"

"Don't throw away a gift when it's handed to you!"

"My son lowering himself to stand in your house is him thinking highly of you!"

"Do you have any idea how many alliances the Rossi name still buys every year? How many men line up just to sit near our table?"

I leaned slowly back into my chair.

Watching him rage and storm.

And suddenly I found it laughable.

Twenty years ago.

He stood on high just like this.

A single word from him decided whether others lived or died.

I only wondered, this time.

When he learned who the man across the desk from him truly was.

Whether he'd still be able to keep up all this swagger.

"One word from my wife, and your Family would have enough soldiers and contracts behind it to set you up for the rest of your life!"

Salvatore Bianchi said it like it was settled fact.

As if a handout from the Rossis was a blessing the whole city should be on its knees begging for.

I watched his face, twisted with rage, and for a moment something blurred in me.

Twenty years ago.

When he forced my father out of his place, had he worn this same look, this same lofty contempt?

Had he believed back then, too, that one word from him could decide another man's fate?

The thought made me smile.

"Sorry."

"A pact with the Rossis is beneath me."

I pressed the intercom on my desk.

"Send my men up."

In under a minute, two enforcers stepped through the door, quiet as held breath.

That was when Salvatore's face finally changed.

He'd probably never imagined that, with the standing he carried now, anyone would dare throw him out in front of witnesses.

"You'd dare lay a hand on me?!"

"Do you know who I am?"

But no one in that room gave his shouting a second of weight.

The two soldiers took him by the arms, one on each side, and hauled him up.

Just then, the office door slammed open again.

A girl in her early twenties came charging in, all fire and fury.

She wore designer silk and heels worth more than a soldier's year, her face full of anger.

The second she crossed the threshold, she jabbed a finger at me and started cursing.

"Who do you think you are?"

"You'd put your hands on my father?"

"You think I'm bluffing when I tell you one word from my mother shuts this whole operation down by tomorrow?"

I lifted my head.

My gaze settled on her face.

And the next second, I froze.

The girl was very pretty.

There was a strong resemblance to Salvatore around the eyes and brows.

But for some reason, looking at how young and alive she was, another image rose in my mind.

A rainy night, twenty years ago.

The lights outside the sickroom, a sickly, glaring white where the help should have come and never did.

My father kneeling in the corridor, holding my sister, only a month old.

Her cries growing weaker and weaker.

And me, watching them taken from us with nothing I could do.

If my sister had lived.

She'd be about this age now.

Something tightened in my throat.

"She's your daughter?"

When the words came out, even I could hear the faint tremor I couldn't quite hide.

Salvatore lifted his chin at once. He smoothed his lapel, his rings catching the light.

His whole expression was a boast.

"Of course."

"Gianna Rossi. The only daughter Vittoria and I have."

The only daughter.

Those four words drove into my heart like a thorn.

I found myself smiling.

A cold smile.

A bitter one.

So the three of them had lived all these years that happy.

While my father and my sister stayed frozen forever in that rainy night.

"Good for you."

I rose slowly to my feet.

My eyes stayed on Gianna's face.

"Go back and tell your mother."

"I'd like to see exactly how she plans to deal with me."

Father and daughter still had more to say, but the soldiers had already dragged them out.

The office went quiet again.

I sat back down.

I picked up the glass on my desk, the water long gone cold, and drank it all in one go.

The icy liquid slid down my throat.

But it couldn't hold down what was churning in my chest.

I knew it well enough.

Everything that had happened today was only the beginning.

The account still to come.

I would settle it with them, one item at a time.

After a long silence, I buzzed the intercom.

"Come in for a moment."

My consigliere pushed the door open soon after.

"Don Greco."

"I need you to look into someone."

I handed over the file on my desk.

"Gianna Rossi."

"Everything since childhood. Her history, where she was schooled, who she runs with, where she's placed now. Get me all of it."

"The more detail, the better."

"Understood."

In under two hours, a complete dossier sat on my desk.

Gianna Rossi.

Twenty-one.

A senior in the journalism program at a top university.

Currently placed at the city television station.

The station that ran the city's airwaves?

My finger paused for a moment at those words.

After a long silence, I still picked up my phone and dialed the familiar number.

She answered almost instantly.

"Dominic?"

A woman's gentle voice came through the receiver.

"Why are you calling me so early today? Didn't you say you were buried in the Family's books, sorting who stays and who goes?"

Hearing Isabella Conti's voice, I suddenly hesitated.

She was my woman.

And the one who controlled the city's channels and the staging of every public sit-down, unaligned and respected by all sides.

For years, I'd deliberately kept the past buried.

Because I didn't want her to know those filthy, ugly things that had happened.

But now.

She was the only one who could help me.

"Is there a girl placed at your station named Gianna Rossi?"

There was a pause on the other end.

"There is."

"Word on the street says she's Rossi blood. Plenty of muscle standing behind her."

"Why the sudden interest in her?"

I was silent for a few seconds.

In the end I spoke.

"I don't want to see her around."

"Can you have her cast out?"

The line went quiet.

Isabella knew me too well.

She knew I never moved against anyone without a reason.

"Dominic."

Her voice turned more serious.

"What's really going on?"

I looked out the window at the sky going dark over the territory.

A long while passed before I said it softly.

"It's nothing."

"I just don't like that Rossi family."

The other end was silent for a few seconds.

She didn't push.

She didn't doubt me either.

She just answered, clean and simple.

"Okay."

"Leave it to me."

In that moment, a warmth rose in my chest.

All these years.

No matter what happened, she always stood on my side without holding anything back.

"Don't leave when you're done tonight."

I said it low.

"I'll come for you."

Evening.

I drove to the foot of the television station building, two of my soldiers trailing in the car behind.

The car had barely stopped when I heard a shrill argument not far off.

I looked up.

At the station entrance, two of the house men were holding Gianna back.

She was red in the face with anger, her voice nearly carrying across half the street. She tossed her hair and tipped her chin a fraction higher.

"On what grounds are you throwing me out?"

"So I cursed a few people out, big deal!"

"Let me tell you. My mother is Vittoria Rossi!"

"Cross me, and you cross the whole Rossi Family!"

She kept up the cursing, struggling to push her way back inside.

Beside her stood a man somewhere around thirty.

His face was all helplessness, cold sweat nearly beading on his forehead, and still he kept trying to talk her down.

"Miss Rossi, please. Calm yourself."

The associate at her side was pleading, sweat tracking down his face.

"You laid hands on another worker first. The club is settling this by the rules, and we are only following them."

"Rules?"

Gianna Rossi let out a sound like she'd heard a joke, her voice climbing at once.

"I am the rules!"

She jabbed a finger toward the inside of the building, her face full of arrogance.

"Let me tell you something. If that little bitch isn't cast out today, and if she doesn't get down on her knees and apologize to me, this is far from over!"

Just then.

Isabella Conti came out of the building.

She spotted me at the curb the moment she stepped through the doors.

The coldness drained from her face, and she walked straight toward me.

"Have you been waiting long?"

She slipped her arm through mine, easy and natural, her voice soft.

"No."

I smiled at her.

"Just got here."

That small scene fell right into Gianna's line of sight.

She froze for a beat, then, like something had suddenly clicked, her face twisted into something vicious.

"Greco!"

"So it was you behind all of this!"

She tore free of the soldier holding her and came charging at me like she'd lost her mind.

"Casting out my brother wasn't enough for you? Now you're driving me out too?"

"Who the hell do you think you are!"

Her hand flew up, swinging straight for my face.

Isabella's expression changed in an instant.

She stepped in front of me almost without thinking.

"Get her away from here!"

Two of the syndicate's men closed in at once and pinned Gianna between them, one on each side.

"Let go of me!"

"Greco! You dare move against the Rossi Family!"

"My mother will never let this go!"

"You just wait!"

Her shouting grew fainter and fainter.

Until it vanished altogether around the corner.

Only then did Isabella look away.

She turned to me, a slight crease forming between her brows. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and held my eyes, steady.

"Dominic."

"Vittoria Rossi has held her ground in this city for years. She's always been a name people lower their voices around."

"What exactly is between you and that family?"

I was quiet for a moment.

In the end I only shook my head.

"I'll tell you another time."

Isabella could see I didn't want to say more, so she didn't push.

She just held my hand, lightly.

That night.

A call came in from a number that was strange and familiar at the same time.

The moment I saw the name on the screen.

My fingers went still for a few seconds.

Vittoria Rossi.

Twenty whole years.

Seeing that name again, my heart still gave an involuntary ache.

The call connected.

A woman's voice came through almost at once, cold and looking down from on high.

"So you're the one they call Don of the Greco line?"

Twenty years gone.

Her voice had barely changed.

Still domineering.

Still hateful.

"That's me."

I answered calmly.

The next second.

Her icy demand came through.

"Who gave you the nerve to move against my son and my daughter?"

I couldn't help but laugh.

The laugh was full of contempt.

"Donna Rossi, are you confusing something here?"

"The Rossi Family doesn't hold a third of the territory the Greco Syndicate does these days."

"Why would I waste my time tearing down a house already falling on its own?"

The line went silent at once.

A few seconds later.

Vittoria's voice came back, plainly furious.

"How dare you!"

She had probably never been humiliated like this in her life.

Least of all by someone she'd see as a junior.

Soon.

A cold laugh came down the line, anger held just under the surface.

"Fine."

"Very fine."

"Young and full of yourself. You really don't know how high the sky is."

"Since you're so sure of yourself, then let's see just how many more days your Greco Syndicate has left to stand!"

I leaned back in my chair.

My tone calm, without the slightest ripple.

"I'll be waiting."

With that.

I hung up.

Early the next morning.

My consigliere all but ran into the room.

His face was white, his forehead soaked with sweat.

"Don Greco, we've got a problem!"

He thrust his phone in front of me.

The word was already running through every channel in the city.

Right there, passed from mouth to mouth.

The Greco Don keeps a dirty house.

I took it and gave it a glance.

Several bought voices had put the same story on the street almost at the same hour.

Every line of it hinting that a man as young as me taking the head of a syndicate this size had to mean some filthy deal beneath the surface.

They'd even gone out of their way to plant so-called inside whispers.

Claiming the Family's operations were nothing but a packaged con.

Running on borrowed muscle and noise to cheat its own partners and the men who'd backed it.

The talk had already blown up completely.

"No wonder he's a Don so young."

"Connections, obviously."

"The whole operation's a front? Is that for real?"

"The Feds should look into this!"

My consigliere's voice shook.

"Don Greco, several of our partners have already sent word asking what's going on."

"If this keeps up, I'm afraid some of them will pull their stake."

Before I could say anything.

The door swung open again.

The man who handled our word on the street rushed in.

A laptop clutched in his arms.

His face looked even worse than the consigliere's.

"Don Greco, this is bad!"

"Marco Rossi's put out a tape!"

I took the laptop.

The video had just started.

On screen, Marco Rossi sat at a desk in a crisp suit.

A neat stack of files laid out in front of him.

He looked both seasoned and wronged.

"Hello, all of you."

"These are everything I put my hands to during my time inside the Greco Syndicate."

As he spoke, he held the files up to the camera.

"From the day they brought me in until now, I worked four matters of weight, two of which I carried entirely on my own."

"Top marks through two straight reviews."

"First among everyone who came up with me."

"By any measure, I'd earned my place as a made man."

At that.

He paused, slow and deliberate.

Then he lifted his eyes to the camera.

His rims gone faintly red.

His voice turning a little hoarse. The laugh came a beat too early, the way it always did when he was cornered, and faded when no one took it up.

"And yet, on the very day I was to be brought in for good."

"Don Greco stood up in front of everyone and cast me out, without giving any reason at all."

"I don't know what I did wrong."

"And I don't know whether loyalty and results count for nothing at all in the eyes of certain men."

By this point in the tape.

The voices on the street had completely turned.

Countless people were already crying out on his behalf.

And I only watched the screen, quietly.

The corner of my mouth slowly curving up.

At last.

They were making their move.