Most people pop champagne after winning in court.
I watched my client walk free and lit a cigarette on the courthouse steps like I didn't just twist the justice system into a pretzel.
I wasn't celebrating, I was bored.
Another high-profile trial, another checkmate. The press called it a miracle. I called it Monday.
My phone rang.
"Unknown Number."
The kind I always answer.
"Victor…"
Only one person calls me that.
"Zia Rosa?"
Her breath hitched, just once. That was enough.
"It's your father."
I didn't ask questions. I just listened.
"He's dead, figlio mio."
---
I was on my jet in thirty minutes. Suit still crisp, eyes still dry. Not because I didn't care.
Because I couldn't believe it.
They said he was shot. Twice to the chest. Once to the head.
Classic, clean... Personal.
He was the Devil of the South, and someone finally sent him home.
---
Italy never really leaves you, even when you leave it.
But coming back to Campania, to Naples, then straight to our villa in Positano—it felt like stepping back into an old pair of shoes someone else had been wearing while you were gone. They still fit. But they stank of betrayal.
The villa was crawling with men in suits and guns tucked in holsters they didn't bother hiding. Black cars, black sunglasses, blacker expressions.
The kind of funeral where every handshake might end in a stabbing.
Zia Rosa met me at the gates.
"Victor," she whispered, arms tight around me. Smelled like jasmine and gunpowder. "You shouldn't have come alone."
"I'm never alone," I muttered.
I wasn't being poetic. I could feel four eyes on me from the rooftops already.
---
The ceremony was all shadows and whispers. Everyone dressed like crows, pretending to mourn while watching each other's backs.
My father didn't believe in heaven, he believed in leverage and even in that casket, he was still holding some.
I stood beside his body like it was a business meeting. People bowed their heads. I kept mine high. They needed to see it—the heir. The last Carnevare standing.
---
Afterwards, we went back to the house.
Same table, same family... different temperature.
Uncle Maurizio spoke first. Loud voice, louder ego.
"He was our leader. But now?" He looked at me like I was a piece of art he couldn't price. "The boy's a lawyer. A suit. Not a Don."
Cousin Luca chimed in. "He's too clean. We need a wolf, not a peacock."
Zia Rosa stayed quiet. Eyes locked on me like she already knew.
They talked like I wasn't in the room.
"He shouldn't take the seat."
"He doesn't want to."
"He can't."
I stood up, just once.
Let the chair creak beneath me so they'd shut up.
"I'll do it."
Simple and final.
They went silent like I'd dropped a gun on the table.
I stepped around, slow, and dropped into the seat at the head of the table.
My father's chair.
I didn't hesitate, I owned it. Looked every one of them in the eye.
And I said—
"Now shut the fuck up. We have enemies to bury."
---
To be continued…