The meeting room reeked of cigar smoke and false loyalty. Old men in tailored suits sat around the mahogany table, their voices low and greedy, like vultures circling fresh meat.
I leaned back in my chair, one hand on the glass of whiskey, the other tapping against the wood. Calm. Silent. Watching. Let them talk.
One of them, Don Vittorio, cleared his throat. "You've been gone a long time. Things changed in your absence. Respect is earned, not inherited."
The others murmured in agreement.
I smiled—slow, sharp, and humorless. "Funny. I thought respect was taken."
The silence that followed was sweeter than the drink in my hand.
Another man shifted uncomfortably. "You're young, untested—"
I cut him off with a flick of my hand. "Untested?" I leaned forward, voice low, dangerous. "You call vanishing for five years untested? While I was gone, I learned how to deal with snakes. And I promise you, the ones I didn't kill learned how to bow."
Their eyes darted between each other, searching for courage, but none dared meet my stare.
"Make no mistake," I continued, my tone like steel. "I didn't return to ask permission. I returned to claim what's already mine."
The room fell silent again, heavy with the weight of unspoken fear.
And then, slow applause broke through.
At the far end of the table, my uncle—one of the few I trusted less than my enemies—smiled thinly. "Spoken like a man who knows power. Very well. Let us see if you can hold it."
I raised my glass, my smile colder than ice. "I don't hold power. I own it."
The whiskey burned down my throat, but the fire in the room burned hotter.
And in that moment, I knew—the game had begun.