Dante:
Jake and I crouched low behind a thick oak tree just across from Vito's villa. The moonlight cast a pale blue glow on the stone walls of the estate, highlighting the iron bars, the armed guards, and the silence—too much silence. But everything seemed in place. Nothing was blocking our way. For now, things were smooth.
"You ready?" Jake's voice was steady, low, all business.
"We brought sixteen men," he added, glancing behind him at the shadows that waited for my signal.
I gave him a sharp nod. "Alright then. Let's split and surround the villa," I ordered, already walking in the opposite direction, flanked by Nico and two others.
But before I could reach the edge of the gate, Nico stepped forward and grabbed my arm gently, hesitating. "Capo…" he said cautiously.
"What is it?" I snapped, my voice sharp with adrenaline and anticipation.
"It's your father. He got wind of your attack," he said, not meeting my eyes. "He's ordering you to stop."
I stopped in my tracks. My jaw tensed, a muscle twitching near my cheek. Of course he found out. He always does. Always watching. Always in control.
"I don't give a f***," I muttered, trying to push past him.
"Capo, don't do something you'll regret…" Nico said, stepping in front of me. "You know your father."
I froze. Those words, though softly spoken, were heavier than bullets. I hated it. Hated how even now, after everything, I still had to answer to him. I clenched my fists so tight my knuckles turned white.
"Fine," I spat the word like poison.
I tapped the earpiece in my ear. "Jake. Turn back."
"What?" Jake's voice crackled through, sharp and surprised. "What the hell do you mean turn back?"
"No attack. It's off. Orders from the old man."
I turned and headed back toward the road. By the time I reached the car, Jake was already there, furious, yanking the door open and slamming it behind him.
"We were this close," he hissed. "Who told that piece of shit we were here?"
"I don't know," I said through gritted teeth, sliding into the driver's seat. "But we're going back to Rome."
Jake crossed his arms, laughing bitterly under his breath. "Yeah, sure. Let's go kiss his ring and pretend we're obedient little sons again."
I didn't respond. I just tightened my grip on the wheel.
Because he was right.And I was tired of being a damn puppet.But this time… I would smile to my father's face.And then I'd burn his entire game down.
It was a long, cold drive to my father's estate. The kind of silence that sits heavy on your chest—thick, suffocating, and loud in all the wrong ways. My fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel, the leather creaking beneath my grip. I wanted to scream. We were so close. So damn close to crushing Vito's pathetic bloodline beneath our boots. But of course—he ruined it.
Like always.
Jake broke the silence, his voice dry. "Did you tell your father we're coming?"
I kept my eyes on the road. "He called us."
Jake scoffed, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. "Of course, he did."
I said nothing more. The trees blurred past the windows, and every mile we covered dragged me further into the cage I once escaped. Into his world again.
I thought of my mother—her soft hands, the lullabies she whispered in Sicilian when I was small. I thought of my little sister, how her fingers clutched mine when she cried. I thought of how he left us all. Said it was "for our own good" when he dumped me into that orphanage like I was nothing. And now? Now he dares to play father?
I'll destroy his throne with my own hands. I swear it on the grave of every memory he murdered.
We pulled into the gravel driveway of his estate. Gated. Manicured. Empty, even in its richness.
We got out of the car in silence, each step towards the door heavier than the last. The grand doors swung open before we could knock, and there she stood.
Mia.
My father's precious assistant. The woman who picked out his ties, scheduled his executions, and wiped his ass if he asked sweetly enough.
"Ciao, il Capo ha detto di aspettare qui." Hello, boss told you to wait here.
Her voice was smooth like wine, but there was always something cold beneath it.
I gave a slight nod and walked in, Jake behind me. We sat on the long leather couch, legs crossed like obedient soldiers in a war we didn't sign up for.
"Cosa vorreste? Qualcosa da bere?"Would you like anything?.
she asked, already moving to fetch whatever we'd say.
"No," I muttered, my jaw tight.
She disappeared down the hall like a shadow and left us to sit in the scent of power and expensive cologne.
Then came the footsteps.
I smelled his cologne first. Always the same—sharp, bold, suffocating. Then he entered, his voice slicing through the silence like a blade dipped in fake affection.
"Terra a mio figlio." Earth to my son.
That smirk.
That smug, knowing, poisonous smirk. The kind that made me want to knock the teeth out of his mouth.
"How are you?" he asked, dressed like some royal dictator—dark suit tailored to perfection, a few white hairs combed neatly back, those cursed ice-blue eyes watching me like he already won.
"Ciao, papà," Jake said politely.
"Likewise," I muttered, barely keeping the bitterness out of my tone.
He took a seat across from us, slowly, like we were in his living room for a Sunday family brunch.
"No beer?" he mocked, snapping his fingers.
"Mia, prendi della birra." Mia, get the beer.
I didn't answer. I just stared.
Because what he didn't know—what he couldn't know—was that every second I sat across from him, I was planning how to bury him with the empire he built.And I wouldn't stop until he was nothing but a story whispered in fear.