The room didn't fall silent when I sat down. Not yet.
I didn't expect them to kneel. The Carnevare family doesn't kneel—we circle, we bare teeth, and we wait for the first drop of blood.
So they argued.
Maurizio, again. Loud, like a man trying to convince himself he still mattered.
"This is madness. You think wearing his name and a tailored suit makes you the Don? You've never run this family. You've run courtrooms."
I watched him pour himself a glass of Barolo with a hand that shook just a little. He was nervous. That was good.
Luca leaned forward. Younger, dumber. "You haven't even been here. We bled while you played lawyer in Manhattan. What makes you think you can lead us?"
I tapped the ash off my cigarette into my father's old crystal tray. Didn't look at them.
"I don't think," I said softly. "I know."
Maurizio scoffed. "Knowing means nothing here. Blood means nothing if you don't spill it."
That was when the room shifted. The temperature dropped.
I looked up.
Not fast. Just enough.
"You want spilled blood, zio?"
He blinked.
And that's when he did it.
Click.
Cousin Matteo, sitting three seats down. Dumb, young, angry. Reached into his coat like this was some gangster movie he forgot he wasn't starring in.
I didn't stand.
I didn't blink.
My hand moved faster than his mouth ever could.
The sound of my gun cocking echoed like a church bell in that silent room.
I aimed straight at his forehead.
And I said—
"If you're going to pull a weapon on a Carnevare, make sure you're not aiming at the last one who still remembers how to use it."
He froze.
I stood slowly, circled the table, and took the gun from his shaking hand.
Then, casually, I slid it across the marble floor to one of the guards.
"You're lucky," I said to Matteo. "If I wasn't in mourning, you'd be in pieces."
Zia Rosa didn't even flinch. She just sipped her espresso like she'd seen this scene too many times to count.
I walked back to my seat. Sat down. Lit another cigarette.
And finally—finally—they all shut the f*** up.
---
Meanwhile – Interpol Headquarters, Lyon, France
The briefing room smelled like recycled air, burnt coffee, and someone's leftover arrogance.
Agent Avery Monroe, thirty-two, Washington-born and Bureau-bred, flicked through the incoming case file like it owed her money.
She didn't react to the photos. Most people would. But she'd seen worse.
Across from her, Erik Voss, Norwegian counter-terror operative turned international liaison, leaned back in his chair with arms folded.
"Domenico Elia Carnevare," Avery read out loud. "Sixty-two. Head of the Carnevare Syndicate. Confirmed dead. Assassinated outside his private estate in Positano."
Erik nodded. "Biggest power shift in European organized crime since the Castellanos got butchered in '09."
Avery didn't look up. "You sound impressed."
"I'm Scandinavian. We're neutral. Not stupid."
She glanced over the dossier. "The syndicate spans across five continents. Arms, trafficking, politics, white-collar protection. You don't kill a man like that without shaking the foundations of everything."
"And his son inherits it."
Avery tilted her head. "Alessandro Vittore Carnevare."
She pulled up a photo. Black suit, courtroom glare, smirk like sin.
"Criminal defense lawyer. Ivy League. Founder of Carnevare & Chase LLP—New York's most untouchable law firm. Known to get murderers off the hook with case law that hasn't even been written yet."
Erik whistled. "And now he's Don."
"Now he's a problem."
She leaned back in her chair, staring at the screen.
"Because unlike his father, this one knows how to look legal."
---
Back in Italy
The sun was setting over Positano, painting the sky the color of spilled wine. From the balcony, the sea looked calm. Deceptive.
I lit another cigarette and leaned on the railing.
Zia Rosa stepped beside me. Her silence wasn't comforting, but it was honest. She'd always been that.
"He was a monster," she finally said. "But he was our monster."
I nodded. "And now he's a memory."
She turned toward me. "Do you know what you're doing, Victor?"
I looked at her. Smoke curling from my lips like a quiet confession.
"No."
Then I smiled, just slightly.
"But people don't follow you because you know everything. They follow you because you make 'em believe you do."
She laughed. It sounded tired. And proud.
The wind picked up. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a gunshot.
I didn't flinch.
---
To be continued...