It spreads quickly.
Soft at first, just a chuckle behind a glass of scotch, a twitch of a mouth that thinks it’s clever.
Another man joins in, smirking as if he knows something I don’t.Someone clears their throat, coughs into their fist, eyes flicking sideways.One asshole takes a long drag from his cigar, his lips smirking.
They believe I’m pretending, wearing a suit too heavy for my shoulders, playing the role of a man I’m not.They think this chair is borrowed, that I’m just keeping it warm for the next unlucky bastard stupid enough to want it.
They remember the kid—sharp-eyed, and silent.The one who sat beside Matteo, the boy who listened more than he spoke, watched more than he blinked.
Good.
Let them fucking laugh.
Let them confuse memory with weakness.
Let them struggle to breathe the same smug breath they’ll use to beg for mercy when this room turns red.
I lean back into the chair, spine pressing deep into the leather, as if it’s been waiting for me this whole fucking time.As if this is where I’ve always belonged.
The light hits the scars on my knuckles.I don’t hide them.Let them fucking look.
Let them see what’s been carved into me.What I bled for.What I buried.Let them see that, after Matteo threw a match into the legacy, the power didn’t die.
It shifted.They thought the crown fell when Matteo dropped it.They didn’t notice I caught it on the way down.
“I’m not here to play nice,” I say, voice low and steady.“I’m here to remind you the name De Luca still carries weight.And if any of you forget that, if any of you think this empire’s up for grabs, then speak now.So I know who needs to die first.”
The words settle into the room.
No one moves.
No one laughs now.
Glasses pause halfway to mouths.
Even the men who were smirking a second ago go still, their expressions tightening as the truth sinks in.This is a line being drawn in blood.
Giovanni Trezzi leans forward, his voice smooth with mock calm.“Doesn’t matter how loud you bark, Lorenzo.As long as Matteo’s still breathing, the empire belongs to him.”
Someone murmurs behind him, “What about Alessandro?”
Giovanni answers before I can, saying, “He’ll never come back.Not with the feds crawling up his ass.Matteo is the rightful heir.”
A pause.
Long enough to make a point before he continues.
“Until he’s no longer breathing.”
I smile.“Then maybe it’s time someone pulled the fucking trigger.”
The room stills.It goes dead quiet.
One of the Serrano dogs leans forward.Thick fingers hold his cigar, the tip slowly burning in the dim light.He exhales smoke through his nose, relaxed and enjoying himself.
“All we see,” he says, voice low, “is a boy sitting in a dead man’s chair, playing at being a king.”
The words hit hard.They’re disrespect masked as confidence.The kind that leads men to the grave.