Page 1 of Fatal Sloth

Prologue

In the world of organized crime, the US Italian Mafia held an iron grip over the global trade of drugs, guns, and other illicit enterprises, along with numerous legitimate businesses that overtook New York City.

However, nearly three decades ago, an enemy emerged—a relentless assault on La Cosa Nostra in the heart of New York City, targeting the leading families one by one. This betrayal would alter the future of La Cosa Nostra.

After the final attack, only seven families remained, each bound by blood, loyalty, and a criminal empire to uphold. The surviving Don, who thrived on chaos, was declared Capo Di Tutti I Papi. Determined to unite the remaining Mafia families, he drafted a power-sharing arrangement to be known as The Commission, with the other six made men to become Dons in their newly established territories.

Each made man was a potent symbol of a different crime family, distinguished by the scars of their sins and allegiance to the underworld. They held the weight of their legacies and the responsibility to seek revenge by rebuilding their empire, vowing to uphold their legacy of power, loyalty, and the unspoken code that bound them together.

Decisions were made: relocate to new cities, establish roots in unfamiliar territories, uphold the legacy, and protect the commission. Over time, the families grew stronger, their networks expanding like intricate webs across the United States.

As la famiglia’s expand and their successors carve their own paths, the common goal remains - dismantle anyone brave enough to challenge La Cosa Nostra to protect their family, the throne of organized crime.

1

Mia

"You can’t eat that. You’re getting fat. Useless bitch."

I can't escape the echoes of those words. They penetrate my thoughts, haunting me like a relentless dark shadow, even in the moments when I try to shut them out. The cruel remarks cut through my confidence, stealing my peace. These words aren’t the worst I've heard, but they're the ones etched deepest into my soul.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

The piercing sound of my alarm jolts me from my restless thoughts. I don’t even know why I set it. My body’s been programmed to rise at 4:00 a.m. for as long as I can remember. A morning run before my finals seems like the only relief to the pent-up stress.

I'm terrified by the looming realization that the tiny sliver of freedom I've tasted is coming close to an end. It's not real freedom—it's more like a gilded cage. But anything, absolutely anything, is better than the atmosphere of his house—my prison.

A shiver creeps up my spine, and thinking about going back there sits heavily on my chest, suffocating me from the little air I have left to breathe. I've spent four years at Juilliard, and it's become my sanctuary. With graduation just a few days away, I know my father will be here to drag me back to Chicago, whether I like it or not.

Lacing up my sneakers, taming my golden locks into a ponytail, and securing my headphones, I step outside to find my constant companions, Liam and Julio, waiting. We're not exactly friends, but they've been by my side for four years and know and accept my routine without question.

Creatures of habit, I guess.

Liam keeps pace with my long strides while Julio trails a few yards behind us, conserving his energy for the gym. It’s what I do, my daily ritual: ten miles by dawn, an hour of weight training, a quick shower, grab a protein shake, and I’m out the door. The nervous energy thrums through my system as I pull open the wooden door to the auditorium. I take a deep breath, willing the anxiety to still as I prepare for my last final and rehearsal for the Senior Production.

The Senior Production is the last chance to showcase my talents and my last and final dance before I go back to Chicago. It’s a bittersweet moment, and I've been fortunate enough to secure a solo—a contemporary piece set to "Lightning Crashes" by Live that I've poured my soul into for the last four months. The realization that this will mark the end of my ballet journey has tears prickling at the back of my eyes and the knife twisting further into my soul. Ballet started as something I loved, my passion, but it quickly became a way for my father and his wife, Karen, to keep me under their thumb outside of the studio as well. Everything I did was subject to ridicule, even what I ate. ‘There are no fat ballerinas’ engraved itself into my mind at a young age as a daily mantra. To this day, everything I do is controlled by them. Do you know what it’s like to be a child who can’t even have a slice of their birthday cake? God forbid I even thought about asking for a slice at another kid’s party. There would be repercussions. There are always repercussions.

I go through each choreographed move with practiced precision, each flex of my foot and extension of my leg constricting my chest. This solo is more than just a routine; it's a farewell to this stage of my life. A strangled gasp leaves my throat as I hold that final pose one last time, my emotions bleeding out of me behind the closed doors of the private studio. I give myself this time to really feel the music and the visceral feeling it elicits before I have to steel my face for that final performance and return to the perch of my gilded cage in Chicago.

Behind the stage, there's a cacophony of hustle and bustle, but I still manage to find a quiet corner, drawing in a few calming breaths to center myself. It's a lonely moment –no adoring father or beaming mother in the crowd to support me. The only familiar faces I happen upon are Julio and Liam. The latter is scrolling through his phone, not giving a damn about what this performance means to me. They’re both hired to be here, after all.

The lights cut as Sergio and Meg take their bows and exit the stage. This is it—every bit of training condensed to the four-minute and thirty-seven-second ensemble. I clench and unclench my fists, taking one final deep inhale and slowly releasing it as the music cues, signaling me to take my mark. The stage creaks as I tread lightly to the center of it. A hushed silence falls over the audience, the blazing beam of spotlight zeroes in on me, and the gentle strains of the music swirl in the air around me, begging my body to follow their lead.

The simple light pink leotard clings to my figure like a second skin, and the soft flowing waves of tulle around my waist accentuate each of my movements as I feel the warm trickle of blood from my toes in the box of my pretty pink satin ballet shoes. The beautiful white ribbons woven across my calves are just the final piece of the stereotypical look I’m sporting.

Each step is executed with grace and precision, my arms extending rhythmically like a swan taking flight. I lose myself in the music. Each pirouette is a dance with my past, allowing the tutu to flutter around me like a delicate breeze, caught up in the magic of my once-beloved form of art. My only form of art that shows my story unfolding with each movement I take.

My toes are utterly numb as the final chorus plays, and I take my last leap, transitioning into a pirouette and holding the pose as the previous music note resonates. It's a moment frozen in time before the audience erupts into loud cheers. I swallow roughly, my chest rising and falling in a chaotic rhythm as I work to catch my breath. I bend at the waist, bowing humbly, as I savor the moment before I straighten and gracefully exit from the stage forever.

Despite the absence of familiar faces today, the cheers from the audience fill the void in my heart, offering me the validation that I yearn for as I enjoy the high of my final performance.

2

Sebastiano

Neon lights refract off of the mirrored ceiling at Diavolo - the newly acquired and completely legal club, adding to the growing Morelli business profile. The dance floor teems with a crowd of bodies dancing, sweat glistening on their skin as the heavy beat of “Or Nah” remix by Ty Dolla $ign vibrates from the speakers surrounding the DJ booth. It’s only 10:30 p.m. and we’re almost at capacity. Despite the fact it’s forty-two degrees out, scantily clad women make up more than half of the crowd. Women who are so damn desperate for a man’s attention and affection that they strut around wearing next to nothing in the frigid Chicago weather. They dance like they belong on a pole, hoping to snag an invite to the VIP section on some wealthy man’s arm.

Two of my men are stationed on either side of the entrance, acting as bouncers, only adding to the air of exclusivity this place exudes. You never know when someone will act stupid enough to try to grab a piece of the Morelli empire, so all of our properties are heavily guarded.

---