Page 113 of Luciano

They wouldn’t get it.

Saint stood at my right—suited, calm, hands resting on the table like he had nothing to prove. Brooker was to my left, arms folded. Together, we were the future.

The old-school mafiosi were out of date. Too loud when they were violent. Too quiet when they weren’t. They made noise instead of impact, clinging to the illusion of power with gold watches and outdated codes. They took kids. Killed women. Called it necessity. Said war had no rules, no lines—only winners.

But it was sloppy. Emotional. It made enemies out of ghosts and martyrs out of mistakes.

That needed to change. That would change.

Don Salvo leaned back in his chair, his belly stretching the buttons of his suit.

“Four months ago, you barely spoke. You were your father’s shadow. A couple months after he’s gone, now you’re barking orders and claiming his chair?”

I looked at him. Calm. Patient. I kept my voice low.

“Yes. He built his empire for me. He always made that clear.”

Don Miragliotta, old and thin as glass, cleared his throat.

“You say you’re ready. But this… transition… should be handled carefully.”

“What you’re suggesting,” Salvo said, “is that you want control over all your father’s operations. Distribution. Enforcement. Smuggling. And we’re just supposed to nod along like good little boys?”

“You’re not boys,” I said flatly. “But you will nod.”

A few of them chuckled.

Carlotti scoffed. “I say we split it. Divide the ports, the docks, the routes.”

“No. I want what’s mine. All of it.”

Salvo leaned in. “Or what?”

I leaned forward slightly. My voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

“You must’ve forgotten who I am.”

I pulled my gun from inside my jacket and laid it on the table.

“I’m the reason eight bloodlines no longer exist.

We’re the ones who took out the Russos. Quietly. Completely. No witnesses. No retaliation.”

I glanced down the table.

“You want to split what my father built?

Care to challenge me for it?”

“Challenge us for it,” Saint spoke up.

Silence fell over the table.

Even the men who loved the sound of their own voices shut the fuck up.

“I take your silence as agreement?”

Miragliotta swallowed hard, then nodded. The rest of the men followed.

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