Page 16 of Crimson Reign

Bruno Jareto, the oldest among them, leans forward, eyes narrowing. At fifty-six, he’s been running the gambling side of our operations longer than I’ve been alive. He is old school, razor-sharp, and has a temper that can either set a room ablaze or be wielded like a weapon.

“So what the fuck are we waiting for?” He exhales cigar smoke, tapping the ash onto the tray beside him. “We leak it all. Let the bastard drown in the weight of his sins.”

Predictable. Bruno prefers brute force.

“We do that,” Stefano Testa interjects, ever the diplomat, “and we bring a hurricane of heat onto all of us.”

At sixty, he oversees our legitimate businesses, and is the man responsible for keeping our public face clean.

He has pressed his suit, and his cufflinks gleam. A stark contrast to Bruno’s rolled-up sleeves and perpetual scowl. “The Commission won’t tolerate that level of scrutiny. We need to be smart.”

“Smart?” Julian Salvatore, the one who controls our street territories, scoffs. He’s got an easy smirk, but his eyes are sharp, always watching. “Smart is eliminating a threat before it festers.”

I don’t let my expression shift. Julian is useful, but I don’t trust him.

He’s too slick, too quick to play both sides, and he's been on my radar ever since he arrived late back at the safe house.

I make a mental note to have Valentino put eyes on him.

The argument ignites from there, voices rising as half the table pushes for immediate action while the others urge restraint. I don’t intervene. Not yet. I sit back, arms crossed, listening as the debate spirals.

Giovanni Costa, who runs our weapons trafficking, finally speaks up. He’s the most calculated of the bunch, always weighing every angle before committing to a course of action.

“Matteo,” he says, voice measured, “what’s your play here?”

I let them stew a moment longer before I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table.

“We’re fixers,” I say quietly, my voice cutting through the noise. “Not butchers. We use a scalpel, not a sledgehammer.”

Silence falls.

I tap the USB drive once. “We leak pieces of the trafficking operation. Just enough to put pressure on Massimo. Make him paranoid. Make him come to us. The ritual killings and the Commission Don’s murder? We hold on to those. They’re our insurance.”

Valentino exhales slowly and nods. “That’s a play we can control.”

Bruno doesn’t look pleased, but he doesn’t argue. He knows that challenging me when I've decided is unwise. Julian leans back, feigning boredom, but I don’t miss the way his fingers tap against the table.Calculating.

Giovanni merely studies me, then the USB drive, before giving the smallest incline to his head.

Approval.

Stefano adjusts his cuffs, exhaling sharply.

I rise to my feet.

With a firm tone, I announced, "The decision has been made. Now we wait for Massimo to take the bait.”

After the meeting, I take the back exit of the club, stepping into the chilly night air. The streets are quiet at this hour, save for the occasional headlights cutting through the darkness.

My father texted me to meet him at Nico's estate. I head straight there, my mind already shifting to the next problem. He wouldn't come all the way here to meet unless it was important.

Low light cloaks the estate by the time I arrive; the security detail gives me a curt nod as I pass.

I barely make it through the front door before I see him—Luca Bellanti, my father, seated in one of Nico’s leather chairs like every inch of a Don that he is.

Nico stands near the fireplace, arms crossed, jaw tight. His usual smirk is absent, which means this conversation won’t be pleasant.

“Matteo,” my father greets, his voice carrying a weight of authority. “Have a seat.”

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