Page 25 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
“Cut the sentimental bullshit and give me the numbers,” I say, my voice slicing through the room, tinged with annoyance. We’re in my office, housed within the estate. The long table is littered with reports and bank statements.
Breakfast was a disaster, thanks to that bastard defecting to a rival family and being slick about it. The look on Valentina’s face after I handled it didn’t help. She’s still new to this life, and I don’t blame her for being shaken. But being my wife means facing all of it. The beauty, the privilege, and the moments when loyalty has to be enforced with steel.
Marco’s hand pauses mid-gesture, the unlit cigarette between his fingers hovering over a neat stack of documents. His sharp blue eyes flick to me, narrowing slightly, before he leans back in his chair with deliberate ease.
“Four million,” he says flatly, “lost last quarter. At least half of that’s on the Rossi interference.”
The Rossis are old money from Naples, the kind that survived fascism by shaking the right hands and burying the rest. Their roots run deep; banking, ports, old smuggling linesdressed up as family shipping businesses. For decades, they played respectable, laundering blood through linen and wine. That is, until I took over Nuova Speranza and made everyone bend the knee. They still like to stir the pot on occasion, though, and the man I killed at breakfast gave them what they needed, shipment schedules, warehouse codes, even the names of a few men we trusted. Enough to coordinate an ambush at the docks. We lost men. We lost ground. And now we’re bleeding money for it.
I drum my fingers on the edge of the table, the sound rhythmic and unyielding in the otherwise tense silence. Four million. It’s not the money that bothers me, it’s the insult. The audacity.
Dante lets out a low whistle, lounging like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Well, that’s one hell of a slap to the face.”
I glare at him. “A slap would imply they have the guts to get close. This was a swipe from the shadows. Cowardly.”
Adriano shifts in his seat, his jaw tightening. “Then we hit back. Take one of their shipments. Make them bleed the way we’ve bled.”
The room stills as I let his words hang in the air. There’s a part of me that wants to say yes, to unleash the chaos that simmers beneath my skin and make the Rossis regret ever crossing me. But impulsive actions aren’t how you build empires.
“No,” I say, my tone measured. “We don’t react like children in a schoolyard fight. We outmaneuver them. The East Docks.”
Dante sits up a little straighter, the smirk vanishing from his face. Marco exchanges a glance with Adriano, and I can almost see the gears turning in their heads.
“They’re still in talks with the Rossis,” Marco says carefully.
“They won’t be by the end of tonight,” I reply. “The docks are shorter, more secure, and with the right…incentives, we can ensure they’re exclusively ours.”
“And if the Rossis catch wind of it?” Adriano asks, his expression darkening.
“Let them,” I say, leaning forward, my elbows on the table. “By the time they realize what’s happening, it’ll be too late. They’ll have no choice but to scramble while we take control.”
The room tilts toward anticipation, a quiet hunger rising between glances and silences. This is why they follow and trust me, not just because I demand loyalty, but because I deliver results. “Marco,” I continue, my voice steady, “you’ll finalize the secondary contracts. Adriano, you’ll be on-site tonight. Visible.”
Adriano’s lips curl into a satisfied grin. “My favorite kind of assignment.”
“Dante?” I glance at him, already anticipating the sarcastic remark.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving a hand. “Stay out of trouble. Got it.”
I let the faintest hint of a smirk touch my lips before standing, the scrape of my chair against the floor signaling the end of the discussion. “We leave shortly. Be ready.”
The warehouse iscavernous and cold, the kind of place that smells perpetually of rust and salt no matter how clean it’s kept. The sound of waves crashing against the docks filters through the open loading bays, mingling with the low murmur of voices as the dock owners shuffle nervously.
They stiffen when I walk in, their eyes darting to my face and then quickly away, as if looking too long might incite something dangerous. Smart.
Marco steps forward, documents in hand, his movements crisp and efficient. Adriano hangs back by the entrance, his presence a deliberate warning. I take my time crossing the floor, letting the weight of each step echo against the steel walls.
The leader of the group—a wiry man in his fifties with a weathered face and the kind of hands that have known hard labor—steps forward hesitantly.
“Mr. Salvatore,” he says, his voice thick with courtesy. “We’re honored you’d come personally.”
Strike one against the Rossis is to show up in person, letting them know I take my deals seriously.
“Good,” I reply, clasping my hands behind my back. “Then let’s not waste time.”
Marco lays the documents on a nearby crate, and the negotiations begin. It’s straightforward, my men having done the groundwork beforehand. Terms are reviewed, agreements are made, and signatures are scrawled across dotted lines.
I keep my gaze fixed on the dock owners, watching for the slightest hesitation, the faintest flicker of doubt. It doesn’t come.
