Page 116 of Wounded King
"You may be seated," he says, settling in.
The room obeys. The tension in the air is tight enough to choke on. Even my father finally quietens, although I don't think that a guilty verdict even crosses his mind. He has no clue that Toni turned the jurors around and stopped the bribing of the state attorney, nor does he know that I deleted the files for his little blackmail game with Lambert.
"The court will now hear the jury's verdict," Lambert intones. He nods to the foreperson. "Have you reached a decision?"
A middle-aged woman in a gray suit stands. Her hands are steady, but her shoulders betray the weight of what she's about to say. She holds up the sealed envelope.
"We have, Your Honor."
The clerk moves forward and collects it, handing it to Lambert. He doesn't rush and opens it with the delicacy of a man peeling back a landmine. He reads with a practiced, neutral expression that gives nothing away. Then hands it back to the jury speaker with a quiet "Proceed."
"On the charge of extortion," Lambert begins. "How does the jury find the defendant?"
Carlos leans into his attorney, whispering something that makes the bastard chuckle, a slick, smug sound that coats my skin like oil. My fists clench in my lap, but I don't move. Not yet.
"Guilty," the juror says.
A ripple spreads through the courtroom. Soft gasps. Whispers. My jaw tightens. My father visibly pales. Good. Finally, he'll start to feel what it's like to be helpless.
"On the charge of racketeering?"
The juror doesn't hesitate. "Guilty."
My father's face simply crumples. His expression doesn't crack, itsplinters. One fractured moment of disbelief. Not fear. Not guilt. Just the insult of being toldnofor the first time in decades.
He shifts his gaze to Lambert with a clenched jaw and murder burning in his eyes. He mouths something I don't catch, but it doesn't matter. It'll be his last show. Suddenly, he surges forward, slamming both fists onto the defense table. "You dirty son of a bitch!"
The room explodes. Security rushes forward as he tries to climb over the desk, red-faced and roaring like a caged animal.
"You're dead, you hear me? DEAD!" He screams, spit flying, while guards twist his arms behind his back and clamp on the cuffs.
Lambert bangs the gavel. "ORDER! ORDER!"
They drag him back, and I finally exhale. I don't feel anything, no relief, no satisfaction. Just a growing awareness that, with him gone, I'm a capo, the new King of the Orsi family. It's not something I ever aspired to. I always thought the crown would go to Angelo, but now that it's mine, I'll defend and keep it with everything I have. Edoardo doesn't know it yet, but his days are numbered. He will be one of the first to go.
The buzzing starts to fade as the courtroom clears out. I stay seated for a moment longer, letting the feeling of victory sink into me, spread through me. Once I combine family operations with what I built in Sicily, I will be the most powerful capo in New York.
Pretty damn good for a boy who was sent to Sicily at seventeen with nothing but the clothes on his back. It was meant to be an exile, not a punishment. It was intended to be permanent. My father needed me gone so he could mold Angelo into the heir he wanted, someone pliable.
Someone who wouldn't question or challenge him. Someone who would be as brutal and sadistic as he is. Somebody without any moral compass or ethics.
He handed me a one-way ticket and a pat on the shoulder like he was sending me off to summer camp. I boarded that plane with no money, no allies, no plan, just my name, my anger, and my instincts.
But in Sicily, I was reborn. I didn't just survive. I built something. It started with scraps, almost by coincidence. A man was about to rape a woman behind a bar. I nearly killed the bastard right then, but I found out that he was on the board of directors for some pharmaceutical company. Even back then, at seventeen, I realized that pharmaceuticals would be the mafia's future. Forget about illegal drugs; the legal ones bring in a lot more money. And so, my little empire began. Soon, I had something on every single member of the board. It was a small company, but what they produced was extremely valuable to big pharma. APIs. The flour for the cake.
I made enough money to hire more men, to find more dirt on the leading managers of other companies, and soon I was dictating the prices and saying who got to buy what.
It wasn't always clean. Some of the higher-ups were used to playing hardball. But they soon learned that their version of hardball was a few limbs and a few quarts of blood removed from the way I played it. They caved quickly. Now we're all making money. They call itoptimization. I call it control. Because I still have the leverage over them. They might have the illusion of power, but I'm the one holding it.
We pushed generic competitors out of markets before they even launched. Tanked prices when we needed to squeeze someone and stockpiled meds when shortages hit, so we could name our own price. It's an elegant operation. Quiet. No blood on the streets, just handshakes in back rooms and money in Swiss accounts.
The empire I built is lean, smart, and loyal. Not bloated and arrogant like Carlos's mess back here in New York. The best part is that I don't even have to piss off the old bosses in Sicily. Instead, I earned their respect.
And now?
Now I'm bringing it here. To New York City.
My father's death—because I have no illusions that Toni will allow him to live, even behind bars—means the crown is mine, not just over the Orsi family, but over the opportunity to reshape this entire city. If I can get the operation running in the States, with our reach and contacts, we'll dominate the market in ways my father never even dreamed of.
