Chapter 7 - The Shadows of Milan
Three months passed in a blur of iron-fisted governance and fragile domestic peace.
The Rossi syndicate was more prosperous than it had been in decades. With the traitors purged and our logistics fully consolidated, I ruled the East Coast with undisputed authority. But power in the underworld came with a heavy, unyielding shadow.
Word had begun to spread across the European syndicates that the Rossi heir had survived an internal coup, and that a new woman had taken her place beside the feared mafia boss.
It was a Tuesday evening when Viktor knocked on the double doors of my private home office on the top floor of the estate.
“Boss,” Viktor said, stepping into the room with a grave expression, holding a secure satellite tablet. “We have an incoming encrypted satellite transmission from Milan. It’s the remaining elders of the Vance family council.”
I didn't look up from the financial ledger I was reviewing. “Put it on the main display screen.”
The wall-mounted monitor flickered to life, projecting the grainy, shadowed faces of three elderly men sitting in a wood-paneled boardroom in northern Italy. They were the apex predators of the old-world Italian mafia—men who believed the Rossi family was vulnerable after the internal purge.
“Lorenzo Rossi,” the eldest of them spoke, his voice dry and rattling like autumn leaves. “We have heard rumors from New York. We heard that our surviving niece, Clara Vance, is being held inside your compound against her will, acting as a servant to your bastard child.”
I slowly leaned back in my leather chair, my eyes narrowing into cold, predatory slits.
“Is that so?” I replied smoothly, my voice dripping with lethal sarcasm.
“Release Clara immediately,” another elder demanded, slamming his fist onto the table in Milan. “Put her on a private jet back to Palermo with a fifty-million-dollar restitution payment, or the European families will declare total war on your shipping lanes.”
I let out a low, humorless chuckle.
“You think you can threaten me from across an ocean?” I stood up slowly from my desk, walking toward the high-definition camera mounted above the monitor. “You old fools don't realize something. Clara Vance isn't a prisoner here. She is the mother of my heir. And the moment you threatened my family, you signed your own death warrants.”
“You arrogant—”
“Viktor,” I cut him off, not breaking eye contact with the camera. “Initiate Project Trident.”
Viktor’s eyes widened slightly in approval. “Right away, Boss.”
“By tomorrow morning,” I whispered into the lens, “every European port, shipping container, and bank account tied to the Vance council will be frozen, seized, or burned to ash. Don't bother packing a bag.”
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I clicked the remote, plunging the screen into absolute blackness.
The old world was trying to claw its way back into my life, but they didn't understand the monster they were poking. I wasn't the man I was three months ago. I had a son to protect now. And I had Clara.
