[Dante’s POV]
The two soldiers are dragged into my office before sunrise, looking significantly less confident than last night when assaulting staff seemed like acceptable recreation.
I let them stand while I finish my coffee. Let silence stretch until sweat appears. Amateurs. Real professionals know fear comes before violence, not during.
"Explain," I say finally. "And make it convincing."
Buzz Cut—Paolo—stammers about misunderstanding, about fun, about Clara not being clear. Desperate lies. His companion stays silent, which shows better judgment but won't save him.
"Fun." I lean back. "You think assaulting women in my house qualifies as entertainment?"
"We didn't—she wasn't—"
"Shut up." Two words. Flat. Final. "Valentina interrupted you. Threatened you with my name. You ran like codardi." I stand. "Here's what happens. You remember this conversation every time you think about touching staff without consent. Capisce?"
Frantic nodding. Pathetic.
"Lorenzo. Make it memorable. Nothing fatal. But enough that word spreads—the boss's woman is not to be disrespected. Neither is his staff."
Lorenzo steps forward, expression neutral but something flickers behind his eyes. Satisfaction, maybe. Or calculation. "With pleasure, capo."
His men drag the soldiers out. Pleas echo before doors muffle sound.
The screaming starts ten minutes later. Stops twenty minutes after that. Lorenzo returns wiping blood from his knuckles with a white handkerchief. Such a waste of good fabric.
"It's done, padrone."
"Good." I don't ask details. Don't need them. "Dismissed."
He leaves smiling. Not obviously. Just a slight curve suggesting he enjoyed that more than duty requires. Interesting. And problematic. But problems for later.
The week passes quietly. Word spreads—Valentina is untouchable, staff are off-limits, respect is enforced through memorable demonstrations. Standard mafia messaging through violence and fear. Tradition.
I almost think it's settled. That we can return to normal operations without further incidents requiring disciplinary creativity.
Then I wake to shouting in the main hall.
Cristo Santo. It's barely dawn. Whatever crisis is happening better be worth interrupting sleep already compromised by Valentina stealing blankets and radiating heat.
I pull on clothes, moving toward noise that grows louder. Multiple voices. Angry. Scared. The kind that means something catastrophic.
The hall is full of soldiers. More than should be here at dawn. They part as I enter, creating a pathway to—
Marco.
On his knees, arms pulled back, two men holding him while a third presses a gun to his temple. Face bruised, lip split, blood dripping onto expensive marble.
My blood runs cold. Cazzo. Not Marco. Anyone but him.
Lorenzo stands over him like an avenging angel—if angels wore expensive suits and smiled when delivering damnation. He holds a folder, expression somewhere between righteous and smug.
"Capo." He inclines his head with just enough respect to avoid insubordination. "Apologies for the early hour. This couldn't wait."
I force my voice steady. "Explain."
"Marco Cattaneo." Lorenzo opens the folder with theatrical precision. "Two months of investigation. Phone records to a known informant in the Castellano family. Surveillance footage showing him meeting contacts in neutral territory. Leaked shipping schedules matching exactly what the Feds seized last month."
He spreads papers across a table—phone logs, grainy photos, highlighted documents. All pointing at Marco. All damning.
"The bust that cost us four million and two warehouses." Lorenzo's voice carries through the hall, playing to the audience. "All because someone fed information to our enemies. All because Marco Cattaneo decided his loyalty had a price."
The room is silent except for Marco's labored breathing and my pulse hammering. I study the evidence—can't dismiss it without looking weak, can't accept it without destroying one of the few men I trust.
Merda. This is a trap. Lorenzo's been waiting for this moment, building a case real or manufactured, presenting it publicly where refusing to act means losing face.
I meet Marco's eyes. Despite the blood, despite the gun, his voice comes out steady. "I have something to say, capo."
"Then say it."
"My sister." Marco swallows, something breaking in his expression. "Two months ago, the Calabrese family took her. Grabbed her off the street. Then they sent me a package." He pauses.
"Her finger. Right hand, ring finger. With a note. Information or pieces—that was the deal. Shipping schedules or they'd send her back one piece at a time."
Cristo. The ice in my chest spreads.
"How many schedules?"
"Three. Just northern routes. Nothing about weapons, nothing financial." His voice cracks. "I tried to minimize damage. Tried to give them enough to keep her alive without destroying the family. But I had no choice, capo. They have my sister."
Silence. Heavy. Absolute. Every man is calculating—Marco betrayed us, but for family. The law says traitors die. The law doesn't care about sisters or fingers or impossible choices.
Lorenzo's smile widens. "The law is absolute, padrone. Traitors are executed. No exceptions. If we let one slide because of a sad story, we show weakness. Every soldier here needs to see that loyalty is not negotiable."
He's right. Cazzo, he's absolutely right. The law exists for moments like this—when sentiment and strategy collide. Execute Marco and I prove rules matter. Spare him and I prove I can be swayed by emotion.
Either way, Lorenzo wins. Either I lose a trusted ally or I lose respect. He's engineered a perfect trap, presented with evidence I can't dismiss and an audience I can't ignore.
I look at Marco—bloodied, waiting for judgment he knows is coming. The man who drove Valentina to her wedding and apologized. Who checked on Rosa without being asked. Who still has a conscience this world hasn't beaten out.
The man whose sister is being held hostage, tortured, terrified.
Merda. This is why I never wanted attachments. Why I kept Valentina distant for five years. Because caring means impossible choices.
I see her sliding into the room quietly, finding her place in a corner. She looks terrified.
This is about to get ten times harder.
Lorenzo's voice cuts through my thoughts. "The law is absolute, capo. Execute the traitor or show the family that rules don't matter when someone has a good excuse. Your choice."
Not a choice. A test. A challenge wrapped in procedure, presented before witnesses who'll spread this throughout the organization within hours.
I meet Lorenzo's eyes and see it—satisfaction. He's enjoying this. Watching me caught between justice and mercy, knowing either path costs me something he can exploit.
Bastardo. This was never about Marco. It's about positioning. About testing limits and finding leverage.
And the worst part? He's not wrong about the law. Traitors die. That's how this world works or everything collapses.
But Marco gave information to save his sister. Not for money or power. For family—the one thing this world claims to value while constantly destroying it.
The room waits. Every eye on me. Every soldier calculating whether their capo rules with logic or emotion. Whether I'm strong enough to execute someone I trust or weak enough to let mercy corrupt judgment.
Lorenzo's smile says he already knows my answer. That either way, he's won.
Cazzo. I'm running out of time. Need to decide before silence makes the decision for me.
Marco watches, waiting for judgment. Lorenzo watches, waiting for weakness. The soldiers watch, waiting to see who I really am.
And Valentina watches, waiting to see if I’m really that cruel as she thought.