Chapter 9
The heavy mahogany doors of Vittorio’s ground-floor study closed with a definitive click. The room was dark, paneled in rich walnut, smelling of old leather and fine bourbon. The contrast to the bright, sunlit hallway upstairs was absolute; this was a room designed for war.
Vittorio walked to his massive desk, poured a neat measure of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler, and downed it in a single, burning swallow.
"Marcus," Vittorio said, not turning around.
From the shadows near the bookcase, the lead bodyguard stepped forward. "Yes, Boss."
"Get the captains on the secure line. All of them," Vittorio commanded, stripping off his suit jacket and tossing it over the back of a leather chair. He rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, exposing muscular forearms corded with tension. "I want an emergency council meeting at the downtown warehouse by midnight."
"Are you sure, sir?" Marcus asked, his tone cautious. "If Donatella reaches them first..."
"Let her reach them," Vittorio said, leaning his hands flat on the desk. "I want to see who takes her calls. I want to see who thinks a banished old woman and a coward brother are worth dying for. Put the estate on full lockdown. Triple the perimeter guard. Nobody enters the grounds without my personal authorization."
"Understood. And what about the eastern ports?" Marcus asked. "Rocco manages the logistics hubs. If he locks us out of the manifests..."
"Rocco doesn't manage anything," Vittorio scoffed, a dark, humorless smile touching his lips. "He signs the papers I tell him to sign. Send a strike team to the port authority offices. Seize the ledgers, change the security codes, and fire anyone who hesitates. If Rocco tries to step onto the docks, break his legs and throw him in the harbor."
Marcus nodded grimly, tapping a message into his encrypted phone. The machinery of the Mancini syndicate was shifting gears, transitioning from a state of peace into a brutal, total war footing.
Vittorio walked to the reinforced window, looking out over the sprawling green lawns of his estate. The bright afternoon sun was beginning to dip below the tree line, casting long, bloody streaks of orange and crimson across the sky.
He knew his mother. Donatella was not a woman who accepted defeat. She had spent forty years building her political capital within the underworld. She had judges on her payroll, police chiefs in her pocket, and a network of spies that spanned three states. Slapping her in front of the guards and throwing her onto the street was a declaration of total annihilation.
She wouldn't just try to take his business; she would try to take his life. And more importantly, she would try to take the one thing he had just proven he valued above all else: his daughter.
"They won't come at us directly," Vittorio murmured, speaking more to himself than to Marcus. "She knows I have the firepower. She’ll use leverage. She’ll reach out to the rival families. She’ll offer them our territory in exchange for my head."
"The Valenti family," Marcus deduced, his voice tight. "They've been waiting for an excuse to move on our northern territory for years. If Donatella offers them the supply lines..."
"Then we strike the Valentis first," Vittorio said coldly. "We don't wait to be attacked. We burn their operations to the ground tonight. I want the city on fire before the morning papers are printed."
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Before Marcus could respond, the secure landline on Vittorio’s desk began to ring. It was a piercing, shrill sound that shattered the quiet of the study.
Vittorio stared at the red light flashing on the console. Only three people in the world had that direct number. Two of them had just been thrown out of his house.
