Chapter Thirty-six #2
Dante taps another set of papers. “You made external arrangements. Weapons routes. Private protections.”
Alessio shakes his head slowly. “You operated outside the council.”
Luciano looks at me again. This time, he sees it.
The architecture.
“You planned this,” he says.
I don’t answer.
I don’t need to.
This was never about proving guilt. It was about creating certainty. Enough threads tied together that even doubt feels like risk.
Dante stands.
“Even a fraction of this is enough,” he says calmly. “You broke the structure. You put personal gain over the families.”
Paolo nods once. Alessio does not argue.
That was the hardest part. Not the evidence. Not the setup.
Alignment.
Making sure when the moment came, no one at this table would want to save him.
Luciano looks around and finally understands. The realization settles slowly across his face, heavy and unavoidable. No support. No outrage. No rescue. Just silence and the quiet certainty that no one here is coming to save him.
“This is about power,” he says, quieter now.
Dante’s voice is steady. “This is about order.”
I watch Luciano’s shoulders drop just slightly.
Luciano pushes back from the table so violently his chair screeches across the floor.
“You did this!” he roars, pointing straight at me. Spit flies from his mouth, his composure gone, his mask shattered. “You wanted revenge! You wanted me out! You’re just like your father!”
My smirk comes without effort.
Pathetic.
“Always wanting my place!” he keeps shouting, voice cracking now, desperation bleeding through.
My place.
The words snag in my mind. I glance toward Nicolas, but he avoids my gaze, his expression unreadable, carved from stone.
“Take him,” Dante says calmly.
The guards move instantly. Luciano struggles, swears, kicks like a cornered animal. The man who ruled with fear for decades is reduced to noise and sweat and panic as they drag him across the floor.
His voice echoes down the hall even after the doors close behind him.
He is being taken to Lev’s basement.
And I am not finished with him.
I gave Serena’s father a quick death. Mercy I now regret. Luciano will not be given the same kindness. He will learn what suffering actually means. For every tear Serena shed. For every scar she carries because of him.
Silence settles over the room once he’s gone.
Heavy. Expectant.
Alessio clears his throat. “So what now, Dante? Who takes his place as Capo?”
This is the part I’ve been waiting for.
The plan was simple. Remove Luciano. Install Dante. I step away. Freedom. Distance. Serena and the twins far from this poison.
Clean. That was the plan. Quick, precise, and finished before anyone had time to react. Then Nicolas’ chair shifts. The sharp scrape of wood against the floor slices through the quiet, cutting the room in half.
He stands slowly, and something about the way he does it makes the air feel thinner. Straighter. Older.
“It is time,” he says, voice low but carrying, “for the Moretti family to take back what was stolen.”
My stomach tightens.
Take back?
Paolo looks at Dante. “So you finally decided to take your brother’s place?”
What brother?
Alessio frowns. “You’ve been asked to step in since Giovanni passed. You refused every time.”
Giovanni. My father’s name hits the room like a gunshot, sharp enough to shatter the silence. I stop breathing, every muscle in my body locking as the sound echoes through my head.
Dante shakes his head slowly. “It was never my place. It is not my birthright.”
Birthright.
The word feels foreign in my head.
Alessio leans back, studying me now like he’s seeing me for the first time. “The Moretti family founded this structure,” he says quietly. “Before any of us sat at this table. Before Luciano. Before Paolo. Before me.”
My pulse starts to hammer in my ears, loud and relentless. I grew up believing we were respected. Connected. Important. But founders? The word lands heavier than the rest, unsettling something deep in my chest. No one ever told me that.
“So who?” Alessio asks, voice almost reverent now. “Who takes the seat?”
Nicolas turns toward me fully for the first time tonight.
“It’s in this room,” he says.
Dante adds softly, “And it is not me.”
Every gaze in the room shifts.
Lands.
Locks.
On me.
Alessio almost whispers, “Is this real?”
I feel like the floor shifted under my feet and no one warned me.
Nicolas steps forward.
His voice changes. Not louder. Just heavier, like history itself is speaking through him.
“You are looking,” he says, “at the rightful Capo by blood and legacy.”
The words echo in my skull.
“Son of Giovanni Moretti,” Nicolas says, his voice carrying through the room like a verdict, “our last true Capo. The man who didn’t just rule this family, he forged it. He built alliances sealed in blood, debts that still breathe, loyalties that outlived him.”
A pause. Heavy. Intentional.
“The man Luciano didn’t have the courage to face. . . so he chose to betray.”
My heart stutters once. Hard enough to hurt.
Nicolas turns slightly, enough for everyone to follow his gaze.
“Lorenzo Giovanni Moretti,” he declares, each syllable deliberate, “is not a successor.”
Another beat.
“He is the continuation of a legacy men have killed to protect.”
Silence swallows the room.
“From this moment forward,” Nicolas finishes, voice low but absolute, “he is the Capo of this family.”
The room is silent.
Not shocked.
Accepting.
That is what terrifies me most.
Because this was decided long before tonight.
And I am only just now being told I was born into a throne soaked in blood.