Chapter 6 – Cyril
The estate is a fucking circus.
Two days before the Carfano Foundation gala and the halls are flooded with florists, decorators, caterers, and whoever the hell else Liliana decided to let through the gates. Someone’s carrying trays of crystal glasses like they’re Fabergé eggs. A housekeeper I haven’t seen before is polishing a doorknob that already shines brighter than any star.
But I barely glance at any of it.
I sit on the back patio, espresso in hand, and the morning sun just starting to break through the pale Manhattan haze. My sleeves are rolled up, tie discarded, shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Ren is beside me, cross-legged in a wicker chair with a box of crayons and a pad balanced on his knees.
It’s my day off. Or whatever the fuck passes for one in my world.
One day. Once a week. That’s all I give myself. One day when I stay away from work, phone calls, and most importantly, violence. One day that belongs to Ren.
He draws with his tongue between his teeth, focused.
First, a spaceship.
Then, a monster. Big claws. Sharp teeth.
Then, a woman: Enya.
He adds her last. Carefully. Gently. Like she’s the part that matters most.
“She’s got magic golden hair,” he says suddenly, not looking up. “They can light up.”
I smirk into my coffee. “That right? I think you’ve been watching too many girly cartoons.”
“Well…it changes when the sun hits it. Sometimes, it’s gold. Sometimes, it’s red. Sometimes, it’s like storm clouds.”
I nod. “She’ll like that.”
He glances at me, hopeful. “Can she come today?”
“She has her own day off, Ren,” I say. “Just like us.”
He doesn’t pout, but his shoulders slump. “I like it when she’s here.”
“I know.”
He doesn’t say much after that, not because he’s deep in thought or being reflective, but because he’s just content. Still. Calm. The way kids sometimes are when they feel safe. He clicks his tongue as he draws, his foot swinging slowly off the edge of the chair. He’s not exactly silent, but he’s peaceful.
He definitely didn’t get that from me.
I was a loud kid. A disruptive one. Always picking fights and testing limits. Ren? He watches. Absorbs. It’s unnerving sometimes, how much he takes in with those big, storm-gray eyes.
He’s not loud. But he’s never been small, either.
We spend the rest of the morning together. Ren wants to watch one of his shows, the kind with talking trucks and overenthusiastic theme songs. I sit with him on the couch, pretending not to care, but every few minutes, I catch myself watching his reactions instead of the screen.
He leans against me, small and warm, a peanut butter smear on his cheek from the toast he devoured mid-episode. When he starts to nod off, I scoop him up and carry him upstairs. He fights it with slow blinks and sleepy mumbling, but the second his head hits the pillow, he’s out cold.
The crayon box is still open on the bed beside him. Smudges of green cover one cheek. I tug the blanket over his small frame, shut off the nightlight, and pause for a second to watch him breathe. One slow inhale. One slower exhale. Peaceful.
Then, even though it’s my day off, I turn and slip into my study.
Behind the mahogany shelves, there’s a small groove carved into the wood, smooth and intentional.
The panel clicks open with a hiss.
The elevator hums as it lowers beneath the foundation. No music. No light. Just the quiet thrum of descent.
The Vault is carved into concrete, ten feet thick in every direction. The walls are lined with steel, the lighting harsher than anything above. The heating is also turned off, so nobody gets too cozy.
This is where the war lives.
It’s a hell of a contrast to the estate above. Upstairs, the air smells like orchids and money, with gala prep in full swing, champagne chilling in silver buckets, and everything staged for appearances. A curated fantasy, polished lies wrapped in gold trim.
Down here, it’s just concrete, steel, and bloodstains scrubbed clean. The real work. The real power.
Alvise is already there, dressed in a dark shirt without a tie and with rolled-up sleeves. His arms are crossed as he snaps his fingers to an unknown rhythm. Always the soldier, always five seconds from pulling a trigger.
Gael stands in the corner, half-shadowed, massive and unmoving. He’s got that look again, the one that says he’s already figured out five ways to kill everyone in the room if he had to.
And Aldo, sharp as a scalpel, sits behind the laptop, fingers flicking across the keyboard like he’s orchestrating a fucking symphony. Satellite imagery glows across the screen, bathing his face in blue light.
“They’re making a play,” Alvise says before I even get close. “Fiores. Another property, ghost company front. One block from Dockyard West.”
Aldo pulls up the map, zooming in on the parcel. “Shell LLC, forged tax records, clean title. But it’s fake. Like the last five.”
“That makes six,” Alvise mutters. “Six in three months. All bought through layers of bullshit.”
“They’re coming hard,” Gael growls. “And quiet.”
I stare at the glowing dots on the map. One after another. Each one circling our outer territories like goddamn vultures.
“They’re pushing too close,” I say, my voice low. “That means they’re ready to break skin.”
Gael nods grimly. “And the Gino sighting in Red Hook confirms it. He’s shadowing our routes.”
Fucking Gino.
I fold my arms, letting time stretch.
Two years ago, the Fiores were background noise—an old-school syndicate out of Chicago trying to stay relevant here in New York. They were fading. Quiet.
Now, they’re in every corner of my city.
No goading. No calls. No fucking warning.
“It’s not expansion,” I say slowly. “It’s provocation.”
Alvise narrows his eyes. “Like they’re baiting you. Trying to draw you out.”
I step closer to the table. My hands rest on the edge.
“Then they’re going to regret it.”
Alvise gives a short nod. “You want us to hit the docks?”
“No,” I growl. “Not yet. We don’t need to waste our time with useless violence.”
I point to the map. “Pull all records, anyone connected to those shell companies. I want to know who’s washing their money and where they eat their fucking breakfast.”
I turn to Aldo. “Start backchannel talks with the Russians. If the Fiores are prepping for war—”
“…we make sure we fire first,” Alvise finishes.
“Exactly.”
The Vault falls silent, yet the pressure builds.
This isn’t just business anymore.
It’s getting personal.
And I’m done fucking waiting.
By the time I resurface, the estate has transformed again. The chaos has a rhythm now. Waiters weave between rooms with practiced steps. The florists are adjusting arrangements by the millimeter, like a single petal out of place might collapse the world. Silver shines, linens are pressed to military precision, and every goddamn light bulb glows like it was personally inspected by God.
I start making rounds—my rounds—because I can’t trust anyone else to get it right, not with my name on it.
Liliana handles the guest list. But the rest? That’s mine. Every square inch of this gala is marked up with notes I made days ago. Seating charts, menu revisions, and backup plans if the salmon doesn’t arrive in time. I know which caterer has a gambling problem. Which florist’s assistant is two weeks late on her rent. I couldn’t care less about gossip, but I do care about leverage.
Alvise made fun of me once for how seriously I take this shit. Said no mafia boss in his right mind should give a fuck about florists and caterers. And maybe he’s right.
Sora used to handle all of this. She loved it. All the fuss, flair, and details no one else noticed. Since she died, I haven’t trusted a single soul to get it right. So, now? It’s on me.
“You think I’m hands-on because I like parties?” I told Alvise once. “I do this because every smile in this house tomorrow will be bought with blood. I want to know the price.”
Ren wakes up sometime in the middle of it. I hear his sleepy footsteps on the landing before I even turn.
“Papa?”
I crouch down, brushing his curls back. “You hungry?”
He nods. “Can I stay with you?”
He doesn’t need to ask. I pick him up and settle him on my hip. There are things he’ll never see: what I do in that vault, the pleasure I take in killing people. But this? Crystal glasses, neatly folded napkins, a garden filled with candles—this, he can be part of.
We check in with the caterers. I let him taste a lemon tart, and he makes a face. We adjust the music settings in the ballroom, and he claps when the strings play.
He clings to my leg while I bark orders at the security team. I feel his hand gripping my suit as I tell the lead detail to double the guards on the east wall.
“Why so many people, Papa?” he whispers.
“Because I want everyone to feel safe,” I lie.
And maybe, just maybe, because it’s the only part of this fucking mess I can control.