Marcello
The courtroom is packed with spectators and journalists filling the air with the buzzing sound of many voices and cloying it with the scent of too many eau de colognes, perfumes, and body odors.
My father sits next to his lawyer, looking smug and arrogant as usual. He noticed me a while ago, but he hasn't acknowledged my presence with as much as a nod, which suits me just fine. I'm only here to watch his smug expression fade when he hears the verdict.
I spoke to Toni earlier, and he assured me that he'd handled all of my father's latest little insurance plans, including bribing the state attorney and intimidating several of the jurors.
Toni had also thwarted my father's first attempt at blackmailing Judge Lambert.
My father had kidnapped and tortured his daughter, Scarlet, but instead of giving in, the judge turned to Toni for help.
I'd stopped my father's second attempt at blackmailing the judge by asking Stephano for help in hacking into his computer.
Once there, we found the leverage he had on Scarlet's father and erased the damning coroner's report before sending it to Toni to do with as he pleased.
Call it an early wedding present, since Lambert is his future father-in-law.
After leveling the playing field, I'm very certain that good old dad is going in the slammer, and just in case he doesn't, Luciano is ready to put a bullet through his brain as soon as he leaves the courthouse. I haven't gotten to where I am by leaving things to fate. I always have a backup plan.
The constant buzzing in the courtroom fades slowly into the background as I pull out my phone and check on Violet's location.
They're inside Maison étoile, the most prestigious shopping center in New York City, some say in the world.
It's an exclusive club with a one-million-dollar annual membership price tag.
For that, the fortunate customer will be able to purchase any designer label featured in Fortune, as well as clothes and accessories typically only available in Paris and Milan.
I called ahead this morning to ensure that Violet and Pippa would receive the best service.
I'm already looking forward to having her model all her new clothes and accessories for me, especially the accessories.
Maison étoile is more secure than the Pentagon, and the only place where I will ever allow Violet to go shopping when I'm not around to protect her.
I don't need a repeat of the time when Enrico took his fiancée on an ill-advised shopping excursion to the mall.
The incident was a nightmare for our families.
Roberto tried to have Enrico killed, and in the process, a public shootout took place that left several civilians dead and wounded.
And if that wasn't enough, grenades were detonated, causing even more horror.
The public was understandably outraged, demanding heads to roll.
It was a publicity nightmare, one from which we are still trying to recover.
Not very successfully, I might add, what with the meathead Edoardo as our Capo dei Capi.
It did, however, open all our eyes to the dangers lurking constantly in the shadows, ready to pounce on us.
My phone vibrates. I'm expecting a reply from Enrico to an earlier message I sent, but I'm pleasantly surprised to see it's from Violet.
Violet:
Uhm… are you aware of the prices here?
A chuckle escapes me before I reply.
Me:
Yes. Why? Did they try to charge you for breathing the air?
Violet:
No, but I'm pretty sure I need to sign over my soul to try on a dress.
Me:
Good. They'll take that instead of your credit card—less paperwork.
Violet:
Marcello, there's a gown here that costs more than my car.
Me:
Buy it.
Violet:
I haven't even told you the price yet.
Me:
If you love it, buy two.
Violet:
I'm pretty sure you're trying to bankrupt yourself.
Me:
Correction: I work damn hard so I can spoil you.
Violet:
...smooth.
Me:
Am I distracting you from the $50,000 dress, or do I need to try harder?
Violet:
You're distracting me plenty from the guilt of loving the $50,000 dress.
Me:
Guilt is for people who aren't mine. You are.
Violet:
Okay, that was hot. Now I need to go try on something inappropriate.
Me:
Send photos. And if anyone looks at you wrong, Alejandro has permission to break knees.
Violet:
I think the salesgirl just bowed to him.
Me:
As she should.
Violet:
Also… uhm… how do you know how much my car costs?
Me:
Wouldn't you like to know?
Violet:
Never mind. Stalker.
Me:
Too late. I'm already adding "nosy kitten" to your contact name.
Violet:
Better than "wallet destroyer."
Me:
That one's reserved for Zia Rosa's grocery bill.
Violet:
You're impossible.
Me:
And yet, here you are… trying on dresses you already know I'm going to take off you. I love it when you try to please your man.
"Please rise for the Honorable Judge Lambert," the bailiff announces, voice echoing through the packed courtroom.
Violet:
I'm going to pretend you didn't just type that.
Me:
Have fun, tesoro, and don't worry about the money.
Everyone stands. The sounds of chairs moving back and the rustling of clothes replace the former buzzing of voices. I tuck my phone away, ignoring the side-eye from the security guard, who wants to make a point. I could make a better one, with far fewer words. But now's not the time for games.
Lambert enters in his black robe like some kind of high priest of justice, carrying the weight of lives in the thin lines around his mouth. He doesn't meet anyone's eyes as he climbs up behind the bench, but he carries himself like a man who already knows the fire he's about to set.
"You may be seated," he says, settling in.
The room obeys. The tension in the air is tight enough to choke on.
Even my father finally quietens, although I don't think that a guilty verdict even crosses his mind.
He has no clue that Toni turned the jurors around and stopped the bribing of the state attorney, nor does he know that I deleted the files for his little blackmail game with Lambert.
"The court will now hear the jury's verdict," Lambert intones. He nods to the foreperson. "Have you reached a decision?"
A middle-aged woman in a gray suit stands. Her hands are steady, but her shoulders betray the weight of what she's about to say. She holds up the sealed envelope.
"We have, Your Honor."
The clerk moves forward and collects it, handing it to Lambert. He doesn't rush and opens it with the delicacy of a man peeling back a landmine. He reads with a practiced, neutral expression that gives nothing away. Then hands it back to the jury speaker with a quiet "Proceed."
"On the charge of extortion," Lambert begins. "How does the jury find the defendant?"
Carlos leans into his attorney, whispering something that makes the bastard chuckle, a slick, smug sound that coats my skin like oil. My fists clench in my lap, but I don't move. Not yet.
"Guilty," the juror says.
A ripple spreads through the courtroom. Soft gasps. Whispers. My jaw tightens. My father visibly pales. Good. Finally, he'll start to feel what it's like to be helpless.
"On the charge of racketeering?"
The juror doesn't hesitate. "Guilty."
My father's face simply crumples. His expression doesn't crack, it splinters. One fractured moment of disbelief. Not fear. Not guilt. Just the insult of being told no for the first time in decades.
He shifts his gaze to Lambert with a clenched jaw and murder burning in his eyes. He mouths something I don't catch, but it doesn't matter. It'll be his last show. Suddenly, he surges forward, slamming both fists onto the defense table. "You dirty son of a bitch!"
The room explodes. Security rushes forward as he tries to climb over the desk, red-faced and roaring like a caged animal.
"You're dead, you hear me? DEAD!" He screams, spit flying, while guards twist his arms behind his back and clamp on the cuffs.
Lambert bangs the gavel. "ORDER! ORDER!"
They drag him back, and I finally exhale.
I don't feel anything, no relief, no satisfaction.
Just a growing awareness that, with him gone, I'm a capo, the new King of the Orsi family.
It's not something I ever aspired to. I always thought the crown would go to Angelo, but now that it's mine, I'll defend and keep it with everything I have.
Edoardo doesn't know it yet, but his days are numbered. He will be one of the first to go.
The buzzing starts to fade as the courtroom clears out. I stay seated for a moment longer, letting the feeling of victory sink into me, spread through me. Once I combine family operations with what I built in Sicily, I will be the most powerful capo in New York.
Pretty damn good for a boy who was sent to Sicily at seventeen with nothing but the clothes on his back. It was meant to be an exile, not a punishment. It was intended to be permanent. My father needed me gone so he could mold Angelo into the heir he wanted, someone pliable.
Someone who wouldn't question or challenge him. Someone who would be as brutal and sadistic as he is. Somebody without any moral compass or ethics.
He handed me a one-way ticket and a pat on the shoulder like he was sending me off to summer camp. I boarded that plane with no money, no allies, no plan, just my name, my anger, and my instincts.
But in Sicily, I was reborn. I didn't just survive.
I built something. It started with scraps, almost by coincidence.
A man was about to rape a woman behind a bar.
I nearly killed the bastard right then, but I found out that he was on the board of directors for some pharmaceutical company.
Even back then, at seventeen, I realized that pharmaceuticals would be the mafia's future.
Forget about illegal drugs; the legal ones bring in a lot more money.
And so, my little empire began. Soon, I had something on every single member of the board.
It was a small company, but what they produced was extremely valuable to big pharma. APIs. The flour for the cake.
I made enough money to hire more men, to find more dirt on the leading managers of other companies, and soon I was dictating the prices and saying who got to buy what.
It wasn't always clean. Some of the higher-ups were used to playing hardball.
But they soon learned that their version of hardball was a few limbs and a few quarts of blood removed from the way I played it.
They caved quickly. Now we're all making money.
They call it optimization. I call it control.
Because I still have the leverage over them.
They might have the illusion of power, but I'm the one holding it.
We pushed generic competitors out of markets before they even launched.
Tanked prices when we needed to squeeze someone and stockpiled meds when shortages hit, so we could name our own price.
It's an elegant operation. Quiet. No blood on the streets, just handshakes in back rooms and money in Swiss accounts.
The empire I built is lean, smart, and loyal. Not bloated and arrogant like Carlos's mess back here in New York. The best part is that I don't even have to piss off the old bosses in Sicily. Instead, I earned their respect.
And now?
Now I'm bringing it here. To New York City.
My father's death—because I have no illusions that Toni will allow him to live, even behind bars—means the crown is mine, not just over the Orsi family, but over the opportunity to reshape this entire city.
If I can get the operation running in the States, with our reach and contacts, we'll dominate the market in ways my father never even dreamed of.
The others—Edoardo, Margarita—they're still playing old games with knives and threats. I've already moved past that. The real power is in pharmaceuticals, logistics, and politics. No one questions a man with a white coat and a board seat.
But before I make the next move, before I announce what's coming, I want her by my side. Violet. She's the only thing I didn't plan for. The one piece that doesn't fit into the empire I built, but now I can't imagine the throne without her next to me.
She's the one thing I didn't conquer.
But for some reason, she's mine.
And I'll be damned if I let anything—old ghosts, power plays, or even the wreckage of my past—keep her from me now.