Epilogue
A few days later…
Darkness is bleeding in through the windows, thick and heavy like ink. The city glows behind it, electric, alive, and crawling with secrets. Vegas slowed me down. It was the wrong time to be gone from New York. But necessary.
Since then, every hour has been spent on war prep, meetings, decisions, and clean-up. Giovanni and Roberto left behind a legacy of rot. Now it’s my job to burn the rest down and build something stronger. Something smarter.
Sophia’s been everything. My compass. My voice of reason.
My partner in every goddamn way. I’ve got the tools, the tech, the brute force to hack through digital firewalls and lock down networks, but she’s the one with finesse.
With connections. With intuition. She knows how to move through La Famiglia’s hierarchy like it’s second nature.
She’s not just a queen.
She’s my queen. And whether that crown is worn beside a capo or a Don?
That’s still up for the world to decide. I’m not worried. I’ll let the dice fall where they may… I’m the one who loads them.
Tonight will tip the scale.
I've invited all of them here, Enrico, Marcello, Toni, and Stephano. The last we heard, Stephano was halfway to Mexico with his wife. His wife. The last time I saw the bastard, he was too married to his computers to even look at a woman. Guess we all change.
The door swings open.
First comes Enrico, slapping Marcello on the back, both of them laughing at some inside joke. Toni’s trailing behind, eyes sharp, hands in the pockets of his custom jacket like he’s already counting plays.
I stand, glass in hand—Blue Label for us all.
"Gentlemen," I greet. I offer them each a glass. I don’t waste time. "I’m not here to drag this out with pissing contests or sideways glances. You don’t have to trust me. Not yet. I know I’m the new name in the room. So let me go first."
They take their seats, falling onto the leather couches like kings surveying their territory. I stay on my feet, lean against the wall.
"We all know who the problem is. Who’s poisoning the foundation of La Famiglia."
I don’t say the name.
I don’t need to.
Eyes flick. Marcello’s turn to steel. Enrico raises an eyebrow. And Toni sits back like he’s waiting for a show. Good.
I meet each of their gazes without flinching.
My tone stays even, but every word is carefully measured.
"I’m putting everything on the table—no more secrets.
You already know most of it, like the fact that I’m the bastard son of Donna Margarita and Leonardo Zanello.
Their dirty little secret, born behind closed doors. "
I swirl the glass in my hand once, let the ice clink. By their reaction, it's clear they already knew that part.
"You probably already know the rest of the gory story then. Carlos kept me down and hidden, but I clawed my way up anyway. And now I’m here.
Not to beg for scraps. Not to ask for favors.
I built my own empire, off the grid, outside your games.
But the more I’ve learned, the clearer the rot becomes. "
That gets their attention. "This isn’t about me staking a claim." I pause to make that clear. "This is about cutting out the cancer before it spreads. And if that means burning Edoardo to the fucking ground, I’ll light the first match."
Heavy silence follows my words. I look each of them in the eye.
They don’t trust me. Not yet. And I don't blame them. "I get it. I’m not naive about how things work in La Famiglia. No one in this room is clean. You’ve all bled, and you’ve all buried bodies together.
Loyalty comes in layers: blood, debt, history, fear.
But I also know one thing: every one of you has a score to settle with him. "
A flicker passes across Toni’s face. Enrico’s jaw twitches. Marcello doesn’t blink, but I see it in the way his fingers tap against the armrest; he’s listening.
"You don’t have to say it out loud, but I know." I lift my glass again, not to toast, but to drive the point home. "Toni, your father’s blood was spilled on Edoardo’s watch. Carlos never paid for it. That alone should be enough reason for you to want the man in the ground."
Toni’s expression darkens.
"Enrico, your family is losing a fortune to Edoardo just because you married someone he didn't approve of."
A raised eyebrow from Enrico confirms I’ve hit a nerve.
"And Marcello. You see Edoardo's weakness as what led to you being shot at. You and Violet."
Marcello’s eyes flicker. Sharp. Controlled. But yeah—he remembers.
"This isn’t about morality. I’m not here to sell you on some noble crusade.
" I take a step forward, voice quieter, heavier. "And yeah, I blackmailed my way into becoming a capo. Let’s not pretend it was a clean deal. I gave Edoardo two options—he could name me capo... or I’d challenge him for the throne, openly and legally, as Leonardo Zanello’s firstborn.
He chose the option that let him save face. "
I let that sit. They’d probably already figured as much. "But I’m not naive enough to think he did it out of the goodness of his heart. Or fear. He’s playing something with the Venezuelans, something big. If we don’t stop him soon, he’ll sell out La Famiglia completely."
Toni shifts, his jaw tightens. Enrico’s mouth presses into a hard line. Good. They've already connected the dots.
"You couldn’t challenge him before," I add, "because there was no alternative. No heir. No leverage. But now..."
I spread my hands.
"Now, there is."
Marcello leans back with a derisive chuckle, arms crossed, and he keeps his voice low but sharp. "There it is. You want our help to become Don."
I meet his eyes, calm. Unbothered. "I’m not going to pretend the thought hasn’t crossed my mind."
Toni snorts into his glass.
"But," I continue, "speaking in profitable terms—profitable to all of us—La Famiglia needs to be stable. That won’t happen if I bully my way onto the throne and force every capo in the city to kiss the ring."
Toni scoffs again, but this time there’s no humor. Just cold cynicism. "And we’re supposed to believe that Leonardo Zanello’s son is suddenly ready to give up his birthright for the—" he lifts both hands, making exaggerated air quotes, "greater good?"
His voice drips with sarcasm, but I don’t flinch. Instead, I nod. "I imagine you’ve heard of Umbra Arcana."
That name stills the room. Three sharp glances flick toward me. No one says anything. They know the name. Maybe not what it means—but enough to recognize the weight. I exhale slowly. "It used to be called Omertà Infernale."
Now I have their full attention.
Marcello straightens in his seat. Enrico lowers his glass, still as stone. Toni’s fingers pause on the rim.
"Nothing happens in this city—or the next five over—without my systems blinking a light.
Most of you think I'm just some off-grid soldier with a chip on his shoulder. And I was, until I turned that chip into leverage. Into surveillance. Into a network that’s been watching everyone—including Edoardo. "
Chairs don’t scrape. No one moves. But every man in this room is now laser-focused on me. Then, from the edge of the couch, Toni murmurs something between narrowed eyes. Then he says, "Wait… are you telling us—you’re the boss of Omertà Infernale?"
The weight of the name drops like a grenade. A beat passes, followed by a low whistle from Marcello. Enrico glances at Toni. Toni glances at Marcello. Nobody looks at me. Not directly. They're recalibrating, measuring me all over again.
And I’m not entirely sure if this revelation just made me ten times more valuable or ten times more dangerous.
Then Enrico stands, and I brace, because there is murder in his eyes. "Ledyanoy Prizrak worked for Omertà Infernale. The same ghost who tried to kill me. Who set a bomb at my wedding and tried to kill my wife."
My spine straightens.
I raise both hands, slow and steady, a gesture of peace, but make no mistake—I'm still ready to defend myself if I have to.
"Ledyanoy Prizrak never worked for me. He came to me, uninvited, claiming to be my uncle."
The words hang there, absurd and true. "I didn’t recruit him. I didn’t hire him. I didn’t even trust him. He wanted something from me. But I had nothing to do with the bombing, Enrico. I swear. Had I known, I would have stopped it."
I let that settle, then drive the point home. "Which, by the way, all of that and the attempts on Marcello's life were orchestrated by Donna Margarita. Not me. Your beef was with her—and him—not me."
They study me in silence.
I hold their eyes, one by one.
"I don’t deal in shadows anymore. You’re looking at the man who turned Omertà Infernale into Umbra Arcana—not to build a criminal empire in the dark, but to shine a light on the rot that’s been eating away at La Famiglia."
Enrico sits back down, empties his glass, and sets it down hard on the table. Nobody moves.
"This isn’t about power. Not just. It’s about control.
About keeping our enemies from getting their hands on our throats while we’re busy stabbing each other in the back," I say.
"This is why I'm laying all my cards on the table.
Letting you know that before I became capo, I was already a king in my own right.
"And if I have to give up my birthright to make sure La Famiglia survives the next five years? I’ll do it. But I’m not going to stand by while a man like Edoardo sells us to the highest bidder in Caracas."
I cross my arms and lean into the silence.
Your move, boys.
Marcello rubs his chin, "Well, if we're playing open-handed, I was the one who killed Donna Margarita." He glares at me, waiting for backlash.
I shrug, "No tears here. She was a manipulative bitch, and if you hadn't done it, I would have."
Our eyes meet, hold. A beat passes, then he nods.
"Fine, I got rid of Ledyanoy Prizrak, the fucking bastard." Enrico gets up to refill his glass, turning his back to me as if testing if I'll stab him. I'd be crazy to do that. Not only are the other two watching me, but again, because I won't shed a tear over the loss of my uncle.
"I hope he at least spilled some secrets?" I throw at his back.
He stops for just a fraction of a moment. Then he continues to fill his glass. "Unfortunately, he killed himself before I could ask too many questions. Cyanide." He turns. Drinks the Blue Label down.
"Shit." I push myself off the wall to refill my own glass, moving past Enrico. When my glass is filled, he clinks his against mine.
Toni shrugs, "I don't have anything to add to the body count in your family. But I hope we can still be friends?"
Light laughter rumbles through the room, and the tension lowers. I realize the other three have been through more in the past few months that bound them together, and I'm still an outsider, but this? It's a start.
"Alright, so what's the deal with Ledyanoy Prizrak and Donna Margarita?" Enrico asks before sitting down again.
"I'm still looking into it. Besides them being half-siblings and growing up in…"
The door opens and interrupts me. Stephano enters, followed by an astonishingly beautiful redhead. Oksana Arsenyev.
"Hey kids," he drawls, like he’s walking into a poker night, not a war council. "Did the game start without me?"
But I freeze. Not because of what he says. Because of how he looks. Stephano Conti has always been clean-cut, polished, even at his most dangerous. But now?
He looks like hell.
Like he’s been through a warzone. Or maybe to hell and back.
There are lines in his face that weren’t there before—cutting deep, etched into his skin like they were carved by pain, not time. His humor is intact, the smirk, the confidence, but behind it… There's something darker. Something coiled and raw that didn’t exist before.
Whatever happened in Mexico didn’t just change him. It scarred him.
His eyes flick around the room, calm and calculating. And then, "This is my wife, Oksana."
I catch the ripple of surprise going around the room. Even Enrico shifts like someone just jabbed him.
Stephano strolls across the room, all smooth swagger, to cover the new darkness surrounding him. He tosses a thumb drive onto the table like it’s a casual ante. It lands with a soft clack—but it echoes like a detonator.
"Here’s the ammunition to shut Edoardo down for good, courtesy of my brother, who, by the way, isn't dead," he says. "All his dealings with the Venezuelans—emails, bank records, coded drops. Even early ties through Donna Margarita and our good buddy Ledyanoy Prizrak."
That name again. Like rot creeping in through old wood.
Stephano lowers himself into the nearest seat, one arm draped casually across the backrest like he hasn’t just dropped a nuke in the middle of the room.
"I know, I know… I’m the groom. I should be getting the gifts. But Oksana here—” he tips his head at his wife, who smiles, and who might actually be more dangerous than all of us combined—"convinced me it was time I got generous."
He shrugs, and for a flicker of a second, something slips through—like pain, or loss, or blood that won’t wash off.
"What can I say? Marriage changes a man."
No one speaks.
"What?" Stephano glances around. "What did I miss?"
THE END