TC (5-8) | ENG

5 — Meeting with the Dons

The meeting room, built around a long table meant for ten men, was now fully occupied.

A row of middle-aged men sat in tailored suits and ties, their attire dominated by dark, restrained colors. Power favored subtlety here.

Roman sat flanked by Renato and Roscoe. Reeve had been invited as well, seated a short distance behind him. From his position, Reeve caught the same flicker of confusion that passed through the room. The absence was unmistakable.

Don Alphonse Burgueno, ruler of Little Iraly, was nowhere to be seen.

In his place sat only his heir, Roman Burgueno, bearing a face marred by bruises and swelling.

Reeve quietly studied the assembled kings of the underworld, committing names to faces as his senses drank them in. Some of them he recognized immediately.

Each crime family of New Yord was represented, every Don accompanied by his deputy or consigliere.

There was Don Luigi Labruzzo of the Labruzzo clan, sovereign over New Hersey, seated beside his notorious second-in-command, Gianluigi Castillo, the one-eyed enforcer whose reputation preceded him.

Don Salvatore Cavallo of the Provenzano clan, operating out of Brookine, was present as well. Of all the men in the room, he had been the closest to Don Alphonse Burgueno. His deputy, Antonio Garafallo, was far older than the rest, perhaps the most senior mafioso in attendance.

Don Giorgio Restagno, who ruled over Clayton, arrived with his lieutenant, Saverio Bellomo.

And then there was Don Maurice Castellano, master of Manhatten, accompanied by Vincent Santora.

Maurice Castellano, known as The Angel Face, was an anomaly. His features were mournful, almost fragile, as though he carried no strength at all. Yet everyone in the room knew better. Beneath that sorrowful face lay a quiet ferocity and nerve capable of freezing blood.

His resemblance to Wayne Castellano, the relentless prosecutor waging war against the mafia, was impossible to ignore. Maurice and Wayne shared the same parents, the same blood, faces not far removed from one another, yet lives and convictions that stood on opposite ends of the world.

Only recently, when Reeve had pieced together Ivander Campbell’s identity and his connection to Olivia from their school days, he had also realized something else.

Wayne Castellano was Camila’s father.

And Don Maurice Castellano’s daughter, Jessica, had been his friend too.

The world was small, Reeve reflected with a private smile. Names that once filled the innocence of his childhood were resurfacing now, sharpened by power and danger. He wondered, briefly, how Camila and Jessica were doing.

Roman rose from his chair, clearly deciding to waste no time.

It was the first time Reeve had ever seen him dressed so formally, a tailored suit and tie replacing his usual recklessness. The care was understandable. This was Roman’s first time presiding over a meeting of Dons, and first impressions mattered.

He looked imposing despite the violence etched into his face. His presence radiated a charisma unlike his father’s, sharper, more volatile. Only the bruises dimmed what would otherwise have been a striking visage.

“Good evening, esteemed Dons,” Roman began, his voice calm, precise. “I sincerely thank you all for attending on such short notice. I apologize for the suddenness of the invitation. I understand how demanding your schedules are, and I truly appreciate your willingness to make time for this meeting.”

His gaze swept across the room.

“I also ask your indulgence regarding my appearance tonight. As you can see, I’m not in the best condition.”

“What is the purpose of this emergency meeting, Roman?” Don Castellano interjected. “And where is Don Burgueno?”

A faint, calculating smile curved Roman’s lips.

“Before I answer that, Don Castellano,” he said smoothly, “I’d like to ask all of you a question.”

He paused, letting silence tighten its grip on the room.

“What is your opinion of my father… Don Alphonse Burgueno?”

Don Cavallo was the first to respond.

“A wise Don,” he said. “A man respected by many.”

“He is a loyal friend,” Don Restagno added. “A father who loves his children without spoiling them. You are his son. You should know that better than anyone.”

“Not quite,” Roman replied, the sly smile never leaving his face. “That is only the mask he wears in public. Beneath the virtues you admire so much—his wisdom, his honor—you all know what kind of man the Don truly is.”

“Wait,” Don Labruzzo cut in. “What exactly are you getting at, Roman? Why have you gathered us here to speak about your father?”

“Because I want us to be aligned,” Roman said evenly. “Hasn’t Don Burgueno grown excessively greedy? Claiming every prime business for himself, leaving the scraps to the rest of you?”

His gaze moved deliberately from one Don to another.

“Without naming names… hasn’t each of you, at some point, been at odds with my father? Through calculated schemes and quiet manipulation, he engineered monopolies over industries that should have belonged to all of you. Casino operations. Nightlife. Hotel networks. Supermarkets. The list goes on, but time is not on my side.”

A pause.

“He took everything. And what did you receive in return? The dregs.”

Offended, Don Cavallo rose from his chair without a word, clearly intending to leave.

“Don Salvatore Cavallo,” Roman called out, halting him mid-step. “Didn’t Don Alphonse approach you with charm and charisma, until you lowered your guard and believed his intentions were pure? Didn’t he offer you friendship?”

Roman’s voice sharpened, though it remained calm.

“Of course he had to befriend you. He needed to stay close, so you wouldn’t see the manipulation. I believe he was practicing a famous maxim: Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Doesn’t that trouble you? Think carefully. And this applies to the rest of you as well.”

Roman knew he had struck his mark.

Don Cavallo stood frozen. Around the table, tension thickened the air. No one spoke, yet no one objected. Roman’s words had landed with brutal precision.

“These are Don Alphonse’s sins,” Roman continued. “You may decide for yourselves whether my words ring true. And…” He paused, drawing in a measured breath. “There is one more grave sin he has committed. Recently.”

Every eye in the room fixed on him. The silence vibrated.

“You are all familiar with the late Don Angelo Granoche,” Roman said, beginning his tale, “the man who pioneered the development of human cloning as a business of the future. Unfortunately, he died too soon—before witnessing how far the science had progressed.”

“The scientists involved approached Don Alphonse to establish a new contract,” Roman went on. “But he refused. Yes. Don Alphonse rejected the continuation of Don Granoche’s legacy simply because the cloning business conflicted with his faith.”

He let the words settle.

“The scientists also mentioned that a group of mobsters from Ruzia had approached them, expressing serious interest in the cloning venture.”

Murmurs rippled through the room.

Reeve frowned inwardly. Where is this story coming from?

“Yet those scientists still possessed a sense of honor,” Roman said smoothly. “They did not forget the sacrifices Don Angelo Granoche made for their laboratory. So they came to Don Alphonse, Granoche’s successor. They offered the business to him first.”

Roman’s smile sharpened.

“But as I told you earlier, my father rejected them outright. He all but handed them over to the Ruzian mobsters.”

A low, uneasy rustle spread among the Dons, like the first warning tremor before an earthquake.

“Can you imagine it?” Roman pressed on. “A business of the future. A business worth millions of dollars. Gone in an instant, falling straight into the hands of mobsters. Where does that leave our pride as Iralian men? Defeated by Ruzia? Is that what we are now?”

The murmurs grew louder, threaded with tightening expressions around the table. Faces hardened. The air turned sour.

“But I stopped it,” Roman said, his voice steady, almost noble. “Gentlemen, I stepped forward. I had the courage to sign the contract with those scientists myself. Yes. The business is safe in my hands now. It did not let it fall into the hands of mobsters.”

He drew another long breath.

“Because I signed that contract behind my father’s back, he was furious. Furious enough to cast me out. And yes, I know I was wrong to bypass Don Alphonse’s authority. But what I did, I did to secure that business from those mobsters. Is that truly wrong?”

Reeve turned his face away slightly. Roman had crafted his fairy tale with precision. And Reeve could see it working. The Dons were swallowing it whole.

“I know I am not wrong,” Roman continued. “And I hope you, too, will agree that I committed no crime. My father’s willingness to let the cloning business fall into the hands of mobsters—that, to me, is the real wrongdoing. He refuses to see reason. He simply wants to push away anything he deems immoral. So I ask you—what should be done with him?”

“So what is your plan, Roman?” Don Maurice Castellano finally spoke.

“How do we change my father’s stubborn convictions?” Roman shook his head. “We can’t. He will always be an obstacle. Which is why I seek your blessing—to remove him. Once and for all.”

A hiss of disbelief rippled around the table.

“You want to remove your father?” Don Restagno asked sharply. “Your own father?”

“There is no other way,” Roman replied without hesitation. “I am willing to bear that sin myself, as long as the cloning business continues without disruption. And if you grant me your blessing…” He leaned forward slightly. “I swear to divide the net profits equally. Fifteen percent each.”

He paused, letting the numbers speak.

“You should know—though the business is still young, we already have hundreds of potential clients. And that number grows daily. Five hundred thousand dollars per head. You are all educated men. Geniuses. Surely you can calculate the revenue yourselves. Can you imagine how much that will be?”

“So each of us receives fifteen percent,” Don Labruzzo said slowly, his voice deep and heavy, “in exchange for sanctioning the removal of Don Burgueno?”

“That’s correct.” Roman nodded, smiling. “A generous stream of passive income, wouldn’t you agree?”

He’s insane, Reeve thought. Roman was selling his own father’s life and sweetening the deal with profit. Worse, he had already succeeded in dredging up old resentments, planting them carefully like seeds. Still, Reeve wasn’t convinced it would work.

“I agree.”

Don Restagno’s voice cut through the room.

Reeve’s eyes nearly burst from their sockets.

***

“I’m entrusting this mission to you,” Roman said to Reeve as soon as they arrived at Renato’s residence to continue the discussion. His elation was unmistakable, still clinging to him after the Commission meeting ended in unanimous agreement.

“Me?” Reeve’s eyes widened.

“Of course you.” Roman scoffed lightly. “Renato never stops boasting about how fast you’ve grown, especially your skill with firearms. And I hear you’ve earned yourself a new nickname now. Sin Forgiver. You execute your enemies based on the sins they’ve committed. Stylish.” 

He grinned. “Come then, O absolver of sins… forgive my father’s sins and send him swiftly to the afterlife.”

Reeve answered only with a strange look.

“I don’t agree with this,” Roscoe interjected. “This isn’t child’s play. The target is your own father. A man of stature.”

“I knew you’d object,” Roman replied coolly. “But think about it. He knows that you, Renato, and I have turned against him. Does he know about Reeve’s involvement? I doubt it. He’ll let his guard down around Reeve. He won’t be suspicious if Reeve gets close. Poison, perhaps, or something else. He wouldn’t see it coming.”

Renato nodded. “Roman’s right. Neither Roscoe nor I can act. This requires a soldier with nerve and a spine of steel. Your men?” He shook his head. “Each has weaknesses I don’t trust. My own soldier, Tonio?” Renato snorted. “Don’t even mention him. He’s been acting out, defying me. Reeve is actually searching for him as we speak. That leaves only Reeve. We give him the chance.”

“Well,” Roscoe muttered with a shrug, “if that’s how it is.”

“So, Reeve?” Renato turned to him. “Are you ready? Prove that you’re capable.”

This was a rare opportunity. A decisive moment to prove his worth, to show that he deserved recognition and fear. The weight of it pushed him forward.

Reeve nodded. “I can do it.”

Roman stepped closer and clapped a hand on Reeve’s shoulder. “Then tell us,” he said. “What’s your plan? How will you carry out a monumental task like this?”

A cunning smile curved Reeve’s lips. A sharp, calculating glint flickered in his eyes as he looked at Roman.

***

That Sunday morning, Reeve was already in position on the rooftop of a five-story apartment building.

Across from him stood a grand church, its imposing façade crowned by twenty wide stone steps rising toward the entrance. From where he lay, Reeve had a clear, unobstructed view of the two-story structure. Mass was still in progress inside. He had confirmed Don Alphonse Burgueno’s presence hours earlier, thanks to surveillance that began at sunrise. Now there was only one thing left to do—wait for the Don to emerge. When he did, the rifle in Reeve’s hands would speak.

He struck a lighter and brought flame to the cigarette resting between his lips, inhaling slowly.

He had never imagined his life would carry him this far. But there was no turning back. The execution had to proceed exactly as ordered.

The church doors opened. Parishioners filtered out at an unhurried pace. Reeve stiffened, every sense sharpening. His keen eyes tracked the movement, waiting for his target to appear.

He drew deeply on the cigarette. Nicotine settled his nerves, smoothing the edge of his focus. It wasn’t fear that stirred the unease in him. He’d done this before. Many times. What made this different was who stood in his crosshairs—the head of the family, the highest authority in the Burgueno clan.

The very man who had inducted him as a made man. Who had welcomed him with a kiss on both cheeks, warm and paternal, like a father greeting a son.

Still, Reeve agreed with Roman. The Don was old. Outdated. Fossilized in beliefs that had no place in the future. A man willing to turn away obscene profits out of misplaced morality had no business ruling.

This would be extraordinary. Killing a Don.

A perfect addition to his portfolio.

A sly smile tugged at Reeve’s lips.

Then he saw him.

Don Alphonse emerged alongside Vanessa. The two descended the steps together, talking casually, even cheerfully. They had no idea what waited for them in the next few seconds.

To hell with titles, Reeve thought. Don or not, the pay is what matters. Finish it.

He aligned the scope with the Don’s head, finger tightening on the trigger.

Then he stopped.

A man stepped in close, momentarily blocking the target. Reeve clicked his tongue in irritation, forcing himself to wait. A second later, the man bent respectfully and kissed the Don’s hand before stepping away.

Now.

Without hesitation, Reeve pulled the trigger.

Twice.

Don Alphonse Burgueno collapsed, his body tumbling down the stone steps. Vanessa’s scream tore through the air, joined by the panicked cries of the onlookers.

***

Roman’s plan to eliminate his father succeeded flawlessly.

With Don Alphonse gone, Roman ascended automatically, assuming his father’s seat as the new Don Burgueno. He purged the remnants of the old guard, replacing them swiftly with his own allies.

Power consolidated into a triumvirate: Roman, Roscoe, and Renato.

Renato was appointed sottocapo, the underboss. Roscoe became consigliere, legal counsel and chief adviser to the Burgueno family.

And Reeve Galante—the trusted executioner—rose in rank as well, promoted to caporegime.

The throne had changed hands.

 

6 — In the Club

From a VIP lounge inside one of New Yord’s most exclusive nightclubs, Reeve watched hundreds of young bodies crowd the dance floor below, moving in unison to the relentless pulse of trance mixed by the most celebrated DJ in all of Amerida. He lingered over his scotch, eyes roaming the sea of motion, deliberately ignoring the calls from his friends seated farther back.

According to the information he’d gathered, Tonio Gallo was a regular here. Still tasked with tracking him down, Reeve decided to fold business into pleasure, spending the night with friends and one of his familiar escorts.

Tonio Gallo.

Reeve exhaled sharply, again and again, remembering how things had once been between them. Tonio had never struck him as the type to betray the family. And yet, reality had proven otherwise.

He recalled Renato’s fury when the truth came out—Tonio entangled with someone from a rival family, increasingly absent, careless with his duties as a capo. Renato’s anger was justified. He had been the one who brought Tonio in, only to be repaid with negligence and disloyalty.

Tonight, Reeve would settle the matter. For the sake of the Burgueno family. And to avenge Renato.

Renato.

A sly smile curved Reeve’s lips. Why should he still bend over backward for Renato? There was no need to be so loyal to the bulky underboss, he reminded himself. Renato wasn’t exactly clean either.

The memory surfaced from the night before, after their weekly meeting. Roman had stormed out, unaware that Olivia entered moments later looking for him. Instead of directing her, Renato had flirted openly, shamelessly. He’d done it right there, in front of Reeve, Roscoe, and several other capos—so casually, with the woman who belonged to the Don himself.

Perhaps Renato thought himself untouchable. Either way, it wasn’t something Reeve respected.

Someone approached. Just as he expected, Nina slipped into his space, draping herself around his neck with practiced intimacy.

“What are you doing all alone here, sweetheart?” she purred.

Reeve didn’t answer. Instead, he studied her face—beautiful, innocent-looking, and above all, those lips. Full. Soft. A vivid red that caught his attention every time.

He leaned in and claimed her mouth, slow at first, then deeper, until she was breathless beneath the kiss.

When he pulled away, Nina looked up at him with a shy smile, biting her lower lip like a girl tasting her first forbidden affection. Reeve knew better. That innocence was a gift of nature, nothing more. Beneath it lay a young woman well-versed in desire, expertly attuned to the needs of men like him.

He kissed her again, indulgently, letting her trail kisses along his neck and slide her hand over his broad chest beneath his shirt. All the while, his gaze remained fixed on the dance floor one level below.

Then he saw him.

A young man emerged from the crowd, descending from the dance floor with a woman in tow. There was something about him—something in the way he moved—that caught Reeve’s attention and refused to let go.

Still occupied with stoking his desire, Nina whispered against his ear, “Reeve… let’s go back to your place and finish this.”

Once again, Reeve did not respond. His attention remained fixed on the young man, who had now taken a seat at the bar with his girlfriend, downing tequila with easy familiarity.

For no clear reason, the man felt familiar.

Reeve was certain of it. Certain he had known him once. Perhaps even been close to him, at some point during his nineteen years walking this world. Yet the memory refused to surface, dulled as if wrapped in fog.

The young man leaned close to his girlfriend, murmuring something that made her smile, before a few other men approached and greeted him briefly. He was tall and solidly built, roughly Reeve’s age, with a distinctly Iralian handsomeness. Long black hair tied neatly back from his face.

Reeve was sure of one thing at least. That man carried Iralian blood, just like him.

But that alone was not enough to unlock the name, the place, the moment. His thoughts scraped against something just out of reach, growing frustratingly blunt.

He was still straining to remember when Nina, who had been lavishing him with attention all night, finally snapped.

“Reeve! Why are you ignoring me like this?” she snapped, irritation breaking through her practiced sweetness.

Receiving no answer yet again, Nina followed his gaze. Her eyes tracked toward the bar, landing on the man Reeve had been watching all along.

“Oh,” she said slowly. “So that’s it? You’re staring at him? The guy with the tied hair?” Her lips curved with curiosity. “Or are you looking at the girl he’s with?”

She leaned closer, feigning offense. “I’m still prettier than her, you know.”

“Do you know him?” Reeve asked at last.

“Mmh.” Nina nodded. “I wouldn’t say I know him well. But yeah, he comes here pretty often. Sometimes I keep him company. His name’s Stone. That’s what his friends call him.”

“Stone?” Reeve scoffed. “Rock? That’s a ridiculous name.”

“Stone Killer,” she corrected lightly. “That’s his nickname. People say he doesn’t hesitate to use his fists when he has to. You know.” She shrugged. “Not so different from you.”

She smiled knowingly. “You’re Sin Forgiver, remember? The man who absolves sins. I guess people like you all love nicknames. Labels to replace real names.”

By “people like you,” Nina meant the men she had served for years. Mafiosi. Men who lived by codes written in blood.

Men like Reeve Galante.

Now a capo, a captain, Reeve’s reputation had grown rapidly, sharpened by his particular way of dealing with enemies. He almost never pulled the trigger outright, except on rare, symbolic occasions. Like the night he ended the life of Don Alphonse Burgueno.

More often, he bound his enemies hand and foot and spoke to them calmly, patiently, from a place of absolute control. He extracted what he needed. Sometimes information. Sometimes only remorse, slow and suffocating.

And when he decided their guilt was beyond redemption, he did not kill them immediately.

He punished the part of the body that had committed the sin.

Not against him.

But against the integrity of the Burgueno family.

There had been a time when Reeve was ordered to deal with one of the family’s associates who had crossed a line by laying hands on one of Renato Gravano’s girlfriends.

After tracking the man down, Reeve bound his hands and feet and forced him to lie inside a coffin.

Calmly, almost gently, Reeve told him that the source of his sin was his hands. He crushed them with the butt of his pistol.

“Vital organs,” he said next, before firing into the man’s groin.

Ignoring the screams, Reeve then destroyed both of the man’s eyes with two clean pulls of the trigger, stating that it was those filthy eyes that had led him astray in the first place.

Only after that did he consign the coffin, with its cargo, to the open sea.

When Reeve Galante executed his enemies, he did so like a god passing judgment. He often invoked a verse from the Gospels that declared:

"If your hand or your foot causes you to stumble, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life maimed or crippled than to have two hands or two feet and be thrown into eternal fire. And if your eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life with one eye than to have two eyes and be thrown into the fire of hell."

Whatever demon had possessed him, it had convinced Reeve that he had the right to judge and execute those who sinned against the Burgueno family.

And that was precisely what made him feared. And respected. It was also why Don Roman Burgueno, the head of the family, trusted him implicitly.

This signature method earned him the nickname Sin Forgiver, the man who grants absolution. Many of his peers, however, found the name too long and impractical, so they shortened it to Sinner instead.

The meaning was almost the complete opposite of his true title. But the irony amused them, and the brevity made it stick.

Reeve himself could not have cared less.

To him, he was simply Reeve Galante. A capable and trusted Burgueno mafioso. A capo with men under his command. A caporegime who had earned his place.

He let out a short, amused snort at Nina’s comment.

“So what?”

“But out of all of you,” Nina said, trailing her fingers over his shoulder as she clung to him sweetly, “your nickname is the only one that impresses me. It’s cool. Why Sin Forgiver, anyway?”

“Well,” Reeve replied, unfazed, “let’s just say I’m an angel of death who offers his victims a chance to repent.”

Nina giggled. She was about to resume her seduction when Reeve interrupted.

“Do you know his real name? That Stone guy.”

Nina pouted. “Why are you so curious about him?”

“Because I think I know him.”

“Really?” She paused, thinking. “Well… if I remember correctly, his real name is Flav Maranzano.”

The moment the name left her lips, Reeve stiffened.

And just like that, the fog in his mind lifted.

7 — A Reunion

Flav “Stone Killer” Maranzano drained his tequila and let his gaze sweep the room. His dark eyes—sharp, unyielding—roamed in search of a woman worth his attention: someone who would lock eyes with him and, ideally, end up in his bed tonight.

Then he spotted a slender young man walking toward him. Shoulder-length black hair, a thin scar cutting across his right cheek. The moment Flav saw his face, a flicker of recognition stirred—he was certain he’d met this man before. He tried to remember, but the name wouldn’t come.

Reeve Galante took a seat beside the young man Nina had earlier identified as Flav Maranzano—aka Stone. Flav was on his God-knew-which tequila, studying the flow of people around them. Still, Reeve could feel it: the man’s guarded curiosity, his awareness sharpened by interest.

Reeve ordered a scotch and took a measured sip. Without turning his head, he said, “Flavio Maranzano?”

Flav didn’t move, didn’t shift his posture—but Reeve caught the subtle jolt of surprise at hearing that name.

In a flat voice, still facing forward, Flav replied, “Nobody calls me Flavio.”

Reeve chuckled softly. “I know. You hated that name so much you practically forced everyone to call you Flav. And now you’ve got yourself a nickname—‘Stone Killer.’ Huh, Stone?”

Flav turned to him, brow furrowing. “Who the hell are you?”

Reeve turned as well, breaking into a wide grin. “It’s me, man. Reeve Galante. Ah—don’t tell me you forgot about me already.” He slung an arm around Flav’s shoulders.

In an instant, memories from schooldays came flooding back as Flav heard the scarred man say his name. Now he remembered—of course he did. They’d known each other. They’d been close, once.

“Reeve!” Flav exclaimed, pulling him into a tight embrace, holding on for a few seconds as if reclaiming lost time. “Man, what are you doing here? How’ve you been?”

Reeve grinned. “Good. It’s been ages—I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Yeah, same here,” Flav laughed. “Especially with that permanent decoration on your face. What, you a gang boss now?”

Reeve didn’t answer right away. He smiled faintly. “A gang boss only ever manages garbage,” he said lightly.

“Oh?” Flav arched a brow. “So you finally put that Sivily blood of yours to use—the thing we used to admire from afar?”

“Yeah. Exactly like you said.” Reeve lifted his glass. “And you—don’t tell me you wasted your Sivily blood.”

“Why would I?” Flav shot back, and they both burst out laughing.

“So,” Reeve said, “guess we’re no longer the naïve Flav and Reeve who could only dream about La Cosa Nostra. What role did you end up with?”

He took another sip of scotch. “I got lucky. Back when I was still doing grunt work, Renato Gravano—the capo of the Burgueno clan—noticed me and recruited me straight into sgarrista. I hadn’t even put myself forward. Turns out he’d been watching me for a long time and decided I was worthy of the Family. He’s the mentor I respect most.”

“Straight to soldier?” Flav whistled. “Damn, that’s luck. I had to claw my way up—bloody fights with rivals, one after another. Eventually I became a soldier under Frank Magaddino. You know him, right? Capo of the Provenzano clan.” He paused, then shrugged with a crooked smile. “And… two days ago, I took his place.”

“Yeah,” Reeve said coolly. “I heard about his death. Frozen stiff under a pile of salmon in his own cannery warehouse. Magaddino really did ‘sleep with the fishes.’ Whoever did that must’ve been so thin-skinned they took that old saying literally.”

His eyes stayed on Flav’s face, searching for a reaction.

Flav merely smiled—a cold, unreadable curve of the lips—and said nothing.

“So,” Reeve went on, “there was a reason you chose the Provenzano clan. Salvatore Cavallo—he’s close to you, isn’t he?”

“Of course,” Flav answered at once. “Cavallo treated me like his own son. He was close to my father, and I used to be friends with his kid, Louis. Why would I apply to another clan when Cavallo trusts me—and was likely to hand his position to me anyway?” The arrogance in his voice was unmistakable.

“You sneaky little bastard!” Reeve laughed, punching Flav lightly on the shoulder. “That’s the Flav I remember. Bastard—your luck is unreal.”

Flav’s laughter rang out, bright and unapologetic.

“So,” Reeve added, “how’s your old man? If I remember right, he used to force you to take over his business. What ever came of that?”

Flav snorted. “How did it turn out? It didn’t. Back then I decided to follow your trail—disappear from the world, and ‘seclude’ myself into becoming the man you see now. My father’s business was handed over to my sister, Antonella—I heard it from Cavallo. And my father… he died three years ago. Cavallo told me with a tone that sounded like he was blaming me. But why should I care?”

“Come on,” Reeve said calmly. “You’ve chosen your own path now. One that’s fully yours—and one you clearly enjoy. That’s what we live for, isn’t it? Besides, this is New Yord. The largest and strongest organizational network in the entire Amerida. Doesn’t that make you proud? Provenzano controls the biggest hotel and real estate networks in the country. They monopolize industrial development across multiple states. And then there’s Provenzano’s exclusive business with the Frenchye—wow. Just imagine the profit margins. Money. There’s nothing more exquisite than money. You agree, don’t you?”

Reeve smiled, studying Flav’s face. Flav was smiling too.

“Everything I’ve achieved so far satisfies me,” Flav said. “It fuels my appetite. Why would I step back now? Oh—and that exclusive business you mentioned? To me, that’s the future. A very promising one. I really hope that one day I’ll be the one handling all of it. Cavallo’s lost his fire. He’s not the man he used to be. Damn it—he’s getting older, weaker by the day.”

“Then start your own revolution,” Reeve said lightly. “Overthrow your aging Don. You have my full support.”

Flav scoffed. “Why don’t you do it instead? Take over all of Burgueno’s gold mines—rule the gambling empire, dominate the largest cocaine distribution network, and most importantly, control the human cloning business. I hear the net profits are… delicious.” He laughed. “You’re making me want to steal that business from you.”

“Hey—over my dead body,” Reeve shot back, laughing. “I won’t betray Burgueno.”

Flav smirked. “What, scared of that wayward son?”

“Flav, I still want to live and enjoy myself. I’m not stupid enough to mess with that man.”

“If you keep bowing to Roman Burgueno, you’ll never rise any higher.”

Reeve met Flav’s gaze and smiled with quiet confidence. “One day, I believe I’ll rule all of New Yord. Especially our future-facing businesses. So no, Flav—it won’t just be your nuclear empire.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” Flav replied. “By the way, I still don’t understand—when did the cloning research actually begin? How did they manage to make those clone-robots so convincingly human? Convincing enough to attract customers, no less.”

“Yeah,” Reeve said. “Turns out a lot of people want clones. Even a senator’s shown interest. The truth is, human cloning research started twenty-five years ago. It was Don Granoche’s idea—Burgueno’s predecessor. The scientists involved agreed to work with him. Granoche poured in massive funding, hoping to see his new venture succeed with his own eyes. But death got to him first. Twenty-five years later, when the research was nearly complete, they approached Don Alphonse Burgueno—Granoche’s successor—with a partnership proposal.”

“Alphonse refused,” Flav said flatly.

“Right. He rejected the cloning business outright. But Roman was obsessed with it. He signed the contract behind his father’s back. When his betrayal was discovered, Roman convinced the High Commission to let him eliminate his own father. And that was that.”

Flav snorted. “At least I’m not as unfilial as Roman.”

“You’re a better version of Roman,” Reeve said. “Which is another way of saying—you’re the same as him. Just not as reckless or as brutal.”

“Bastard,” Flav growled. “And you think you’re righteous?”

Reeve only chuckled.

“So Roman took his father’s seat just like that,” Flav muttered. “Damn. Cunning and rotten to the core.”

“He immediately purged all of Alphonse’s right-hand men and subordinates,” Reeve went on, unfazed, “and filled the vacancies with his own allies. Roscoe Valachi as advisor. Renato Gravano as deputy. The rest of the capo positions—including mine. And honestly, I’m grateful. If Gravano had stayed in his old post before Roman rose to power, I wouldn’t be where I am now.”

“You’re the most conniving of them all,” Flav said.

Reeve ignored the jab. “Isn’t it time the younger generation took over and pushed aside those mustachioed old men who can no longer deliver? You should start a revolution in your clan. You know what Salvatore Cavallo is like—and his deputy, Antonio Garafallo? Same type..”

“You want to see me crushed by the Commission?”

“Of course not. But if you’re willing to execute your own mentor… why not take the first step?”

Flav stared at Reeve for a long moment, then smiled, holding back a laugh. “How did you know?”

“Easy to read, my friend.” Reeve slipped an arm around Flav’s shoulders. “And it’s given me more than enough clarity for my next move.”

“Whatever that move is.” Flav took a sip. “By the way—do you know how the others are doing? From back then. Honestly, I still think about them.”

Reeve smiled. “I do too. The old crew. I don’t know where everyone ended up, but I do know about Olive. You remember her, right?”

“Olive? Oh—Campbell? Ivander Campbell’s precious daughter? The darling of La Cosa Nostra’s eternal enemy?”

“That’s her. She walked away from her father’s comfortable home and chose to live with Roman Burgueno.”

“Seriously?” Flav let out a low laugh. “So even the daughter of a famous federal prosecutor like Campbell can fall head over heels for a mafioso. The very thing that bastard hates most. And Olive—yeah, she’s always been reckless enough to play with things she’s never understood.”

He drained his glass, then looked back at Reeve. “Who else have you heard about? What about Anja? She’s my cousin, for God’s sake, and I don’t even know how she’s doing.”

Reeve shook his head. “No news on Anja. But… I did hear about Denver. Turns out he’s become a specialist in custom-built firearms. Roman’s interested—his weapons are brutally effective. Lethal. And most importantly, suppressed. Roman signed a contract with him to keep supplying us.”

Flav raised an eyebrow. “Denver? An armorer? That’s unexpected. I never imagined him getting mixed up with the mafia.”

Reeve chuckled. “Whether he does business with the mafia or not, he’s still tied to La Cosa Nostra. From what I hear, he’s dating Jessica.”

Flav blinked. “Jessica Castellano? As in—the daughter of the Fontana clan boss?”

“Exactly.”

“Huh,” Flav said, impressed. “So they’re together. Not bad—Denver managed to conquer the daughter of one of New Yord’s biggest mob bosses. If I’d known, I should’ve gone after Jessy myself. Could’ve aimed straight for Maurice Castellano’s throne.”

“You really are shameless,” Reeve said dryly. “But what for? Maurice’s Fontana clan isn’t richer than Provenzano or Burgueno. Same goes for the Sciacchitano and Labruzzo clans. None of them can match Burgueno or Provenzano. You’re already lucky to be a Provenzano lieutenant.”

Flav smiled. “Fair point. So—what about the others? Camila… and the rest of the girls? What were their names again?”

“Aly. Annette. I’ve got no idea where they are now. Only Olive. Why—thinking of tracking them down and turning on the charm?”

Flav grinned. “I’d bet they’ve grown into stunning, irresistible women by now. And I’m curious—which one of them would be the best.”

Reeve stifled a laugh. “So you want to sleep with them all and rate the results? And once you find the ‘best,’ what then—marry her? You really think they’d want you?”

“Hey, don’t underestimate me,” Flav shot back. “I’d wager they’d jump at the chance to sleep with me.”

“I’d wager they’d be far more obsessed with me,” Reeve countered smugly, lips curling into a taunt. “I’m the only one who could actually satisfy them.”

“We’ll see.”

“And then they’ll complain,” Reeve went on, “about being treated like sex dolls—when that’s exactly what they are. Pretty little dolls whose job is to warm our beds.”

“Yeah,” Flav said with a shrug. “Women. Noisy. Needy.”

“And yet,” Reeve replied, “we can never turn away from them. Complicated creatures—but ones we still need every night.”

Flav burst out laughing. “Only every night for you? That’s tragic. Me? I don’t recognize morning, noon, evening, or night. Which makes me far more professional than you, wouldn’t you say?”

Reeve snorted. “What’s so great about having that much excess testosterone?”

“Bullshit. You’re just jealous,” Flav shot back, while Reeve laughed openly. “What about the rest? Daniel? Yesterday I saw a band on TV—the members looked a lot like Lee, Richard, Addo, and Andrew. Don’t tell me that was actually them.”

“It definitely was,” Reeve said. “Black Blossom, right? Olive told me about them. Addo, Richard, Lee, and Andrew—they’ve made it big. Three albums already.”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Flav said. “I saw them during the Music Awards broadcast. They walked away with four trophies. Never would’ve guessed—success through a band like that.”

“They’re a rock band,” Reeve said, “and I’ll admit, their songs are damn good. Can’t believe you’re only noticing Black Blossom now. You’re like a caveman discovering civilization.”

Just then, Reeve caught sight of two of his men standing at a distance, signaling to him.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, patting Flav’s shoulder.

“Where to?”

Reeve leaned in and whispered, “Four o’clock. A few worth sampling. You were looking for a warm bed tonight, weren’t you? See you around.”

Flav turned in the direction Reeve indicated—and spotted four beautiful women who instantly stirred something hot and restless in him.

Damn. He’s got good taste, Flav thought.

He smiled when he noticed that a few of them were already sneaking glances his way.

8 — Grazie, Tonio

It was genuinely good to see an old friend again after so many years. That was what Reeve felt now. Brief as it had been, his reunion with Flav had shifted his mood. And yet, threaded through it was a thin mist of regret—the quiet realization that there would be no more reunions like that. No more easy talk, no more shared laughter.

One day, Reeve was certain—sooner or later—he would cross paths with Flav Maranzano again under very different circumstances. Not as friends, but as enemies, tearing each other down. Even if, for now, there was no open conflict between the Burgueno and Provenzano families, no active disputes or bad blood. Fires had a way of reigniting. The same was true for the other three families as well.

The reunion was over.
Time to get back to work.

Reeve strode forward with long, purposeful steps, several loyal men trailing behind him.

“No resistance?” he asked without turning around.

One of his men answered plainly, “None at all, Boss. He was drunk—lost in booze and sex.”

Reeve sneered. “Idiot,” he muttered.

They reached a room that resembled an underground warehouse, temporarily repurposed as a holding cell. In the center sat a man bound to a chair, unable to move. His hands were tied tightly behind his back, his legs secured as well. Three of Reeve’s other men stood guard around him.

It was Tonio Gallo—the man Reeve had been hunting all this time.

Tonio stared at Reeve with a mix of hatred and fear, fully aware that his life now rested entirely on Reeve’s decision. Reeve—the executioner. Reeve—the fellow capo he had once respected.

“So?” Reeve stopped directly in front of him, a sly smile on his lips.

“How did you find me here?” Tonio demanded.

Reeve snorted. “So you still haven’t managed to cram into that little head of yours what a power network actually is, huh? Which means you also failed to grasp just how far Burgueno’s tentacles reach. Is this how a capo behaves? Hardly an example for soldiers—let alone partners.” He folded his arms.

Tonio barked a laugh. “And what—do you think you’re a good caporegime? A damn good one? Ask your men.” He jerked his chin toward them. “I’m sure they’ll agree—you’re nothing but a piece of shit caporegime.”

One of Reeve’s men reacted instantly, pressing the muzzle of his rifle against Tonio’s temple. Tonio shut his eyes and drew in a sharp breath.

“Hey!” Reeve snapped. “Lower that gun.”

The man obeyed at once.

“Let him talk,” Reeve continued calmly. “Everyone has the right to speak.”

“Tch. Don’t play the humanist,” Tonio scoffed. “It’s pointless keeping me here, Sinner. Whatever you do, I won’t say a word. Kill me—go on, if that satisfies you. But you’ll never know who I sold the information about Renato Gravano to. Our illustrious sottocapo. And you’ll never know what they’re planning.”

His voice trembled despite his bravado. Fear, barely contained.

Reeve smiled.

“Do you really think I’m that crude when it comes to taking lives?” he said evenly. “Let me tell you something—I’m selective. You were once one of Burgueno’s most reliable men. Until you clashed with Renato and ended up like this.” He paused. “Do you remember when we first met? I looked up to you. You were like an older brother to me. A role model.”

Reeve’s voice softened, but his eyes remained sharp.

“I truly have no intention of killing you, Tonio. Your talent is far too exceptional to waste. So just tell me—who did you sell Renato’s information to? Let us deal with the people plotting against him. And you—you’ll be free. Free as a bird in the sky. Besides, there’s no personal grudge between us. Right?”

He leaned in slightly.

“Why should I dirty my hands with your blood? Think about it.”

Tonio fell silent.

Reeve studied him for a moment, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Well?” he said lightly. “If you promise to tell me, I’ll have your restraints removed.”

“All right,” Tonio said at last. “Untie me first.”

Reeve gestured to his men. They obeyed, though not without exchanging puzzled looks.

“So,” Reeve said impatiently, “who did you sell Renato’s information to? The Sciacchitano clan? Provenzano? Fontana? Or Labruzzo?”

Tonio rubbed his wrists, still numb from the bindings. “Luigi Bonetti. Caporegime of the Sciacchitano. You know him, don’t you? Renato’s sworn enemy. He plans to kill Renato tomorrow night.”

He started to rise.

“Grazie, Tonio.”

Reeve’s hand clamped down on Tonio’s shoulder, forcing him back into the chair. Without a word, Reeve’s men bound Tonio’s hands again.

Startled, Tonio frowned—then understanding dawned in a split second. His face twisted with rage. “You’re filthier than a pig,” he hissed, realizing he’d been played.

“And you’re nothing but a maggot-ridden slab of meat with a loud mouth,” Reeve replied coolly.

He shoved the barrel of his revolver into Tonio’s mouth, crushing his cheek. Ignoring Tonio’s screams of pain, Reeve smiled coldly, set the gun down on the table, and picked up a pair of sharp scissors.

“Tell me, Tonio,” he said calmly, “will you still be able to run your mouth and sell information to the enemy once your tongue is gone?”

He nodded to his men. They reached for Tonio’s tongue. Tonio thrashed wildly, trying to twist free—though he knew it was useless.

“Sinner!”

Reeve froze mid-motion and turned. Renato stood in the doorway, watching.

“What are you doing,” Renato said flatly, “amusing yourself with that pathetic little rat? Leave him. Now. Come with me—there’s something I need to handle.”

He turned and walked away.

Reeve clicked his tongue in annoyance, peeling off his gloves. He hadn’t finished playing with his prey—but defying his mentor wasn’t an option.

“Finish with the rat,” Reeve ordered his men. “Dump him in the middle of the sea. Make sure it’s clean.”

Then he followed Renato, falling into step beside him. “Luigi Bonetti intends to make a move on you tomorrow night,” he reported.

Renato snorted. “Bonetti. That little fairy.” He scoffed. “So it’s him. Still curious to see me gone, is he?” He didn’t look at Reeve. “If you truly respect me—if you truly care about me, Sinner—you won’t let him get anywhere near me. Right?”

Reeve smiled. “Renato, I’m not one of your men you need to doubt. You’ve seen my loyalty—to the Family, and to you, as my mentor. You don’t need to worry about Bonetti. I already have a plan for him. I’ll just need you to adjust your schedule slightly tomorrow night—if you don’t mind.”

“No problem,” Renato said. “Explain it to me in the car.”

He tossed the keys to his Avdi Allroad. Reeve caught them smoothly.

“You drive,” Renato added, climbing into the car.