The rain fell in slow sheets, as if the sky itself mourned the death of Alessandro Costa—the most feared mafia boss in New York City.
Damiano stood under the black canopy, unmoving, his jaw set in stone. Around him, men in dark suits whispered, their eyes flickering toward him with a mix of fear and expectation. He was the heir now. The new Costa King.
But Damiano Costa didn't want the crown.
The gold-ringed signet of his family burned heavy in his coat pocket. His father's legacy—the blood, the empire, the enemies—had all become his overnight, whether he liked it or not.
A priest muttered prayers Damiano barely heard. His mind had drifted from the cemetery to the night before—the sound of the bullet that pierced his father's skull, the way his uncle's hands shook, the way the power vacuum had opened like a void beneath them all.
He hadn't shed a tear.
Not because he didn't feel anything.
Because he'd learned long ago that weakness was punished. Even grief.
Behind him, Matteo, his father's consigliere, leaned in close.
"We need to talk. The council is waiting."
"Let them wait," Damiano replied coldly, eyes locked on the coffin. "They've waited twenty years for me to fail."
"You're not your father," Matteo said cautiously.
"No. I'm not." He exhaled, the breath fogging in the cold air. "But I'll become him if I have to."
---
Back at the estate, Damiano walked through the long marble hallway that still smelled faintly of his father's cologne—tobacco, leather, power. Servants stepped aside. Guards stiffened. Every eye followed him, searching for cracks.
In his study, the dark oak walls felt smaller than usual. He took a whiskey from the shelf, poured a glass with steady hands, and sat in the leather chair that had once belonged to the man everyone feared. The chair felt like a throne—and a cage.
A knock at the door.
"Come," he said.
Matteo entered, followed by Lorenzo, the ruthless enforcer, and Nico, the sharp-eyed tech genius. Together they formed what was left of Damiano's inner circle.
"The Russians think you're soft," Lorenzo said without preamble. "They sent word today. They want to renegotiate the Eastside ports."
"Of course they do." Damiano sipped the whiskey. "They smell weakness."
"Then give them blood," Lorenzo said.
Damiano's eyes darkened. "No."
The men exchanged glances.
"You're in charge now," Matteo said carefully. "The wolves are watching. If you don't assert dominance—"
"I'll assert it," Damiano interrupted. "But not by spilling blood for show. That was my father's way. I won't run this empire with theatrics. I'll run it with strategy."
"You think strategy will stop a bullet?" Lorenzo asked.
"No," Damiano said, rising slowly. "But fear will. The right kind of fear."
---
Later that night, the mansion fell quiet, but sleep eluded Damiano.
He sat in the shadows of his bedroom, lit only by the dying fire in the hearth. His reflection in the mirror looked like a ghost—haunted, tired, crownless but king.
He hated this life. Hated the velvet chains, the expectations, the power that corrupted every inch of his soul.
But he'd make it work. For his little sister back in Italy. For the boys in his crew who still believed in him. And for the legacy he'd never asked for but could not escape.
He was Damiano Costa now. And the city would learn that a king born from reluctance could be more dangerous than one born from desire.
---