Marco Vitale paced the length of his study like a caged storm, one palm pressed hard against the grain of the ebony desk until the wood creaked. The city lights bled through the tall windows, but they couldn't cut the darkness that had settled in his chest. Betrayal tasted worse than any loss of coin.
"I can't believe he did that to me," Marco hissed, voice low and ragged. "How dare he—my son—choose her over me. I am his father. I built this name with blood and bone. I will not let him fall for my enemy's daughter."
His chair scraped back; he sat down with a single, jagged motion and stared at the desk as if the ledger before him might somehow explain the treachery. Anger coiled tighter until Marco could barely breathe. "Since he stands against me," he told the empty room, "I will make sure I clear him the way I cleared her mother."
The words left him before he could temper them, and they rang against the walls like a promise one cannot take back. Even Marco felt the old, cold certainty behind the line — the part of him that had always believed power required sacrifices, and that anyone in his path was expendable.
The study door opened quietly. Paul — an old consigliere who had been with the Vitale family longer than most of the newer faces in Marco's circle — stepped inside, his expression careful and tired. He had known Marco long enough to read the poison beneath the words.
"You think clearing Lorenzo off your way will be easy?" Paul asked, taking a slow step forward. "You should know your son by now. He's hated you since the day you killed his joy and his happiness. Going after what gives him any peace now… that will cost you more than you imagine."
Marco's laugh was hollow. "You speak like a coward, Paul. You worry too much." He stood and picked up a crystal glass, twisting it until the light fractured. "Nobody stands in the way of my power and my money. If Lorenzo refuses to do what's necessary, then he's a liability. He chose her over the house — then he's already off the ledger."
Paul's hands rose, palms out in a plea. "Listen to me. Leave him be this once. Let the boy have some peace. You know what he's capable of when he's cornered. You know what happens when you push him too far."
Marco's face darkened in a way that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with calculation. "Peace is a luxury for the weak," he said quietly. "If the boy cannot be molded to obey, then I will remove the obstacles that tempt him. Love is a sickness that ruins dynasties."
Paul's voice dropped even lower, edged with genuine fear. "You really intend to do this? You'd risk open war with a son who has nothing left to lose? Think about what that would mean — the blood, the exposure. You know how dangerous Lorenzo is. He doesn't bend; he breaks or burns. If you go after what makes him human, you'll unmake him. You'd have a demon on your hands."
Marco's jaw tightened; old photographs on the mantel — a younger Lorenzo laughing, a woman he'd once loved — seemed suddenly to mock him. The memory of the day he'd crushed that joy was as clean and bitter as bone. No one in the room dared speak of it, and yet everyone felt its shadow.
Paul took another step back, resolve replacing pleading. "I'm not going to be part of this, Marco. I can't risk my life for your vendettas. You know how dangerous Lorenzo is. You know what he will do."
Marco's eyes combusted with a fury that had been fed for decades. "Then count yourself out," he snapped. "If you run, don't call me when the fire comes for you. I will do whatever it takes to secure this family's future — even if it means burning what I love to ash."
Paul folded his arms and turned away slowly, the decision made and the silence between them a chasm. Marco watched him go, then sank back into his chair, the room closing around him like a coffin. Power hummed beneath his skin — ruthless, unrelenting — but beneath it all there was the small, private reckoning no ledger could balance: he had made his choices, and now he would live with the consequences.