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It took a few days to simmer, but the truth about the Bonanno family's drained accounts finally boiled over and flooded the streets.
Despite Luca Pastore's aggressive damage control and flat denials, wiseguys always trust the whispers over the official memo.
And these whispers were detailed. They painted a crystal-clear picture of exactly how Francis Ricci had moved the money.
Panic started setting in among the made men. This wasn't just mob politics; this was their livelihood on the line.
Dozens of them showed up at the Bonanno estate, demanding answers from Sofia.
At first, Sofia found the constant badgering exhausting. But Lawson pulled her aside and explained the game: this was the ultimate opportunity to buy their absolute loyalty.
Taking his advice, Sofia stood her ground, looking the made men in the eye and guaranteeing that the family's operations and payouts would not miss a beat.
Her street cred skyrocketed instantly.
For the three remaining capos, watching her authority eclipse theirs was a bitter pill to swallow.
When Luca first suggested crowning Sofia the "Queen Victoria" of the family, his intention was to make her a figurehead—a constitutional monarch. She was supposed to be a unifying symbol, not the actual boss calling the shots.
But Luca and the others were backed into a corner. They couldn't exactly challenge her, because none of them had the personal cash to float the family's operations.
Maybe Luca, the ultimate loyalist, would have considered emptying his own pockets. But Felice and Antonio? Not a chance in hell.
Antonio in particular was a wreck. His salt-and-pepper hair had gone completely white in a matter of days. He looked like a man who had taken a physical beating, barely speaking during their sit-downs.
Besides, the financial hole Francis left behind wasn't something you could patch with pocket change. Feeding the beast took serious capital.
Sofia was the only one with the capacity to plug the leak—provided she liquidated some of Old Martin's real estate portfolio.
And that was exactly what she promised the men she would do.
But on the third day, the crisis mutated.
The rumors of the Bonannos being broke bled out of the underworld and reached the legitimate business sector. Old Martin's corporate partners and vendors came knocking.
In America, running a business on credit and IOUs is standard operating procedure. But suddenly terrified that the Mafia was going bankrupt, these businessmen swarmed the estate, demanding Sofia settle all outstanding accounts immediately.
The scene was absolute chaos. It completely terrified eighteen-year-old Audrey, who had never witnessed anything like this.
(Side note: Audrey's DNA test had come back positive. She was officially Old Martin's flesh and blood. Her surname had been legally changed from Horne to Bonanno, cementing her as an heir.)
Banks aren't the only ones who hand you an umbrella when the sun is shining and demand it back the second it starts to rain. Every corporation plays that game.
It's why "White Knights" and Angel Investors are so rare and valuable.
Lawson happened to be away from the estate, and without him there, the mob of businessmen was rapidly spiraling out of control.
Eva was heavily weighing whether to step in and start breaking arms when Sofia suddenly roared.
"ENOUGH!"
The room went dead silent.
Sofia swept her gaze across the crowd. Her eyes were sharp and unforgiving as she stared down men who used to laugh and drink expensive scotch with Old Martin.
It was a masterclass in the brutality of modern capitalism. Kick a man when he's down, before anyone else can.
The truth was, these men weren't just panicking over the missing liquid cash.
Old Martin still held massive physical assets. The very estate they were standing in, if listed on the market, was worth tens of millions—assuming they weren't forced into a fire sale.
High-end real estate takes time to move. If you need cash tomorrow, the price drops like a rock.
On top of the Malibu estate, Old Martin owned prime commercial properties all across Los Angeles County. Liquidating those would generate a mountain of cash.
The real issue was that the recent bloodbath—shootouts, assassinations, FBI raids—had shattered the business world's confidence in the Bonanno brand. The cash flow rumor was just the excuse they needed to pull out.
In the market, confidence is everything.
"The Bonanno family does not default on its debts," Sofia's voice was ice-cold. "But the vast majority of these contracts haven't reached their maturation date. Are you absolutely certain you want to call them in early?"
Her aura was oppressive. She was fully embracing the heavy, lethal presence of a Mafia Boss.
That dark energy made the weaker men in the room avert their eyes.
"I don't care if you want to settle right now. Even if I have to sell every asset to the bone—even if I have to sell the ground you're standing on—I will pay you every cent!" Sofia leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping. "But remember this: The Bonanno family never forgets a friend. And we certainly never forget an enemy who kicked us when we were down. So tell me... are you ready for the consequences?"
The implicit, violent threat in her eyes instantly poured ice water over the crowd.
Sure, you couldn't rely on mobsters to run a clean Fortune 500 company. But destroying one? They excelled at that.
If you ended up on a Mafia blacklist, doing business in Los Angeles would become a waking nightmare. Supply chains broken, union strikes, mysterious fires. Nobody wanted that heat.
And the cops? They rarely cared about corporate sabotage, assuming they could even prove a crime was committed.
Almost immediately, the first businessman cracked, muttering that he could wait until the end of the quarter. A domino effect followed. One by one, they backed down, suddenly remembering the legally binding timelines on their contracts.
The few holdouts realized pushing the issue meant putting a target on their own backs.
These were the Mafia, not the Salvation Army.
Within minutes, the room cleared out.
Sofia let out a long, shaky breath, only to realize Luca Pastore was standing quietly in the doorway.
"Mr. Pastore. When did you get here?"
"I've been here a minute."
Luca looked at her with genuine pride. He had rushed over the second he heard the vendors were storming the gates.
He had arrived just in time to watch her lay down the law.
Sofia's handling of the crisis was flawless. Even a hardened veteran like Luca couldn't find a single mistake. It actually planted a seed in his mind—maybe they should just hand her the keys to the kingdom permanently.
Let's face facts: the youngest capo, Antonio, was fifty-one. Felice was pushing sixty.
Even in the legitimate world, they were nearing retirement. They didn't have the runway to lead the family into a new era.
The original grand plan—drafted by Old Martin and Luca—was to groom Francis, let him guide Little Martin, and have them rule as the second generation.
But Francis got greedy, and now the Bonannos were staring down a massive succession crisis.
Audrey was eighteen. She was even more naive than Sofia used to be. She couldn't take the throne for at least a decade, unless she married an absolute killer who could run it for her.
So, Luca was seriously considering grooming Sofia for the big chair.
But there was one massive string attached: Sofia had to remain a Bonanno for life. She could never remarry.
Thinking about this, Luca's face hardened.
"Ma'am, I have a question for you."
"What is it?"
"It's a question I can only ask you in a very specific place."
Sofia frowned, confused.
"Specific place? Where?"
"St. Mary's Cathedral."
---
The reason Lawson wasn't at the estate playing bodyguard was simple. He had slapped on a new face, assumed the identity of "Jack Cole," and was currently standing in a parking lot.
"Hey! How's it going? I'm Jack Cole."
Lawson flashed a bright, generic smile at Megan Kelly's production crew.
It wasn't exactly a massive team. Just Megan, Franklin, and Michael.
Franklin gave "Jack" a highly skeptical look. Jack Cole was a white guy in his thirties, about 5'11", with the most forgettable face on the planet.
The only memorable thing about him was his slightly weird, forced smile.
"Megan, who the hell is this guy?"
"He's a temp filling in for today. Franklin, get him up to speed on the camera rig."
"What?! Are you replacing me? Look, I swear I didn't tell anyone about you farting in the apartment! You can't do this to me!"
Assuming he was getting fired, Franklin panicked and accidentally aired Megan's dirty laundry.
"Shut up!" Megan hissed, her face turning red. "I told you, I ate too many beans that week! It was the gas!"
Michael watched the exchange with deep fascination. He had always wondered what actually happened when those two went off the grid during the Little Martin fiasco.
Both Megan and Franklin had kept their mouths totally shut about it, even around Michael.
"That still doesn't mean you can kick me off the crew!"
"I'm not kicking you off! He's literally just helping out for one shoot!"
"Man, I know how you white folks operate. You tell a brother 'it's just temporary' and next thing you know, I'm out of a job!"
Franklin refused to buy it. Desperate, Megan leaned in and whispered the magic word.
"Lawson sent him. He has a job to do. He's not here for your camera."
The second Franklin heard Lawson's name, his mouth snapped shut.
Franklin had plenty of street-level flaws, but he wasn't a rat, and he understood loyalty.
"Did Mr. Lawson run into trouble again?"
"Stop asking questions! Trust me, you do not want to know!"
Franklin nodded sharply and dropped the subject. Megan smoothed her skirt, acting like nothing happened. But Michael wasn't having it.
"Hey! What's this 'Lawson' business? You guys can't just form a clique and cut me out! I have a right to know!"
Megan rolled her eyes.
"Michael. Do you want me to tell your wife about you and Jenny?"
Michael choked.
"Ahem! You know what? I think ignorance is bliss. Let's get to work!"
With the drama handled, Franklin started walking "Jack" through the camera setup.
"Jack, this rig is heavy as hell. You sure you got the shoulders for it?"
In this era, broadcast cameras were absolute units, weighing easily over thirty pounds.
And since they were shooting on location, there were no tripods or dollies. It was all shoulder-mounted, handheld work.
It was a grueling, physical job.
Franklin was built like a tank, practically bursting out of his shirt, so he seriously doubted Jack Cole could handle the weight.
Lawson had intentionally customized "Jack Cole" to be significantly leaner than his real body. The guy looked downright scrawny.
It was hard to believe he could lug thirty pounds of steel and glass around for hours.
"Heh, don't worry about me. I wouldn't be here if I couldn't handle the hardware. Watch."
Lawson casually reached out and lifted the massive camera off the ground with one hand. He held it suspended in the air, dead still. Not a single tremor.
Franklin's eyes bugged out.
"Whoa! You got hands like stone, man. That's exactly what you need for this gig."
Being a cameraman was manual labor. Average guys couldn't hack it.
With the strength test passed, Franklin gave Lawson a crash course on the technical controls.
Lawson absorbed it instantly, handling the rig like a seasoned pro within minutes.
Megan checked her watch.
"Alright, time's up. Let's move. St. Martin's Bank is waiting."
The four of them piled into the news van and rolled out.
St. Martin's Bank sat right on the fault line between a major Mexican neighborhood and an Italian enclave. The architecture was heavy on the Spanish-colonial style.
By the time the Fox News crew arrived, the bank floor was already buzzing with employees prepping for the shoot.
The branch's General Manager spotted Megan immediately and practically sprinted over, hand extended.
"Welcome, Ms. Kelly!"
Megan plastered on her polished, media-ready smile.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lopez."
"You have no idea. I've been looking forward to this for weeks."
It was blatantly obvious Lopez was completely captivated. He gripped her hand tight, showing zero intention of letting go.
It wasn't surprising. Megan was drop-dead gorgeous; it was the main reason her career was on a rocket trajectory.
Pretty privilege is real, and it opens doors.
"Thank you, Mr. Lopez."
Megan had dealt with creeps like this a thousand times. She kept smiling and tried to smoothly slide her hand free.
But Lopez was shameless. He clamped down, refusing to release her.
Standing off to the side holding the heavy rig, Lawson decided he'd seen enough. He started loudly fiddling with the camera's side panel.
"Ah, shit! I think the red light is on. Is this thing recording? Dammit!"
Lopez released Megan's hand so fast he practically left afterimages in the air.
He instantly straightened his tie, his expression shifting into total, stoic professionalism. The greasy sleazebag vanished, replaced by a serious corporate executive.
"Ahem! Ms. Kelly, I believe we are ready to begin the recording?"
Megan quietly let out a breath. She had a temper, and she was half a second away from slapping the guy across the face. She was deeply grateful Lawson had intervened.
"We just need a few minutes to set up. Mr. Lopez, we should finalize the interview flow before we roll."
"Should we review it privately? In my office?"
The greasy smile crept right back onto his face. It genuinely made Megan's skin crawl.
"No, you can finalize it with my producer. I need to go to makeup."
"Oh, come now. Ms. Kelly, you are already flawless. You don't need a drop of makeup."
"High-definition cameras are unforgiving, Mr. Lopez. I can't have any imperfections. I'll see you in a moment."
The second she turned her back to Lopez, Megan dropped the smile and aggressively mimed gagging, making Lawson bite his lip to keep from laughing.
Being the beautiful face on the screen definitely had its occupational hazards.
It was a miracle Megan had kept her cool. If it had been Lawson, Lopez would probably be missing teeth by now.
Lopez was still staring hungrily at Megan's retreating figure when Michael walked up, a massive, overly friendly grin on his own middle-aged face, and slapped Lopez hard on the shoulder.
"Mr. Lopez! Let's talk about that schedule, huh?"
Staring into Michael's equally greasy face, Lopez's expression instantly soured.
"Make it quick."