MATTEO
"Father."
We all shot up from our seats, snapping to attention. That was instinct. Pure, conditioned survival. But the shock wasn't the urgency of the call; it was the sight of him.
Don Riccardo Ricci…the undisputed Capo...was being wheeled in. A fucking wheelchair.
The silence in the room became a vacuum, sucking all the air out. Mama was rigid beside him, her face a mask of stone, flanked by a phalanx of personal bodyguards who never left his shadow.
The aura coming off them was less paternal and more hard, cold, undeniable threat.
Our father. He carried power the way others carried a disease...effortlessly, spreading fear and destruction. His presence was a physical weight that pressed down on the room long before his voice ever cut through the air. It was quiet, but commanding, like a razor blade wrapped in fine silk. Age hadn't carved weakness into his face; it had chiseled it into a dangerous monument of cold wisdom.
The sharp, obsidian glint in his dark eyes was the only reminder anyone needed of why the Ricci name ruled everything from the ports to the Senate. He rarely spoke, but when he did, men obeyed instantly. Those who didn't rarely saw another sunrise.
"Father," we repeated, our voices snapping into a low, deferential bow.
"Mama," we added, a required chorus of respect.
"Sit down, all of you, before I put you through the fucking wall," he commanded. His tone was a firm, immediate whipcrack. We dropped back into our chairs simultaneously, the sound of our movements perfectly synchronized by fear.
Then, he did the unthinkable. He shoved himself up out of the wheelchair, his knuckles white as he gripped a heavy, polished cane. He started the slow, deliberate walk to his seat at the head of the table. None of the bodyguards, and certainly none of us, dared move to assist. That was the cardinal sin: suggesting the Don was weak. He'd have your head mounted on the gate for that insult.
He settled into the chair, the wood creaking under the weight of his legacy. The ensuing silence was crushing. It had always been like this in his presence. We couldn't dare speak without invitation. Utter a misplaced word, and you didn't know what kind of calculated violence would follow.
"Are you fucking high, fool?" Father's eyes snapped to Luca.
The effect was instantaneous. Luca looked like he'd been dunked in ice water. He straightened in his seat, his drunken swagger evaporating into pure, shivering fear. He quickly shook his head, fighting to regain his balance, fighting to achieve sobriety through sheer terror.
Father sighed, a sound that carried more menace than a scream. Then, his gaze swept the table.
"So, is anyone going to tell me what this letter means?"
The Don voice was like a low-frequency hum, the kind that made the glass of the obsidian table vibrate.
The letter sat right in the center, a stark, terrifying white against the black stone. It was empty...no words, no hidden messages...just a single, jagged smear of fresh blood across the front.
And my name. MATTEO.
The silence at the table was thick enough to choke on. Every one of my brothers was staring at that paper like it was a live grenade. I stared back at it, my face a mask of bored indifference, though my mind was already cataloging every enemy I'd made in the last forty-eight hours.
"Matteo?" Father's eyes locked onto mine, a silent demand for an explanation.
But I didn't have a fucking answer. I didn't know who that letter came from, and frankly, I didn't care to guess. I wasn't exactly a "people person," and in my line of work, a blood-stained envelope was just another Tuesday. It could have been from a rival, a debtor, or a ghost from a past hit. To me, it wasn't a big deal...it was just noise.
"I have no idea, Father," I said, my voice as flat and cold as the table.
Father stared at me for a beat longer, measuring the truth in my eyes, before he let out a sharp, dismissive grunt.
"Well, fuck that then," he snapped, the letter suddenly forgotten as he pivoted to business. "What's the news?"
Everyone looked at each other like slow-witted prey. The silence stretched, heavy and dangerous. No one wanted to be the first to risk his fury. I felt the weight of their incompetence pressing against my temples.
"The trafficking routes are secured, Father," I stated, cutting through the silence with surgical precision. "The Naples route cleared. Three containers, flagged as high-end textile imports, moved in under the cover of our front companies. The Colombians sent a clean pallet; customs were paid and distracted. Distribution lanes in Rome and Milan are secure."
I didn't blink as I laid out the facts. "We pushed product through local crews and paid two port inspectors to look the other way. Street units reported minimal losses; only one runner got pinched, but he was cut loose with a fine that bought absolute silence."
He nodded once, sharp and minimal. "And?" he asked, his eyes scanning the table again, urging the others to speak.
They stayed silent, staring at the obsidian surface like it held the answers they didn't have.
"And," I continued, filling the vacuum before the Don's temper could snap, "there has been a severe lapse in collections. A lot of debt is due. Several high-value debtors went into hiding, which is irrelevant. A few low-level collectors got sloppy; some debtors tried to hop to rival protection. We've given them enough slack to think they've escaped...it unsettles them. Now we remind them what the Ricci name means. The hunt is underway. I expect full compliance or blood by dawn."
He nodded again, his gaze lingering on me. "And?" he pressed.
The table went silent again, choked by the sheer incompetence of the men sitting around me. When nobody made a sound, I was about to open my mouth again.
The Don slammed his heavy hand onto the obsidian table.
CRACK.
The sound was deafening, echoing off the bunker walls. We all flinched. Even me.
"Is Matteo the only damn son I had?" he roared, his eyes blazing at the cowards surrounding me.
"Alessandro!" He spat the name like a curse. Alessandro's head snapped up, his face pale.
"Yes, Father," Alessandro answered, his voice tight and thin with fear.
Father stared at him for what felt like an hour, dissecting him with a glare that could peel skin. Then he hissed, low and poisonous, "What's your fucking use?"
I watched Alessandro's expression crumble. He wanted to speak, to defend himself, but the words died in his throat. He stared at the table, humiliated. For Alessandro, turning to me was always worse; better to be screamed at than to feel the Don go quiet. That quiet was always the most lethal thing of all.
"Matteo," Father said, his voice suddenly calm, but still loaded like a suppressed weapon.
"Yes, Father."
"Meet me in my office later. Alone."
"Yes, Father," I replied instantly, my mind already spinning, planning the logistics of the meeting and wondering just how much he knew about my night at the club.
"Now get me the fuck out of here, woman," he snapped at Mama, the sudden shift in target jarring the air. "My fucking stomach is turning from watching these incompetent bastards of yours."
He pushed himself up, gripped his cane, and eased himself back into the wheelchair. Mama gave a sharp nod to his men, and they quickly wheeled the Don out of the room.
The air rushed back into the bunker, but the danger hadn't left. It had just moved to the office upstairs.