“Who’s sowing discord now?”
The challenge in her voice has those around her murmuring nervously.
I only have a second to make a decision.
Esther is an older player with a well-known distaste for the Cartel—rooted in a cruel combination of racism and ignorance. She doesn’t fit the profile of our rat, as much as I would like to pin this on her.
And yet, this isn’t the first time she’s called me out on this. She’d been one of the last to agree to my father’s retirement conditions and she was the oldest member of his previous guard.
She believes herself to be untouchable, and that’s a very dangerous thing.
“I’d like to thank you for your years of service here.” I bow my head with the little respect I can muster. “But I believe I have become weary of your council.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
I nod at Martino once more. “Please have your son briefed ahead of our next meeting; I wouldn’t want him to fall behind.”
Esther takes one look at Martino’s approach and begins to screech. “You can’t. I’m on your father’s list.”
“Giuliano Moretti holds no power in this room.” I let authority reverberate through my words. “Any suggestion otherwise is an insult to the Guild. Let this be a warning to all.”
Martino, ever a better man than I, gives Esther the option to see herself out.
It’s almost comical how everyone watches the door slam behind her, then wearily turns back to look at me.
I sigh. “Your concerns about another leak are valid. However, I will not tolerate any finger-pointing or whistleblowing in this room. I offer you all the same courtesy you gave me when I became your don. Trust.”
I make sure to look them all in the eye before continuing. “We will continue to interrogate the Cartel for more information. Until then, remain calm and vigilant.”
“You might have just solved the problem by kicking the old hag out,” Alessandro mutters.
I give the others a moment to register his words. Let them think that they’re safe again.
“If there’s nothing else, you all have places to be.”
10
CASSANDRA
The next time I wake up, the sun is already past its peak.
I blink around my new room, registering all the details now illuminated in the light of day.
Besides the door Rocco entered through last night, there are two others in each corner. The walls are tall, decorated with intricate molding, and the wooden floor is intermittently broken up by thick carpet.
The entire space feels extravagant, and yet its neutral tones are impersonal. A guest room, perhaps?
How often does a Mafia don host polite company?
But my musings are cut short by a rasping on the door.
I have the urge to pull my bedsheets over my chest. “Come in?”
But it’s not Rocco who enters.
A tiny woman gently pushes the door open. There’s a tray of what appears to be breakfast balancing on her ample hip and a determined look on her surprisingly youthful face.
“It’s about time you get up, ma’am.” Her British accent catches me off-guard.
