I choose to focus on the former. I'll be alright. I have to be. I’ve survived alone before. I will again.
7
GIOVANNI
It’s been a week. Seven long days. And I've thought about Liliana—my wife—for every goddamn second of it. Every hour away from her feels like torture.
Before her, I'd existed just fine. But now, merely being away from her is not even a welcome thought.
Tomasso and I are in Livorno, tying off a deal that should’ve been simple. But nothing is simple anymore. Not since my father died. Not since I became Don. Not since I married her.
We’re meeting in a portside warehouse that reeks of fish, salt, and damp cement. The Bassini crew shows up half an hour late deliberately. I know it for what it is: a game of ego. They want totest how much of my father’s presence I’ve inherited. Whether they can press into the cracks of my new reign. I let them play the fool. Let them mistake my silence for indecision. I’ve learned that power isn’t in talking too much, but in the amount of steel in you.
The meeting spirals the moment their underboss speaks out of turn. He's young and way too eager. I know his type. All bravado and slick smiles. He's the kind of man who likes the sound of his own voice and doesn’t realize it’s about to get him buried. He tries to twist the terms of the deal while pretending to clarify them. I listen in silence. My fingers are still, my face unreadable.
Tomasso shifts beside me, but doesn’t speak. He knows I will, when I’m ready.
“I think what Don Renzetti meant,” the underboss says, too casually, “is that control over the northern routes can be reviewed again. Temporarily.”
That’s not what I meant.
I stare at him and let the silence stretch until it begins to itch. Then I speak, my voice quiet and even. “Do I look like a man who says something he doesn’t mean?”
He falters. “No, I—”
“Then why are you trying to reinterpret me?”
He opens his mouth. Words fail him. He closes it.
I look at Bassini himself, who’s been silent this whole time. He's an older man with slippery eyes. Perhaps, he was entirely different in his youth. Now, he's a man who should know better than to let a boy speak for him, but here we are.
I stare straight at him. “I don’t renegotiate agreements I’ve already signed.”
The room stills.
“We had a deal, Bassini. I honored it. You will too. If you want to adjust territories, bring me facts. Not suggestions from a boy playing to be a man.”
No one dares to breathe. He turns to the underboss, whose name I don't bother remembering, and mutters something in low tones to him.
Not taking my eyes from Bassini, I continue, “You’re losing control of your crew,” I tell him. “That’s not my problem. But if you ever try to shift territory lines again, it will be.”
Bassini raises his hand like a tired grandfather. “He meant no disrespect.”
My eyes don't waver from his face.
The underboss scrambles up to utter words of apologies, Bassini had obviously demanded he offer. I don't acknowledge him, nor his apologies.
I rise from my chair. “He did. But I’ll overlook it. Just this once.”
There’s no need to threaten violence. I don’t need to yell or wave a gun. Men like Bassini understand restraint better than noise. They know when the hand that hasn't moved yet is the one that breaks the table.
Tomasso stands beside me. He’s calm and unreadable as ever, but I can tell from the tightness in his mouth that he’s relieved. The deal holds. Just barely. But it holds. Livorno remains ours. Control over the customs office remains tight. No one dies tonight, which is a kindness they don’t deserve, but I’m not here to make a spectacle. I’m here to make a point.
It's a good thing. It'll be added to the long list of successful missions since I became Don.
We walk out through the back, past the warehouses that stink of stale fish and diesel. I’ve always hated this place. Too fucking loud. Too many men who try too hard to sound important.
“You didn’t have to handle it yourself,” Tomasso says once we’re alone. “I would’ve stepped in.”
