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"Don Accardo, our sincerest apologies," Giovanni mutters, still not meeting my father’s eyes.
"Was the traitor dealt with?"
"Si, Capo."
"Then rise and take a seat."
The men stand and proceed to slide into their seats further down the table. "My son, Philippe.” My father gestures to me while regarding each man. “You will show him the same respect you show me."
"Yes, Don Accardo," they murmur, nodding to me. I keep my face impassive, every movement controlled. My father's lessons are etched into my bones. Power is taken, not given.
Once we're up to strength, my father begins the meeting.
"The shipment to our contact in Sicily went smoothly last week. The cargo made it intact."
My father's gaze sweeps over each man seated around the table.
"Our weapons production is on target for the quarter. I have sent Carlo to inspect the new assembly line, making sure its running efficiently. The feedback I have received from him so far is promising."
I take a puff of my cigar, listening intently as he reviews the business metrics. This is my legacy - the multi-functional empire my father built from the ground up throughcunning ruthlessness. Arms, Vitalin, casinos, construction, transportation; you name any legitimate business, and we probably have a hand in it. Uncle Carlo, my mother’s brother, has been my father’s right-hand man, even more so after Mother’s death.
"We need to increase security at the docks," my father continues. "The Russians have been sticking their noses where they don't belong."
Murmurs of assent ripple around the table. My father has commanded respect through fear since I was a child. His word is law.
I meet his eyes and give a slight nod. Our retribution will be swift and merciless. The Russians will learn their place. We spend another fifteen minutes receiving our duties for the coming week, and then my father concludes the session with a raised hand.
"We're finished for today. You're dismissed."
The men rise from their seats. My father beckons his mafiosi with a crook of his finger.
"Escort them out."
The mafioso usher the men from the boardroom, their footsteps echoing down the hall until the heavy door swings shut, leaving my father and me alone once more.
My father stands, buttoning his suit jacket, and extends his arm to me. When we're alone, he shows me these small tokens of affection. I stride towards him, and he places his arm around my neck.
"I know I have worked you hard, Son. But now, more than ever, you must be involved in everything we do going forward."
"Understood, Father."
He leads me out of the boardroom, the lingering scent of cigars trailing us into the hallway. The minute we're in sight of the others, he removes his arm and maintains a foot’s distance between us. Just close enough to still be within hearing distance but not so close that anyone might see a moment of connection between us.
My father can't afford to show any weakness. And displaying affection towards me is considered a great sign of weakness.
Armed men line the hallways, hands poised, fingers mere inches from the grips of their holstered weapons, watching our every step through the sprawling mansion. Priceless art and extravagant furnishings line the walls and floors, symbols of the assets my father has built up.
As we descend the grand staircase, men stop in their tracks, inclining their heads in deference. My father acknowledges them with a regal tilt of his chin, the Don receiving his due respect. No one meets his piercing eyes.
I follow half a step behind, watching the way they avert their gaze and bend at the waist. The respect my father commands permeates the air like a fine mist.
We continue, the Don and his heir apparent, our footfalls muffled by plush Persian rugs.
"Come closer," he tells me. I take two steps forward. "Now, this coming month, you will meet each ally of ours. They must all swear their loyalty to you."
I frown, taken aback by the pace of urgency with which my father had been involving me in tasks. "Father, in due time, I will come to know them all," I look at him questioningly.
"There's no time to delay," he mutters.
