Marco POV
I stood in the doorway of Giovanni Mancini’s private study, waiting to be acknowledged. The Don sat behind that mahogany desk-the one his father had used, and his father’s father before that. Family legacy. Family honor. Words that meant less to me with every year I spent in this life, but tonight they felt like a noose tightening.
“Close the door,” Giovanni said, not looking up from his documents.
I did. The lock clicked with a finality that made my shoulders tense. I’d been in this room a hundred times, but never with news like this.
“The safe,” I said. “She took the drive.”
Giovanni’s pen stopped moving. Only that small motion betrayed he’d heard. Then he set the pen down with deliberate care and raised his eyes. They were the color of dried blood in the lamplight.
“Luca
