Alessandro stands in the middle of his father’s office, tall and impassive, hands in his pockets, face unreadable.
His black shirt clings to his frame, sleeves rolled to the elbows, veins prominent, tattoos peeking at his wrists. The room is thick with tension.
Behind the heavy mahogany desk sits Don Luciano Bianchi, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back. A half-burnt cigar sits forgotten in the crystal ashtray, smoke curling up.
“I told you to stay in America,” Don Luciano’s voice is calm—but razor sharp.
“I heard,” Alessandro replies flatly.
Luciano leans forward, placing both hands on the desk. “Then you deliberately chose to disobey me.”
“I chose to come home.”
“You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't have come home. This is not your home anymore,” the Don snaps.
A pause.
Alessa
