Mafia Boss

Chapter nine

But Marco had his own allies. Younger, hungrier men who saw the old Don’s caution as cowardice. They listened to Marco’s vision of a bold strike against Sokolov, a takeover of his networks, a new era of dominance. A coup was brewing, not in the streets, but in the back rooms of social clubs and in encrypted chat groups.

Vittorio, through Gennaro’s network of whispers, knew of it. The pain was not of betrayal, but of inevitability. He had created this world, shaped his son in its image, and now the creation was turning on the creator.

He spent the next afternoon with Sofia, at the museum. She was explaining a Caravaggio—the dramatic chiaroscuro, the raw humanity of the subjects. “Look at this,” she said, pointing to the painting of Saint Matthew being called. “He’s just a tax collector, a sinner. Surrounded by darkness. But the light hits him, and he’s chosen. It’s about grace finding you in the middle of your messy life.”

Vittorio stared at the painting, at the shock on Matthew’s face as the divine finger pointed his way. He had never believed in grace. Only in cause and effect. In payment and debt.

“What if,” he said slowly, “the man doesn’t want to be chosen? What if he’s made his peace with the dark?”

Sofia considered it. “Then I guess the light is pretty inconvenient.” She grinned. “But it’s still light.”

As they left the museum, Bruno was waiting, his face tighter than usual. “We have a tail,” he murmured as Vittorio settled into the armoured car. “Two cars. Not ours.”

Vittorio’s heart, the traitorous muscle in his chest, gave a painful thud. Sokolov. Or perhaps Marco’s faction, making their move. He gave quiet instructions to Bruno, who executed a series of evasive maneuvers that spoke of a violent past. They lost the tail in the warren of Lower Manhattan.