I found my father in his study, exactly where I knew he'd be at that hour. The old man kept to his routines like clockwork—breakfast at seven, meetings until noon, lunch with his captains, then this: three fingers of scotch in his leather chair while he reviewed the day's reports.
The empire never slept, and neither did Don Moretti.
I didn't knock. Men who knock ask for permission, and I wasn't asking for a damn thing anymore.
He looked up from his papers, unsurprised. He never startled—probably hadn't since he was fifteen and put his first bullet in a man's skull. "Lorenzo. I was expecting you."
"Were you." I closed the door behind me but didn't sit. Sitting meant this was a conversation. This was something else entirely.
"You've heard about Chicago." He set down his pen with delibe
