The whiskey burns going down, but not as much as the look in my father's eyes.
He sits behind his mahogany desk like a king on a throne, the afternoon light filtering through the venetian blinds and carving shadows across his weathered face. Don Salvatore Moretti—my father, my mentor, the man who taught me everything I know about power. And control. And violence.
"Sit down, Lorenzo."
I don't want to sit. Every instinct I have tells me to walk out of this office, get in my car, and drive until I hit the ocean. But I'm a Moretti. We don't run. So I sit in the leather chair across from him, the same chair I've sat in a thousand times before—for lectures, for assignments, for congratulations after my first kill.
Today feels different.
"Whiskey?" He's already pouring two glasses, not waiti
