ADRIAN
The room smelled like cigar smoke, old leather, and tension. The kind of tension that made men sweat even in winter. We were in the lower conference hall of the Salvatore estate — a long, windowless room with a mahogany table that had seen more blood than paperwork over the years. Twelve chairs. Twelve men. All of them handpicked. All of them trusted.
Or so I thought.
Tobias stood at my right. Roberto at my left. Across from me sat three of my capos, two financial advisors, and a representative from the Belandi family — Marcus Belandi himself, a man built like a stone wall with a face carved from granite. He was Nico's cousin.
He hadn’t spoken yet. He didn’t need to. His presence alone was a threat.
The projector hummed softly as numbers flickered across the screen — columns of
