Traded To The Don

I sat by my desk, twirling the ice cubes in my Bourbon whiskey, watching them clink together against the glass. The silence was unsettling—just me and the sound of melting ice. I leaned back in my chair, staring into the amber liquid. Ten years since Mom died. Christmas was just around the corner, and the family wanted me there. I wasn’t going though. I had made up my mind. The anniversary, the memories—it holds should’ve meant something. But right now, the only thing I felt was the weight of my choices pressing down on my shoulders. The work, the distractions—they were easier to deal with than facing what was left of my family right now. I glanced at my laptop screen, where an obituary stared back at me. Athlea Ruscco. The poor girl had no idea what she’d inherited. real; Mikhail’s name lit up the screen. Great. Just what I needed right now. “Yeah?” I answered, already bracing myself for the guilt trip. “You coming for Christmas?” Mikhail’s voice was steady, but I could hear shadowed frustration. “Can’t. Got work.” “Work? Or are you just avoiding the family?” There it was—frustration, clear as the broad daylight. I smirked, leaning my back in my chair comfortably.Does it make a difference?” “Yeah, it does.” Mikhail is not even trying to hide his irritation, as was evident in his tone. “Dad’s expecting you.” “Dad?” I said with a bitter laugh in tow. “Dad’s too busy with his latest girlfriend to care if I’m there or not. What is she, twenty years younger now? Maybe more?” “Salvatore,” Mikhail sighed, the kind of sigh that says we already had this conversation a thousand times before. “It’s not about Dad. It’s about us. Family.” I swirled the Bourbon again, feeling the ice cubes start to melt. Good whiskey! I thought to myself. “Family,” I echoed, my voice filled with sarcasm. “Like Dad cared about us growing up? He was more interested in expanding his empire than being a father. Maybe I’m just following in his footsteps.” There was a long silence on the other end. I knew what Mihail was thinking, but I didn’t care. This wasn’t about them. Not anymore, I guess. “You should still come, Salvatore,” Mikhail said, his voice softer now. “At least for appearances.” I could feel my jaw tighten. “Appearances don’t pay the bills, Mikhail. I’ve got bigger things to handle.” My eyes flicked back to Athlea’s obituary tag on the screen. She didn’t know what she was walking into. But I did. And to do something? Yeah, I would! Telling this to myself while I bring myself back to reality Mikhail let out a bitter laugh. “How many s*x clubs does one man need?” I grinned, dark humor creeping into my words. “More than you could handle.” Then… Silence The silence stretched between us again. And for sure this time Mikhail wasn’t going to win this one, and we both knew it. I was tired of the conversation, tired of him trying to pull me back into the family drama. Tired! Of the cross I can't bear it. It has to go. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said, knowing full well I wasn’t going to show up. “But don’t hold your breath.” I hung up before he could respond, tossing the phone onto the desk. I stared at it for a moment, then reached for my laptop again. Athlea Ruscco. She was young, inexperienced, and completely unprepared to deal with the empire her father left behind for her troubles. Her father had been a real piece of work, the type of man I couldn’t stand—always mistreating the women in my clubs, acting like he owned the world. He was dead now, though, and she was left to clean up the mess he made. Easy pickings. I clicked through more documents, piecing together the plan in my head. She didn’t know the first thing about running a business, which meant I could swoop in and take control before she even knew what hit her. This was just business. Nothing personal. I think… My phone buzzed again. Marco this time. “Got the reports?” I asked, not bothering with a greeting. “Mostly,” Marco replied. “But we’re still working on the numbers for the Chicago shipment.” “Get it done,” I said, my tone stern. “I need those assets liquid by tomorrow.” “Tomorrow?” Marco sounded nervous. “That’s—” “Not my problem, Marco. Just handle it.” I didn’t wait for his response before hanging up. I didn’t have time for excuses or to bother bugs. I leaned back in my chair, hand clasped, as I thought about my next move. Dad had taught me a lot over the years—how to be ruthless, how to push for what I craved without hesitation. I hated the man, but damn, if I hadn’t learned from the best, then there wouldn't be any better. Athlea Ruscco didn’t stand a chance, not when I had the upper hand now. My phone lit up again; a reminder about the family event came up. The anniversary of Mom’s death. I stared at it for a second, then swipe the notification away. I didn’t need that reminder. Family was just a distraction, and I didn’t have time for distractions. Not now, not ever. All that mattered was expanding my empire, piece by piece, no matter who got hurt along the way. They would be taken as a humble sacrifice for my greatness.