Don Salvatore sat at the head of the long polished table, one hand wrapped in clean white bandages, a small scar visible across his cheek.
The room was silent—tension thick enough to slice.
He didn't smile when Nico walked in.
Instead, he leaned back slowly, his cold gaze fixed on the young Luciano heir like he already knew.
"Funny thing," Don Salvatore said, voice calm and deep, "I had a little… fire incident at one of my estates last night."
He raised his bandaged hand, flexing his fingers slowly.
"Gas leak, they said. But you know what's really funny?"
He paused, staring straight into Nico's eyes.
"I could've sworn I saw a very familiar figure, shirtless, covered in smoke, walking away like he just conquered hell itself."
Nico didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
Don Salvatore's lips curved slightly—dangerously.
"Anyway," he said, eyes still cold, "what are families without a little heat?"
The others in the room chuckled nervously, but no one said a word.
