The silence pressed like a weight, heavy enough to choke. Every breath, every flicker of eyes around the long table, carried the tension of unspoken thoughts.
It was Antonio who broke it, his voice low but carrying. "He didn't even lift a hand," he muttered, disbelief tinged with awe. His dark eyes gleamed faintly in the dim light, and a crooked grin ghosted across his lips. "That's not just control—that's dominance. Who else in this rotten city could do that?"
Nick leaned back in his chair, his teenage arrogance sharpening the edges of his tone. "No one. Not a single bastard. That's what makes it…" he exhaled through his nose, smirking, "beautiful."
"Beautiful?" Isabella's voice cut in like a blade, sharp, unyielding. Her hand slammed lightly against the polished wood of the table, drawing startled glances. "You two talk as if slaughter and fear are trophies to admire. Do you even hear yourselves? People are dead. Families destroyed. And you—" her eyes narrowed on both of them, "—you sit here glorifying it like children marveling at fireworks."
Antonio's grin vanished. He straightened, eyes narrowing into slits. "Don't twist my words, Isabella. I'm not glorifying anything—I'm recognizing power. The world runs on it, whether you like it or not."
Nick leaned forward, unable to resist piling on. "And maybe if you stopped looking at it like some fairy tale, you'd understand. It's not about right or wrong—it's about who holds the city in their fist."
"You're pathetic." Isabella's voice rose, trembling with both fury and restraint. "Both of you. Pathetic boys dressing up cruelty as wisdom."
Antonio's jaw clenched. "Careful, sister," he snapped, the edge of lawless arrogance breaking through. "You think because you're older you can lecture us like children? You don't get to spit on our perspective and expect us to nod like lapdogs."
Nick's eyes flared with reckless heat. "Exactly. You don't silence us just because you don't like the truth. We'll say what we see, and we see strength."
Across the table, Cathy's soft, lilting laugh slipped into the rising storm like oil over fire. She leaned back in her chair, eyes alight with amusement. "Strength… yes." She tilted her chin, voice silk over steel. "Vincenzo didn't just kill. He orchestrated. Precision, efficiency, the kind of presence that silences a room with a glance. That isn't cruelty—that's artistry."
Isabella snapped toward her, fury igniting. "Artistry?" The word dripped with disbelief. "You dare call butchery art? Do you realize what you're saying?"
Cathy smiled wider, lips curving with quiet cruelty. "Of course. Because what you call butchery, others call survival. What you call monstrous, others call untouchable. He doesn't stumble. He doesn't hesitate. He does what the rest of you can only dream of—make the world obey."
"Enough," Clara's voice finally broke in, firm and commanding though her face was pale. Her eyes locked on Cathy with a warning glint. "Don't speak like that. Not here, not now."
But Cathy only arched a brow, lips twitching with defiance, and let silence be her answer.
The storm had already broken loose elsewhere. Frank leaned forward suddenly, his voice edged with barely contained anger. "You disgust me," he spat, gaze fixed on Cathy. "You see corpses in the street and call it perfect. You see fear in people's eyes and call it art. You're blind to the stain it leaves, blind to the weight it drags behind every step."
Cathy's eyes sparkled dangerously, her smile sharp. "And you're blind to reality. Tell me, Frank, who remembers the stain a year later? Who remembers the tears? No one. They remember the name. They remember who stood unshaken when the city trembled. That's what power is."
Frank rose halfway from his seat, hands gripping the edge of the table. "Power without conscience is rot. It devours. And you—" he glared at her with raw contempt, "—you revel in that rot."
Klein's hand shot out, pressing against Frank's arm before the confrontation spilled further. "Frank," he murmured, steady, "listen. Not now. You're both arguing truths, but this isn't the place."
Frank's chest heaved, his jaw tight. Cathy merely tilted her head, victory flickering in her eyes at his fury.
The uncles, who had until then let the younger generation snap and spit, finally shifted. Rafael's voice rolled across the table, deep and unyielding. "Enough." His cigar glowed faintly as he exhaled smoke. "This house doesn't break apart over words. Not while we sit here."
Marco's tone followed, calm but with the kind of authority that cut deeper than shouting. "Let the elders speak. Hold your tongues."
For a fleeting moment, silence threatened to reclaim the room. But Antonio's lawless pride bristled. He leaned back, scoffing. "Hold our tongues? When we're spat on? Respect goes both ways, uncle."
Nick added sharply, voice dripping with teenage venom. "We're not servants to bow and nod at every lecture. If they come for us, we'll reply."
"Antonio! Nick!" Clara's voice cracked like a whip, sharp and maternal, heavy with the kind of authority that couldn't be ignored. Her hands trembled slightly on the tablecloth, but her eyes burned. "Not another word. Not to your sister, not to your elders, not to anyone. Do you understand me?"
Antonio's nostrils flared. For a heartbeat, defiance gleamed in his gaze. Then, with a sharp exhale, he looked away, lips pressed tight.
Nick muttered something under his breath, but at Clara's piercing glare, he sank back into his chair, jaw tense, fingers drumming against the wood.
The room remained taut, a bowstring pulled to breaking. The cousins—Luca, Enzo, Klein—remained still as stone, watching every word, every twitch of tension. They understood their weight, their presence—but they also knew better than to overstep Clara or the uncles. This wasn't their place. Not yet.
Even Lucia, silent and small, continued to eat in slow, deliberate bites, her eyes lowered. She felt the storm crackle around her, but chose invisibility.
The heat had reached its peak. Frank still seethed, Cathy still smirked, Antonio and Nick simmered in resentful silence, Isabella bristled with indignation, Clara's voice trembled with the effort of control. The uncles' warnings hovered like iron.
And then—
The door clicked open.
All heads snapped toward the sound.
The dining hall's tension seemed to curdle into silence as Vincenzo stepped inside. His face was unreadable, expression carved from stone. Dead eyes, hollow of warmth, scanned the room once—slow, deliberate, enough to catch every breath held in throats.
He said nothing. He didn't need to. His presence alone was a blade sliding through the noise, silencing the storm his family had been tearing itself apart in.
The Moretti estate held its breath.