While Pranav and Sanvi were locked in silent conflict over the fate of the cartel leader Mateo Varela, the true drama was unfolding miles away, deep inside the Corvini compound. The incident in the industrial yard had destabilized the mid-level hierarchy, exposing fault lines within the family itself.
Kevin Corvini found John Corvini in his office. Alone.
The room was not grand, but oppressive, a study in minimalist power. Dark wood, absolute silence, and a massive mahogany desk that looked capable of absorbing sound. The tension was thick, almost visible in the air, a raw, painful sound of sibling insecurity scraping against absolute authority.
Kevin didn't knock. He stormed in, his usual swagger replaced by the desperate, jerky energy of a man near his breaking point. He was terrified, not of the rival cartels, but of the assessment of his father.
He vented everything, the words spilling out in a torrent of accusation and self-defense.
"The recruits are chaos!" Kevin hissed, slamming his hand on the desk, the sound muffled by the wood. "They were captured once. They almost got Sam killed. They're a curse! They're bleeding us dry in cleanup costs, legal fees, and unnecessary violence. They are a liability, not an asset, and they are destroying the carefully maintained silence of the family!"
He was shouting not just about the crew, but about the cost of the crew, aiming his complaint directly at the ledger that Asuma kept. Kevin saw them as a stain on his own competence, a variable that undermined his control over the lab and his position in the hierarchy.
John Corvini listened. He sat behind his desk, not moving, his face calm, serene, like a funeral priest attending to an inevitable demise. He let the wave of Kevin's frantic, anxious noise wash over him entirely. His silence was heavier and more damning than any retort.
When Kevin finally ran out of breath, panting slightly in the stillness of the room, John lifted his eyes. There was no anger, no disappointment, only cold, vast perspective.
"You see rust, Kevin," John said, his voice quiet, almost kind. "A contaminant. A flaw that threatens the purity of the material."
He paused, letting the silence draw tight again.
"I see unrefined iron."
John leaned forward slightly, his gaze absolute. "The fire that refines iron is not gentle. It is a terrifying, consuming heat."
The words were delivered with a serene cruelty that was chilling. He was talking about the New Blood, but the lesson was aimed entirely at his son.
"The fire will burn away their weakness, or it will burn them to ash," John concluded, dismissing the entire crew with a single metaphor. "Either way, Kevin… the family gets stronger."
Kevin shut up. His shoulders slumped, the sudden defeat visible in his posture.
Because no matter how loud he shouted, no matter how desperately he tried to enforce his own version of control, John didn't deal in complaints or arguments. John spoke reality into existence. His philosophy was brutal, Darwinian, and absolute: the only value the recruits possessed was their potential to survive the crucible. Kevin, by complaining about the process, had only proven that he was susceptible to the noise.