Chapter 62: LXII. CESARE ROMANO (POV)

“De Angelis was very close to Bernardi.”

“Oh, was he?” My eyes darken. The warmth in my gut vanishes as a chill settles over me.

My gaze slowly returns to Ottavio, the glass heavy in my fingers. I tilt my head slightly, as I always do when I see the edge of something rotten rise to the surface.

Then a dangerous smile, twisted and malicious, curves across my lips. I down the drink in one go, feeling it burn all the way down, clearing a path straight to the pit of my stomach.

“That changes things, doesn’t it?”

Ottavio presses his lips into a thin line but doesn’t say another word. He doesn’t look at me, still staring at that damn chair, as if Salvatore might materialize there like Christ himself and save the Società from another inquisition.

But I’ve always been ready for the hunt the moment I’m named executioner. And I don’t give a single fuck if that old man is from one of the Twelve Families. I’ll rip our honor from his wrinkled skin with my own hands if he so much as blinks wrong.

He thinks age makes him wise. He thinks his years grant him a kind of invulnerability. He believes his legacy, achievements, and rank will protect him. But no one stands above honor—not even those who helped write it.

I set the glass down on the bar with a calm, silent motion, so precise it doesn’t make a sound. Pure instinct. My mind isn’t here anymore. It’s not even in the room. All I can think about is Bernardi, about that arrogance only Northerners carry.

Of all the Società’s branches outside Sicily, of all the Twelve sub-families, the Bernardis are the most arrogant.

Maybe it’s something in Milan’s water.

“You think Bernardi knows?” Ottavio asks, voice lower now, but still with Romano’s firmness.

“Bernardi’s not an idiot,” A sarcastic smile tugs at my lips. “If he didn’t know, he’s incompetent. If he did, he’s a traitor. Either way, there’ll be consequences.”

He rises from the couch, his movements as controlled as mine, and walks to the bar. He doesn’t ask, just grabs another glass and pours himself a drink without rushing, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid as his thoughts are clearly spinning.

Ottavio takes a sip without a toast, without a word. The drink seems heavier in his throat than in mine.

“What do you want me to do?”

“You?” I hum deep in my throat, like the question is almost funny. “I want you to keep running our docks, brother. That’s your responsibility. No need to worry about what’s festering in the Northern sewers.”

“But—”

“We can’t guarantee there won’t be more suspicious inspections, Ottavio,” I cut him off, sharper than I meant to. I’m not angry at him, just restless, poked and prodded by a tension I don’t recognize. “They might send more inspectors. They might turn those we’ve already paid off. Whoever they are.”

Ottavio’s expression tightens, but he says nothing. So I continue, not to justify myself, but to make sure he sees the same scenarios I do.

“We can’t even trust ourselves—let alone anyone unmarked. So keep your eyes open. If anything, so much as shifts out of rhythm down there, I want to know before it happens. Nothing goes in or out of those docks without your knowledge. Understood?”

“Nothing already goes in or out without my knowledge.” The reply is dry, precise, and his eyes burn with that same mix of frustration and loyalty I always see when I force him to take a step back.

“Good. I want security doubled at the port—eyes on every entrance and exit, even those rusty gates no one’s touched in years.” My voice hardens. “And don’t trust old blood. I want the rookies watching everything with double the attention. I want those who still need to earn the ink on their backs. I trust you’ll be generous with the incentive.”

Ottavio takes another sip, his eyes fixed on the glass, trying to read the future in it. He doesn’t argue or protest… Just nods once.

“We’ll keep the side operations frozen a little longer. Especially the NFSU lines out of Russia.”

“That’s going to piss a lot of people off, Cesare.” He doesn’t look up, his voice deeper now—a warning more than a complaint. “We’re already under pressure from South America.”

“I don’t care. We can’t risk getting caught with weapons in transit. The NFSU lines stay on ice, Ottavio, until I say otherwise.”

I walk a few steps, stopping near the desk, placing my hand on the polished wood. The texture beneath my palm is solid, real. Something that stays still while everything else slips away.

“And the North?” Ottavio asks, finally.

“I’ll handle the North.”

He doesn’t respond right away, just finishes the rest of his drink and sets the glass down on the bar without looking at me, like he’s said everything he can—and now, as always, waits for me to decide how much blood it’ll take to clean up this mess.

“You’re going to Milan?” he asks, more cautious than ever, after all, he knows exactly what it means.

No Romano from the main house sets foot in Milan without the Bianchis’ permission. It’s part of the peace treaty. A rule I’ve followed until now because I’m good at following rules and keeping the lines clear.

“They’ll take it as a direct blow, Cesare. You breaking the treaty and entering their territory without warning is like lighting a fuse that can’t be put out.”

“Good.” The smile I offer has no warmth and never reaches my eyes. “Maybe that’s exactly what they need. A reminder that peace isn’t a right. It’s a privilege. And I can take it away.”

Ottavio inhales deeply, drawing the air in, trying to hold something back. He rubs his face, then the back of his neck, as if pressure is building there, just like in mine.

“And Salvatore?”

“Salvatore will understand,” I say it as a verdict. “There’s a reason he trusts the family in my hands when his are tied.”

Ottavio walks to the window, staring out at the port as if he can see the future slipping between the containers, with something between worry and respect in his face

“You going alone?”

I nod, walking back to the Don’s chair. It groans under my weight, announcing that I’m the one steering the Società right now.

“If you fall in Milan,” Ottavio adds, still not turning around, “there won’t be anyone left to hold the South, Cesare.”

“You forgetting who you’re talking to?” I scoff, my tone laced with sarcasm—the closest I get to humor. “I don’t fall, little brother. Men like me don’t kneel.”

Ottavio lets out a brief, dry laugh, but there’s no lightness in it. Just the echo of someone who knows things are about to get even dirtier. He crosses his arms and turns around, his eyes shadowed with that kind of anticipation that burns, hurts, and presses against the bone.

“All right, Cesarino,” he says. “I’ll keep things running smoothly here.”

“Good.” I nod, already turning back to the reports, signaling the conversation is over.

He knows the cue well. His arms uncross, and his hands slip into the pockets of his slacks as he walks to the door with those measured, relaxed steps that say the world’s just waiting on him.

But before he’s gone, I remember something else that’s been scratching at my nerves.

I lift my eyes, voice dry again, “Ottavio?”

“Hm?” He turns slightly, just enough to look at me.

“Have you seen Matteo? He’s not answering me.”

“Matteo?” Ottavio frowns, his expression darkening with a thought he doesn’t voice, and doesn’t need to. “Not since yesterday.”

My own face tightens as the realization crashes down on me like a weight. Waves of impatience rise again, this time, blood boiling in my veins.

So this is what they call anger?