Chapter 25 IRON AND BLOOD
NIKOLAI:
I hadn’t spoken to my uncle in four years. The streak began since the night I was declared the new Don. Since he stood in the back of the room, watching history bend in a direction he never approved of.
The youngest Don in the family’s history.
He refused to give me the “kiss of respect”. He thought it was reckless. He thought I was.
Now, I needed his… intellect. His line rang three times before it connected.
He didn’t speak for a second, until he finally did.
“Nikolai.”
His voice hadn’t changed, like gravel, layered with authority.
“Uncle.”
I didn’t call him that out of affection. It was simply acknowledgment.
“For you to call me, I can only imagine something is broken,” he said.
“Something is.”
“You finally realising the crown is heavier than you thought?” he asked.
“Jasmine was taken.”
He paused. “The new La Prescelta,” he said, almost as if he was teasing me.
“Yes.”
“And you’re certain it wasn’t internal?”
“I am.”
“You sound emotional.”
“I’m not.”
A faint exhale of amusement hummed through the line. “You always were when it came to protecting what you considered yours.”
“I didn’t call for commentary.”
“No,” he agreed calmly. “You called for help.”
The word sat bitterly in my throat.
“Yes.”
He let the silence stretch again. Then he spoke.
“I can’t help you,” he said finally.
My jaw tightened at that.
“You still have loyalists in Jersey,” I said. “Contacts I don’t.”
“And if I intervene,” he replied, “it signals weakness. It tells your enemies you needed the old guard to fix your mistake.”
Mistake.
“You disapproved of me,” I said evenly. “You don’t have to disapprove of my decisions now.”
“This isn’t about disapproval,” he said. “It’s about perception. You took the throne young, too young. You survived because you ruled clean and controlled.”
He paused, then continued. “Now they’ll test you.”
“They already have. They have been.”
“Good.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“Good?” I repeated.
“Yes. Because this is the moment you decide who you are.”
He lowered his voice slightly.
“Your father ruled with an iron fist.”
My father. A man who had been in comatose for years since my mother died. A ghost in a private hospital wing.
“Fear,” my uncle continued, “is the only language men like ours respect.”
“I don’t need a lecture.”
“You need clarity,” he snapped. “If someone took what is yours, you do not negotiate. You do not reason, nor calculate. You crush.”
“And if you hesitate,” he added, “they’ll do it again.”
Then, more quietly:
“Show them the consequences of messing with what you own. A finger isn’t going to cut it.”
Then the line went dead.
He hadn’t offered names, he hadn’t offered men. Just philosophy.
I lowered the phone slowly. Then I pressed the intercom.
“Matthew.”
He entered within seconds.
“You called?”
“Names.”
He didn’t ask which ones. He simply placed a file on my desk.
“Jersey remnants. Two minor capos who’ve been pushing territory lines. A security contractor who lost a bid last year. And one more.”
“Say it.”
“Vittorio Lanza.”
Vittorio. He owed me a lot of money and I collect from him every two weeks. It didn’t matter whether he had it or not, I collected whatever caught my interest.
He’d be stupid enough to try.
“Bring them,” I said.
Matthew’s jaw tightened slightly. “All of them?”
“All.”
We headed to the warehouse, where they were dragged in, one by one.
Vittorio tried to maintain composure at first.
“You can’t just—”
And I struck him before he finished. His head snapped sideways.
“You think I need permission?” I asked quietly.
He spat, blood dotting on the floor.
“I didn’t take her,” he said quickly.
“Then you won’t mind explaining who did.”
“I don’t know.”
I nodded once, and one of my men stepped forward.
“I don’t think you can hear me.”
“I can…” Vittorio uttered, in fear, right before his right ear was chopped off.
He shrieked in pain, blood spurting all over the floors of my warehouse. But I didn’t flinch.
The second man my men brought in begged almost immediately.
“I swear, Don, I swear—”
“You don’t have to,” I said flatly.
Matthew stood nearby, with folded arms, watching carefully.
This wasn’t interrogation. This was demonstration. Iron fist, just like my father.
They needed to understand the cost of even suspicion. Vittorio then cracked after the third round.
“It wasn’t me!” he screamed. “It wasn’t!”
“Then give me something,” I said calmly.
He sobbed. He was actually sobbing.
“I heard rumours,” he gasped. “Someone flew in from Italy. A soldato.”
I crouched in front of him.
“Who?”
“I don’t know names.”
I stood. He was useless.
“Dispose of them,” I said.
Matthew stepped forward quickly.
“Nikolai.”
I didn’t look at him.
“They don’t have concrete ties.”
“They’re breathing,” I replied.
“And they’re terrified,” Matthew countered quietly. “That’s enough for now.”
I turned toward him slowly.
“Enough?”
“You’re escalating without proof.”
“They’re suspects.”
“They’re innocent.”
His words cut sharper than it should have.
I walked toward a metal table and grabbed the nearest object, a full bottle of whiskey. For a split second I considered drinking it, but I hurled it against the wall instead.
The glass shattered into pieces, and the amber liquid splattered across concrete like blood.
The men flinched. Even my own men stepped back. Everyone fell silent.
I dragged a hand down my face.
“I must find her,” I muttered. “I must find my La Prescelta.”
Matthew’s gaze shifted slightly at that. He understood the implication. This wasn’t just about possession. It wasn’t just about pride.
It had crossed into something deeper. And that made me more volatile than any enemy could predict.
I straightened slowly.
“Keep Vittorio alive,” I said finally. “You can let the other one go.”
The men were dragged away, broken and shaking.
Matthew approached carefully.
“You’re losing yourself,” he said quietly.
“No,” I replied, my voice steady.
“I’m making a statement.”
Because my uncle was right about one thing. Fear is a language. And before this ends, the entire city will learn how fluently I speak it.