Chapter 176

The private wine cellar beneath Cicero, that old-school Italian restaurant.

Three fancy crystal chandeliers hung overhead, completely out of place against the rough exposed concrete walls and oak wine barrels all around—like someone had shoved a Parisian salon into an underground bomb shelter. Except this time, for the first time, Vincent sat at the head of the long table.

He wore a perfectly tailored dark gray suit, a slim laptop in front of him, its screen showing a spreadsheet packed with data. No bundles of cash, no cigars—just neatly stacked legal documents with crisp printing on the table. This was a completely different world from his father's era, when the table was piled with cash, blood-stained ledgers, and revolvers.

Harold sat across from him, seven or eight old-school capos behind him, every one of them frowning, faces dark.

"Over the past three months," Vincent's finger slid across the trackpad, his tone as steady as if he were giving an investor presentation on Wall Street, "street tax in the South District dropped forty percent, three underground casinos in the West District shut down. I know these numbers don't look good to you, but this is the price we have to pay for the transition—we're washing our assets into legitimate logistics, union pension funds, and real estate. These channels don't require bloodshed on the streets, and they won't give the FBI any more excuses to kick down our doors with search warrants."

"Numbers." An old capo with graying hair gave a cold laugh. "Vincent, when we fought for this territory with your father, we didn't rely on 'legitimate channels'—we used guns and blood. Now you're telling us that stuff doesn't matter anymore?"

"I'm not saying it doesn't matter." Vincent's tone didn't waver at all. "I'm saying the money it's worth is being taxed away bit by bit by the feds—and they're using all our freedom as the payment."

"So what about us?" Harold spoke up, his voice low. "In this grand cleanup plan of yours, is there a place for us old bones?"

The air in the cellar suddenly tightened.

"I can give you points on the package." Vincent said. "The logistics company, the real estate fund—I can give you a share of the legitimate dividends."

"That's not what I'm asking." Harold cut him off roughly. "I'm asking, can we get on your board of directors? Can we sit in those suit-and-tie conference rooms and decide the direction of this family with you?"

Vincent was silent for two seconds.

"No." He finally spoke, his tone taking on a hard edge for the first time, leaving no room for negotiation. "Harold, every single person sitting around you has their name on the feds' surveillance list. You yourself have three failed RICO prosecutions on your record. The whole structure I'm trying to build—the first bottom line is this: anyone connected to these names cannot appear in any part of any legitimate company. This isn't about whether I trust you or not. It's that once you appear on a board list, legally the entire plan gets flagged as a continuation of mob money laundering, and it collapses immediately."

"So what you're saying is," an old capo's voice suddenly shot up, his whole body shaking with rage, "we bled for this family for half our lives, and now when it's time to pick the fruit, we don't even have the right to sit at the table?"

"The dividends I'm offering are higher than the net profit you're making from underground business right now." Vincent's tone remained calm. "That's already the most I can offer in good faith."

"Good faith?" Harold suddenly stood up, slamming both hands heavily on the table. "You're treating us like scrapped car parts, tossing us some severance pay and thinking you can send us away!"

"Sit down, Harold." Vincent's voice wasn't loud, but it carried the authority of a new Boss, quieting the whole room. "I respect everything you've done for this family over the years. But whether this family can survive going forward doesn't depend on those old street rules anymore."

The standoff froze at both ends of the long table.

Luciano, sitting in a dark corner and silent the entire time, kept his eyes on the table, not participating in a single word of this argument.

The meeting ended in oppressive silence and hostility. The old capos got up and left one by one, their faces full of barely contained resentment and murderous intent.

Vincent waited until most people had left the cellar before getting up and walking over to Luciano. His tone suddenly softened a bit, taking on a deliberately crafted warmth:

"Stay for a minute, let's talk."

Luciano didn't move, still sitting in the shadows.

"I know my father's death hasn't been easy for you." Vincent sat down across from him, his posture very humble, like a brother genuinely concerned for his younger sibling. "This family—you belonged to it before I did. If you need anything going forward, come straight to me, don't hesitate—just like you used to go to him."

Luciano finally looked up, those blue-gray eyes coldly watching him.

"Your father," his voice was quiet, "before he died, told me the only person who never let him down his whole life was me."

Vincent's smile froze slightly.

"He also left me a gift." Luciano continued, his tone so flat it had no inflection at all. "An orange grove in Florida, and in an alley, six strangers with guns waiting for me."

The smile on Vincent's face completely stiffened, the muscles at the corner of his eye twitching slightly.

"I don't know what you're talking about—"

"I'm not asking if you know." Luciano cut him off, his voice quiet but like an icy blade scraping against bone. "I just want you to understand one thing, Vincent. Your father wanted to erase me from this family in the most dignified way possible. He failed."

He stood up, looking down at this new godfather.

"Don't try to copy him." Luciano said coldly. "You don't have his weight."

With that, he turned and walked straight out of the cellar without looking at Vincent again.

……

The back alley.

Harold and several old capos hadn't dispersed yet, standing by a black Lincoln arguing quietly about something. Seeing Luciano walk out the back door, everyone stopped talking at once.

"You heard all of it." Harold spoke in a hoarse voice.

"I heard it." Luciano stood still, his gaze sweeping across every wrinkled face present—anger, humiliation, and a kind of old-school loyalty that had been abandoned with nowhere to go.

"He's not going to give you any position." Luciano stated a brutal fact. "What he wants is a squeaky-clean, no-record legitimate empire. Every charge on your record, in his eyes, is a liability that needs to be completely cleaned out."

"So what should we do?" An old capo's voice carried barely suppressed desperation and rage.

"This business has always believed in one thing." Luciano's voice was quiet, but especially clear in the cold alley. "Whoever's got the harder fist makes the rules."

"You mean…" Harold's eyes suddenly lit up—the look of an old wolf catching the scent of blood.

"I mean," Luciano turned around, his gaze slowly sweeping over each person, "the road ahead is going to have blood, people are going to die. If you're not prepared for that, you can get in your car right now, go home and retire, and I won't stop you."

No one moved. The night wind blew through the alley, and the eyes of several old-school gangsters turned exceptionally vicious.

The corner of Luciano's mouth slowly curved into a faint arc that carried undisguised bloodlust.

"Good." He said, his voice dropping low, like reading out a verdict from hell. "Then starting today, we go to the mattresses."

He paused, his gaze falling on that lit window on the second floor of the restaurant in the distance.

"Vincent," he said softly, his tone almost gentle, yet more chilling than any roar, "I'm saving for you."