Chapter 50 Fiorella
The conference room smelled of stale cigars and leather, the heavy weight of years of power suspended in the air. The men seated at the long, mahogany table were among the few who had stuck around—men who worked for my father, men who remained when others walked away.
I stood at the head of the table, fingers tapping on the shining wood, stance tense, unyielding. They need to see strength. Any weakness, any crack, however slight, would be used against me.
"We're losing allies," I said, my voice even though mine was a bubbling cauldron. "And we all know why."
I didn't have to say his name. The tension in the room was sufficient for me to know they did.
Vittorio.
I caught a look at Massimo, my father's old consigliere, a man who'd advised him through war and negotiations. His sharp eyes held mine, awaiting, considering. Beside him, Luca and Stefano—both of them commanders under my father—sat forward, their faces strained.
Stefano spoke first. "Word is, there are 'better' offers for some of the smaller families."
I snickered. "Let me take a guess—by my loving uncle?"
A grim nod.
I had braced myself for it, but to hear him say it in so many words still ignited something in my belly. Vittorio was not playing around. He was systematically pitting my people against me.
"Then we make the first move," I said, standing. "If we sit around and allow him to chew away our base, we'll have nothing. We make the first move."
Luca rubbed his jaw. "What did you mean?"
I strode to the window, gazing out at the city. My city. I would not allow it to slip through my fingers.
“We remind them what the real D'Angelos are," I said, about-turning. "I need meetings set with all families yet to make a decision. In private. One at a time. I will handle them personally."
A couple of them shot each other look-for-looks.
Massimo was the one who spoke first. "There are some that won't even meet with you ."
"Then I'll visit their doorstep," I said. "We remind them of the past, of the power my father built. We remind them nothing has changed."
Luca exhaled sharply. "And if they refuse?"
I met his eyes. "Then they have made their decision."
Stefano grunted in approval. "And Vittorio?"
I smiled to myself, a hard small smile. "We start taking things away from him, piece by piece."
He thought he could outwit me. Thought he could push me out of the way and take what belongs to me.
He didn't know what I was made of.
Vittorio thought that he could take my father's empire away from me, but he had me underestimated. He sat around all these years as my father built this empire. I stood beside him, learning, watching, learning the game far better than Vittorio.
If he wanted a war of influence, I would provide it.
I started with his entrepreneurial activities—those he had quietly built up over the years, thinking that no one was looking. I was.
The initial step was simple. A chain of upscale restaurants that funnelled money through the back door, bringing in a steady income for him and his son, Vincent. I arranged an on-the-spot inspection by officials I had in my back pocket. Health code violations were discovered. Licenses were "misfiled" mysteriously. His restaurants shut down overnight.
The second was more discreet. One of his most powerful backers, the Rodrigo family relied on a high-end gambling operation to keep their finances afloat. Unfortunately for them, the De Lucas owned the largest casino empire in the city, and I still had enough leverage to influence who was allowed to operate within those walls.
A few strategically whispered words in Rafael and Rocco’s ears, and the Rodrigo’s found themselves excluded from playing at each profitable table in the city.
When they came to Vittorio for help, he had no response to offer.
One by one, I brought him down.
I wasn't just weakening him—I was humiliating him.
A leader who couldn't protect his own property.
A man whose friends were starting to question whether they could trust him.
The final stroke, however, was aimed at his son. Vincent had been a perpetual pain in my side—arrogant, impulsive, and reckless. He had been spending money hand on a deal with the Marchesi family, an illegal arms deal that he believed remained was a secret. I had been watching and now I was of the opinion that Vittorio and his son were planning with the Marchesi ever since, the betrayal from within must have been them and they probably even had planned the death of my father.
With a single phone call, I had intercepted the shipment before it even reached their hands. The sale collapsed, the Marchesi were furious, and Vincent? He was left struggling, trying to account for why millions of dollars had somehow disappeared into thin air.
Vittorio would know about it now.
The cracks in his foundation.
The slow, steady erosion of all he had tried to build against me.
And this was only the beginning.
Betrayal creeps in slow. It gets inside, quiet, until you realize it's too late.
I'd been so focused on tearing down Vittorio's grip that I hadn't caught sight of the larger web he'd spun beneath me. The Marchesi had always been adversaries—foes in a ballet of blood and strength—but this was not that. This wasn't mere grudges born of age or border wars. This was different. This was calculated.
Something planned.
The first indication came when one of my sources, an old man who had worked briefly in my father's inner circle, sent me a message, coded and rushed. "Beware of the men near you. Some men shake hands with the same hands that fired the gun."
I didn't want to believe it. But I wasn't naive.
I started digging.
Documents. Phone records. Unbalanced financial deals. Furtive meetings in back rooms that my uncle was not invited to. A pattern started to surface—a shadow of coalitions formed years and years before my father's death.
And then I found it.
A transfer. Massive sums of money funnelled discreetly from one of Vittorio's shell companies into a Marchesi offshore account. The date ran shivers down my spine. One week prior to my father's death.
I shook with my hands as I clicked the link.
He had been working with them the whole time.
Vittorio. My own family.
Had he commanded it? Had he plotted with them? Or had he simply stood aside and let them get their hands dirty while he waited for the throne?
It didn't matter.
He knew.
And he had let it happen.
The knowledge burned in me, aching, pitiless. My father had believed in him. Had fought for him, had built this empire with his own two hands—and meanwhile, Vittorio had waited for the right moment to take it away from him.
To take away everything.
My chest tightened as the extent of it dawned on me. This was no longer merely about power. This was no longer about who led the family.
It was about revenge.
If they thought I was going to be the sobbing daughter who would collapse under the pressure, they were wrong.
I wasn’t going to just take them down.
I was going to make them regret ever thinking they could betray me and get away with it.