Chapter 15 - the shadow over the throne
Forty-eight hours later, the storm had completely cleared over the city.
The Bellandi mansion was quiet. The ruined bookcase in the library had been hauled away, the broken floorboards replaced with solid oak, and the hidden trapdoor beneath the floor was sealed with fresh concrete and iron bolts.
Upstairs in the private solarium, Helena and Adriana sat together in the warm afternoon sunlight, their hands intertwined, speaking in low, emotional whispers. For the first time in three years, Adriana was wearing a clean silk dress, her hollow cheeks beginning to regain their rosy color.
Downstairs in the grand boardroom, the Five Families Commission had gathered.
Victor sat at the head of the long mahogany table. He wore a fresh charcoal-grey three-piece suit, his gold cufflinks catching the afternoon light. Don Falcone was absent—officially retired to Florida under Victor's permanent armed guard. Celeste was stripped of every asset, every account, and locked away in the high-security federal wing after Victor handed over her signed treason ledgers to the authorities.
The remaining four Dons looked at Victor with genuine fear. He had purged his inner circle, secured the harbor terminals, and crushed the coup without losing a single foot of territory.
"The docks are secure," Victor announced, his deep voice filling the quiet room. "The port expansion continues under my personal oversight. Anyone who questions the legitimacy of my seat may step forward now."
Nobody moved. Not a single Don dared to meet his gaze.
"Meeting adjourned," Victor said.
The Dons filed out quickly, leaving Victor alone in the grand room.
A moment later, the side door opened, and Julian Vance stepped inside. He was dressed in a dark cashmere coat, carrying a leather travel briefcase.
"You handled the Commission well, Victor," Julian said, standing on the opposite side of the table. "Salvatore taught you how to command fear. But fear only lasts until someone finds a bigger gun."
"I'm not Salvatore," Victor said coldly, standing up. "And I don't need your advice on how to hold my city."
Julian offered a faint, melancholy smile. "I know you don't. You've earned this throne with your own blood. I'm taking your mother to a private estate in Maine. She needs peace, Victor. Away from the gunfire, away from the concrete."
"She'll have whatever she wants," Victor said. "I'll have Luca escort you."
Julian nodded, set a heavy brass key on the mahogany table, and turned toward the door.
"What is this?" Victor asked.
"The key to Salvatore’s private wall safe in his master bedroom," Julian said, pausing at the threshold. "He hid something there twenty-four hours before he died. Something he didn't even trust Celeste or Falcone to see. It’s time you took full possession of his ghosts."
Julian walked out, closing the door behind him.
Ten minutes later, Victor stood alone in Salvatore Bellandi’s former bedroom on the fourth floor of the mansion.
He moved the heavy oil painting of the Roman Colosseum aside, revealing the antique steel wall safe. Victor inserted the brass key, turned it twice to the right, and pulled the heavy door open.
Inside, resting on the velvet shelf, was a sealed manila envelope stamped with the official wax seal of the Bellandi crest.
Victor broke the wax and slid the contents out.
It was an international wire transfer receipt dated three days ago—the exact morning Father Thomas was murdered at Saint Jude’s.
The wire had transferred fifty million dollars from an anonymous offshore account in Zurich directly into Victor’s personal operating fund.
Attached to the receipt was a single, high-resolution surveillance photograph taken yesterday afternoon right outside the Bellandi mansion gates.
In the photograph, an elderly, silver-haired man stood by the tree line, watching the mansion through binoculars. The man's face was partially turned toward the camera, revealing a deep, familiar scar running across his left cheek.
Victor’s heart stopped.
The man in the photograph was Salvatore Bellandi.
May you like
And scrawled across the bottom of the picture in fresh, black marker was a message written in his father's unmistakable handwriting:
*Good job cleaning up the mess, son. Now let's see how you handle the war that's coming.*
