DON VIRELLI
The night was quiet at my private estate. The kind of silence money buys. The kind of silence fear maintains.
My study sat at the highest wing of the estate, glass walls stretching from floor to ceiling, overlooking acres of land that belonged to me. Security lights glowed faintly across the distance like obedient stars. Every inch of what I saw was under my control.
I sat in my usual chair, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of deep red wine resting between my fingers. The expensive crystal reflected the dim amber lighting of the room. In my other hand, a cigarette burned slowly, smoke curling upward in lazy spirals before dissolving into the darkness above me.
I inhaled slowly. Held it. Then released the smoke through my nose.
Matteo stood to my right like he always did. Silent unless necessary. Loyal enough to live this long. Smart enough to know when to speak.
Tonight, he chose to speak. "We should have killed her when we had the opportunity."
