Chapter 4 - The Confrontation with the Patriarch and the Ultimate ChoiceThe private study of Don Lorenzo Viscari smelled of aged leather, expensive cigars, and old blood.
The patriarch of the Viscari syndicate sat behind a massive mahogany desk, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth, a silver-plated revolver resting casually beside his blotter. He didn't look surprised as the double doors were kicked open. In fact, he looked mildly disappointed—like a disappointed schoolmaster dealing with unruly children.
"Roman," Lorenzo said, his raspy, smoke-ruined voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "I expected better of a son of mine. Throwing away a dynasty for a woman who brings nothing to the table but a few brick-and-mortar storefronts."
Roman stepped into the room, his assault rifle raised, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. He stopped ten feet from the desk, his massive frame radiating pure, unfiltered malice.
"She brings something you never had, old man," Roman said, his voice dropping into a deadly register. "Loyalty. Integrity. And a refusal to bow to a tyrant who steals from his own blood."
Lorenzo chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. He slowly shifted his gaze from Roman to Alina, who stood just behind her husband, holding a thick folder containing the recovered title deeds and Dana's forensic evidence.
"My dear child," Lorenzo purred, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk. "You think you've won a great victory tonight. You think exposing a few property transfers will bring down the Viscari family? We survived prohibition, federal indictments, and federal penitentiaries. A pregnant florist and a rebellious son cannot touch us."
"I'm not a florist, Don Viscari," Alina said, stepping out from behind Roman’s shoulder. Her voice was steady, clear, and completely devoid of fear. "And I'm not here to negotiate. I'm here to execute a corporate liquidation."
She tossed a thick sheaf of printed documents across the mahogany desk, scattering the patriarch’s private papers.
"What is this?" Lorenzo barked, glancing down.
"That is a certified petition filed three hours ago with the Federal District Court, backed by the U.S. Attorney's office," Alina said crisply. "It details every single shell company, offshore account, and fraudulent property acquisition your organization has executed in the last ten years—including the forged signature on my grandmother's trust. The moment I press 'send' on my encrypted terminal, federal marshals execute simultaneous search warrants on every asset you own."
Lorenzo’s face turned the color of ash. His hand twitched toward the silver-plated revolver resting beside his blotter.
"You wouldn't dare," he hissed.
"Try me," Alina challenged, pulling her phone from her pocket with her left hand and resting her thumb over the transmission icon. "You killed my grandmother's memory the day you decided you could rob her granddaughter. Destroying you is just housekeeping."
Lorenzo’s fingers hovered over the revolver grip. He looked at Roman, expecting hesitation, expecting familial bond to override judgment.
"Roman," the old man pleaded softly, playing his final card. "She's using you. She's destroying everything we built. Kill her, and the empire is yours—completely, unconditionally."
Roman stared at his father. For three agonizing seconds, the room hung suspended in absolute silence.
Then Roman lowered his rifle barrel—not toward the floor, but directly level with his father's chest.
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"The empire died the day you tried to murder my wife," Roman said, his voice absolute and final. "And you're going to sit right there and watch it burn."
Lorenzo’s hand dropped away from the revolver. The fight drained out of him, leaving him looking like an old, broken man sitting in a room full of stolen dust.
