3 — The Performance

Luca’s POV

The front door of the police station swung open, and my father stepped out into the gray morning light. He looked like he was leaving a board meeting, not an interrogation. Not a hair out of place, his suit impeccable.

Our family’s lawyer, Mr. Abati, stepped in front of him just as the horde of journalists descended. Microphones were shoved forward like weapons.

"Don Vitale! Don Vitale! Any comment on the bombing?" "Is it true the Blackwoods are blaming your family?" "How do you explain that no high-ranking Vitales were among the dead?"

My father didn’t flinch. He let Mr. Abati be the shield.

"My client has fully cooperated with the authorities in this tragic matter," Abati announced, his voice calm and practiced. "Don Vitale expresses his profound sorrow and offers his thoughts and prayers to all the victims and their families but especially the Blackwoods who were severely affected by this tragedy. This was a horrific act of violence against our entire community, and he prays for swift justice."

The questions kept coming, more pointed now. "How come the Vitale family hasn’t lost any imminent members, unlike the Blackwoods? Were you warned?"

A flicker of something cold passed behind my father’s eyes, but his public mask didn’t slip. Mr. Abati didn’t miss a beat. "We are thanking God for our safety, as we are sure the Blackwoods would in our place. To suggest otherwise is irresponsible. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Don Vitale has a prior commitment to the city."

On cue, two of our men dressed in sharp suits cleared a path. They guided him through the crowd like it was nothing, like they’d done it a thousand times before.

The black car door was open and my father slid in beside me, the door thudding shut, instantly muting the shouting reporters.

"Drive," he said, calm as a sea after a storm. The car silently pulled away from the curb.

For a full minute, he didn’t look at me. He just stared out the window, watching the city blur past. The dignified sorrow had evaporated from his face, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness.

"They know nothing," he finally said, more to his reflection in the window than to me. "They are children chasing echoes. Vance is competent, but his hands are tied by politics. The younger one… Miller. He’s hungry. He will be a problem."

He fell silent again, his mind working, plotting moves on a board only he could see. This was the real man. The public performance was over. The private strategy session had begun.

"The hospital," I said, not a question but a reminder of the next act.

A slow, thin smile touched his lips. "Yes. The hospital. It is important we are seen. Especially today."

··•·•·•··

Few minutes later, we were standing under a large white tent outside the new ‘Vitale Generos Wing’ of the city hospital. Cameras flashed. Local politicians and socialites sipped champagne, their laughter sounding too loud, too forced against the memory of last night’s screams.

My father was a different man again. He shook hands, clasped shoulders, and listened with deep concern to the hospital director. He accepted a giant pair of ceremonial scissors.

"In times of darkness," He spoke into the microphone, his voice loud and warm, but his eyes stayed cold, "we must be the light. We must come together as a community to heal, to build, to support. That is what Vitale Generos stands for. That is what our city deserves."

He cut the ribbon. The crowd applauded. He was a hero. A pillar of strength.

I stood slightly behind him, playing my part. The dutiful son. The heir to a legacy of generosity. I smiled and nodded at the right times, but my mind was elsewhere. My thoughts were with Ethan. What state could he be in right now?

During the night, we got the final count from our informants. Four Blackwoods dead. Two were their enforcers. And among the other two, one was Ethan’s younger brother.

When I heard, something in me broke. I felt sick. Guilty. I blamed my family. I blamed what we were. How could I ever face Ethan after this? How could I look him in the eye?

My father showed nothing. Not a hint that he was involved. And the man I know… he wouldn’t throw a peace party just to take out a few low-level guys. If he wanted blood, he would’ve gone straight for Dominic’s head. He didn’t say it out loud, but I knew he had nothing to do with this.

But like a true Vitale, he wasn’t shaken. Not even though it happened on our turf. Sure It wasn’t the Blackwoods. They wouldn’t blow themselves up. And it wasn’t us… at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

However, I realized what a cold strategist my father was. All these last hours, it bad all been a brilliant, terrifying performance from his part.

He hadn’t given the police a single thing, yet he had appeared utterly cooperative. He hadn’t declared war, but he had positioned us perfectly, making himself look strong and reasonable, and Dominic Blackwood look like a grieving, dangerous animal.

As we got back into the car, the silence returned. The mask was off.

"They will retaliate," he said calmly, as if discussing the weather. "Dominic has no choice now. Even if his men were to force his hand, he would not dare to attack us.."

He looked at me, his gaze sharp and assessing. "And even if that were to happen, we will be ready. But our response must be precise."

He was already three steps ahead, orchestrating the next move in a war he was determined to win without ever getting his hands dirty in public.

The hours turned into days, and my father did nothing to ease the storm with the Blackwoods. Instead, he spent his time meeting with capos, moving money, and tightening security around our businesses. He wasn’t trying to make peace, he was preparing for war.

It ate at me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ethan’s face at the cemetery. Alone. Broken. I couldn’t stand it.

So I did something stupid. By a trusted man I ordered a sheaf of white lilies, the kind you send for respect, not for show, and wrote a note in my father’s name. Not emotional, just a few lines offering sympathy. I thought maybe it could ease the tension. Show that we weren’t animals.

I was wrong.

Later that day, My man reported the message to me. Dominic Blackwood had burned the letter and sent the flowers back with a warning. My attempt at peace had only poured gasoline on the fire.

I was in the hall when I heard the sound of my father’s hand slamming down on his desk so hard the whole house seemed to shake.

"How dare they?" he roared from behind the closed door. "After all my efforts to show strength, someone is making me look weak in the eyes of my enemies!"

I froze outside, my blood turning cold.

"If I find the bastard who did this," he snarled, voice trembling with rage, " I’ll gut him alive!"

I pushed the door open without thinking. My father stood behind his desk, face flushed deep red, the veins in his neck standing out. Across from him stood our consigliere, Silvio, a man of unshakable calm, who merely watched with quiet eyes.

Seeing me, my father stopped mid-breath. He took a sharp inhale, and just like that, the rage receded behind his eyes. He straightened his suit jacket, his composure returning as quickly as it had shattered.

"This sheaf of flowers sent in my name" he said, voice now low and controlled, "will only make me look ridiculous if I acknowledge it. I will pretend it is nothing."

He didn’t look at me when he said it. And I definitely understood Don Vitale wasn’t interested in peace. Not really. He was interested in winning. And anything that made him look soft was an insult.

I nodded slowly, pretending to agree. But inside, something shifted.

If he wouldn’t do anything… then I would.

I walked out of his office, my heart beating hard, and pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over Ethan’s number.

The truth was, I didn’t just want to make peace.

I wanted to see him again.