Chapter 1

As soon as my voice faded, a bang echoed through the conference room. In the almost pin-drop silence, the sound of Don Costa's glass striking the marble table was exceptionally loud.

Immediately after, a low murmur began to ripple through the room.

The first to speak was Francesco. "Seriously? All that over this? You're usually so quiet—didn't think you'd make such a big deal out of something so small."

Antonio Greco, a Capo under the family's Underboss, grumbled in a gruff voice, "Exactly. She's usually the least busy anyway. Asking her to stay back and manage the family's affairs was a sign of trust, yet here she is getting all worked up about it."

"I can't believe you're throwing a tantrum again like a spoiled princess, as if guarding the family isn't important," he muttered under his breath, clearly displeased. "This isn't the place for your little fits."

Beside him, the Consigliere Dario Zanon leaned lazily against the back of his chair, revealing the double-gun skull tattoo on his arm.

"What's the matter, Camilla?" he asked calmly. "Is there something you're unhappy about?

"Or do you think that after five years of hard work for the family, you still haven't received a share of the family trust fund, and that's why you're making a scene here? Have you ever stopped to consider your own worth?"

Marco Lombardi, the Capo in charge of the family's network information, closed his laptop and chimed in, "Young people shouldn't be so full of resentment. You want to leave the family?

"Do you really think the outside world is easy to navigate? Without the family's protection, you could end up dead in the streets without even knowing why. If you really leave the family, you won't even know where to go to cry about it."

"That's right," echoed voices from around the room.

Pietro Leone, the Capo seated at the far end of the table, was someone who often panicked in the face of unexpected situations. I had helped him countless times, meticulously planning every detail of his security arrangements for meetings.

Now, his voice was the loudest, and his words the most venomous.

"Don Costa, you mustn't go soft on her. She's been with the family for five years, and all she's done is run errands—no skilled work to speak of. This is something everyone has witnessed with their own eyes.

"What has she actually contributed to the family so far? Have we ever seen her on the front lines? Did she secure an arms deal? Or broker a drug transaction? It's only under our family's protection that she's been able to live comfortably and safely.

"Without it, she'd have ended up dead in some alley long ago. She's just seeing that the family is overwhelmed with business lately and thinks her moment has come. That's why she's threatening to leave the family."

His every word was like a needle dipped in poison.

I looked at Pietro, thinking back to five days ago when I reviewed the Messina family intel he compiled. It was disorganized, illogical, and riddled with gaps.

I was the one who stayed up until 4:00 am to help him reorganize the family structure, verify the data, and draft a clear, actionable collaboration plan.

He took that completely revamped report, with its precise data, and used it to successfully secure a year-long, billion-dollar drug trafficking deal with the Messina family.

When he returned, glowing with pride, he bought coffee for everyone in the office.

Everyone except me.

Don Costa lit a cigar and, at the same time, put a stop to the growing murmurs in the room. His face was hidden behind a veil of exhaled smoke, making his expression impossible to read.

Only his voice cut through, cold and tinged with a disdain so deep it seemed etched into his bones. That same disdain had been playing out since the day I first walked into this family office five years ago.

Back then, he had also held a cigar in his left hand while he picked up my sparse, unimpressive résumé with the other.

"You're Camilla? Your educational background is rather plain, though your major is passable. What exactly can you do? Your academic record and background are nothing special, and you're just the daughter of a common Soldato.

"This family doesn't carry dead weight. Start at the bottom for now. You won't be handling any projects yet. Just help out where you can and familiarize yourself with the environment. You should consider yourself lucky just to be working with the family."

My early days were indeed spent on menial tasks such as serving coffee, ordering takeout, handling deliveries, printing, copying, and sorting through mountains of outdated reports.

However, I wasn't going to let my skills go to waste.

To get up to speed quickly, I stayed behind every day after everyone else left, poring over the internal server files. I quickly sorted and memorized the family names, their intertwined power structures, and business distributions.

I also noted down each family's history, operational scope, and territorial divisions for arms and drug trafficking.

Every time I brought coffee, I would humbly ask the Capos, "Boss, how did you compile the arms data for this family? How do you manage client follow-up so effectively?"

The replies were always the same. "That's none of your concern. I'm busy—don't bother me. You wouldn't understand even if I told you."

They wouldn't even look up.

But I still pressed on, tirelessly digging through files. While others went home to rest, I stayed behind, sifting through data at our branch offices and studying the key factors behind the family's past successes.

Once, a Capo named Riccardo Barbieri was rushing to submit a report on the causes of a clash between two families in Belmaria along with firearm data, but he accidentally mixed up critical information between them.

I noticed it while bringing him coffee and, after some hesitation, decided to point it out.

His expression immediately changed. He quickly closed the file and waved me off impatiently, saying, "Mind your own business. Get out of here."

Later, the revised report—with accurate data thanks to my heads-up—helped the family successfully close a five-billion-dollar arms deal.

Riccardo received praise and rewards from Don Costa that even the tattoos on his arm seemed to radiate excitement, yet not a single word was mentioned about me.