Semua Bab Sinful Virtues: Bab 11 - Bab 16

The Commission was not a court of law; it was a theater of death. It was held in the sub-basement of an old, decommissioned opera house in the Bronx—a place where the acoustics were designed to carry the sound of a soprano’s voice but now served to amplify the cold, hard click of safety catches being disengaged.Roman adjusted the tie of his black suit, his fingers steady, though the air in the armored car was suffocating. Beside him, Angeline sat in a dress of deep crimson silk, high-necked and long-sleeved, looking every bit the lethal queen she had become. She wasn't wearing jewelry—she didn't need the glitter of diamonds to command attention. Her power was in her stillness."The heads of the five families will be there," Roman said, his voice a low vibration in the small space. "My father will sit at the head of the table. He’s going to argue that I’ve been compromised. That our 'unholy alliance' has threatened the stability of the entire organization."Angeline checked the small,

The Moretti villa in Sicily was a sprawling fortress of sun-bleached stone and wrought iron, perched precariously on a cliffside overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea. It was a place where history was etched into the walls with the blood of vendettas past. As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in a violent shade of bruised plum, the long dining table in the courtyard was prepared for a feast that felt more like a sacrificial rite than a family dinner.Roman stood at the window of their guest quarters, his hands gripping the stone sill. Below, the servants were laying out heavy silver platters of pasta con le sarde and roasted lamb. He could see his Uncle Stefano holding court, surrounded by his "Wolves"—the loyalists who believed that a man was only as strong as the secrets he kept from his wife."They won’t use bullets tonight," Roman said, his voice barely a whisper against the sound of the crashing waves below. "Stefano is a man of 'honor.' A bullet in a guest's house is a

The transition from the sun-drenched, ancient stone of Sicily to the steel and smog of New York City was a jarring descent into a different kind of hell. As the private jet touched down at Teterboro under a shroud of gray, freezing rain, the news reaching Roman’s encrypted phone was worse than Stefano had predicted.Manhattan was bleeding.Vincenzo Moretti, in a fit of senile megalomania and spite, hadn't just invited the Russians in—he had opened the gates and handed them the keys. The Vory v Zakone, led by a cold-blooded butcher named Viktor Drago, had already seized three Moretti distribution hubs in Queens and turned a neutral social club in Little Italy into a charnel house."The city is a war zone," Silas reported as they climbed into a modified, lead-lined SUV that felt more like a tank than a luxury vehicle. "Your father has gone underground. He’s ceded the northern territories to Drago in exchange for protection. He’s essentially declared you a rogue element, Roman. To the Ru