The Don After Death

Alarico’s point of view.

Alarico Romano.

A name that demands respect and inspires fear.

My name.

Men twice my age straighten their backs when I enter a room, men who killed, ordered deaths, and spent their lives believing they were the monsters others should fear until I ascended the throne of the Romano Famiglia and showed them what a monster truly is.

They don’t look at any other Don the way they look at me.

There’s respect in their eyes, but I can see the fear too, because they know what I am.

A Don is supposed to be cold, ruthless when he has to be, cruel when mercy would put his Famiglia at risk. My father, Lorenzo Romano, was all those things, but even he knew where to draw the line.

I never did.

I don’t simply kill people who cross me, because death is too fucking easy.

A bullet, a blade, one order, and it’s over.

Where’s the punishment in that? If you betray me, you don’t get the luxury of a quick death. You learn exactly what your betrayal cost before I finally allow your heart to stop beating.

The Romano estate is big. I keep my prisoners, enemies, and traitors in the Black Vault, which is underground at the far end of the estate, well away from the main house. Closer to Hell, where they belong, although I think many of them would gladly dig through the floors of their cells to reach it. They probably think the Devil would be kinder to them than I am, and they’re probably right. Some of those men have been there for years. Men who sat at my table, knew my family, ate my food, and shook my hand before betraying me now spend their days chained in the dark, begging for the death they once believed I would give them without hesitation.

I don’t.

Maybe that’s what sets me apart from the Dons before me.

They were monsters when they had to be.

I am one whether I need to be or not, and I’ve accepted that.

Well, accepted might not be the right word because that would imply I struggled with it.

I didn’t.

I love every demon inside me and regret nothing I’ve done. Especially not when it comes to my Famiglia.

I don’t tell my family I love them, at least not often. I show it through loyalty, trust, protection, and the men I have watching over them without their knowledge.

That’s how I love them.

Maybe that’s why seeing my own guns pointed at me makes my blood boil more than any betrayal ever could.

And I know betrayal. Men lied to me, sold information, turned on the Famiglia to save themselves, and tried to kill me more than once.

But this is different.

These two were family.

Apparently, they also decided to spectacularly fuck that up.

I protected them, used my name to give them things they could never earn, opened doors for them, put men around them, and made sure no one touched them without answering to me.

I trusted them with my home, my business, my life.

Those guns were hidden beneath my desk. No one knew they were there unless I told them, and I trusted one of these two enough to show them where to look if they ever needed a weapon.

Apparently, they did.

Just not to protect themselves.

Now they’re standing across from me, both smirking as they point my own guns at me while I lean against the front of my desk.

In my fucking office. In my fucking house.

After everything I did for them, they couldn’t even buy their own fucking guns to kill me?

That’s what I’m angry about. Not death. I knew I probably wouldn’t die peacefully in bed at ninety-five, surrounded by children and grandchildren while someone held my hand.

With so many people wanting me dead, reaching ninety-five would be more impressive than anything I’ve accomplished.

No. It’s that the two people I never thought I’d need protection from are ready to pull the trigger.

Maybe that’s the price of forgetting one of my first lessons as Don.

Never let your guard down.

“Mai abbassare la guardia, figlio mio,” Papa told me time and again. Never let your guard down, my son. And I listened.

Until now.

In the Romano Famiglia, it doesn’t matter whose blood runs through your veins. If you want the throne, you earn it. We trained from childhood, and the best became Don.

We learned to fight before we learned to ride a bike. We were taught to shoot before we learned which fork to use at dinner, although Mama made damn sure we learned that, too.

I’m pretty sure she would’ve murdered Papa if we could take a gun apart in under a minute but couldn’t behave at a formal dinner.

And knowing Mama, she would’ve done it with perfect table manners.

We learned what loyalty earned, what betrayal cost, and how quickly a Famiglia could fall with someone weak at the top.

By the time we learned to negotiate, violence was already second nature.

My sister, Vittoria, my adoptive brother Ettore, and I earned our places differently.

Vittoria earned hers with blood and a smile. People underestimated her when she was younger, and she was smart enough to use that.

They don’t underestimate her anymore.

When Vittoria smiles now, people wonder if she means it or if she’s just put a target on their backs.

Ettore earned his place with loyalty. He wasn’t born a Romano, but blood doesn’t always make you family. He was one of us, and our parents trusted and loved him just as much as they trusted and loved Vittoria and me.

We were Romano before we understood what that meant, but becoming worthy of the name was our choice. And no, we weren’t abused.

Vittoria could have lived like a princess and never touched a gun if that’s what she wanted.

Ettore and I could have been CEOs of legitimate businesses, although I’d probably have died of boredom before forty.

Well, I’m dying before forty, but not out of boredom.

Anyway.

We chose differently.

Why? Because forcing someone into a position they don’t want can make them bad enough at it to destroy the whole Famiglia.

Besides, it’s in our blood, and apparently Vittoria and I inherited the worst from both sides of our family.

The Romano Famiglia was around long before me or my father. Long before the world decided to put neat names on men like us.

Generations ago, our family built its power in Italy. Our businesses grew, and so did our influence, until my ancestors decided to expand into America.

But Italy is still the heart of the Romano Famiglia, and it always will be. This is where it all began.

I lead the Famiglia as a whole, including the American branch. Vittoria is my sottocapo, my underboss, and she divides her time between the two branches, wherever she’s needed.

Trust is the one thing I never gave easily.

Money can be earned. Power can be taken back. Men can definitely be replaced.

Trust is different.

I thought a thousand times before trusting anyone, and I put them through tests to make sure they earned it.

These two passed every single one with flying colors.

Apparently, I should’ve come up with better fucking tests. Or maybe I forgot something very simple: sometimes people pass because they learned exactly how to fool you. And now I wonder how long Carlotta spent figuring me out before we even got together.

Only the warm light from the wall lamps and pale moonlight filtering through the windows light the office, but I can still see everything clearly. Enough to see the guns.

Enough to see the betrayal.

Damiano is dressed in a black suit, as if he came here for a business meeting rather than to put a bullet in me.

His white shirt is immaculate, although his grey tie hangs crooked around his neck.

He tries to look more bored than nervous, just like I do even with death staring me in the face, but he’s failing miserably.

It takes a lot to make me smile, let alone laugh, but his attempts to copy me always amused me. I used to hold back out of respect for Carlotta, my sweet, dear wife, but now I see no reason to spare him the embarrassment, so I laugh freely.

“You know, I always found it amusing how you tried to copy me,” I say as I take a slow drag of my cigarette, watching his expression.

“My walk, the way I talk, even the way I sit. But what made it even funnier was how royally you failed at it.” His jaw tightens slightly, and I smirk.

“And now you’re mimicking my posture, still studying me like a fucking textbook. What exactly are you hoping for? That you’ll somehow become as good a Don as I am?” I ask, wondering if he actually believes that.

“I already am,” he replies, and I laugh.

What? It’s funny.

“Ragazzino, if you were half as good as me, I would’ve been dead and buried long ago, and you’d already be sitting on my throne. Well, beside it, since you won’t ever be able to truly sit on it,” I say as his fingers tighten around the gun.

He fucking hates that word.

Little boy.

I discovered that years ago, and naturally, being the loving brother-in-law I am, I use it every chance I get.

“Calma, Alarico. Le cose belle arrivano a chi sa aspettare,” Damiano replies condescendingly, using my first name as if we’re equals.

He pauses dramatically, and I wait to see what comes next from his traitorous mouth.

“And a masterpiece like this... un piano perfetto... needs to be handled with care,” he continues, looking far too pleased with himself.

He pauses again, and I let him.

“It’s not every day a man gets to watch a king fall from his throne.” Jesus fucking Christ. He looks almost proud of that line, too.

I wonder how many times he practiced it in front of a mirror before coming here.

“Good things come to those who wait? Consider me impressed. Did your sister teach you that, or was it your Mama?” I ask, raising my eyebrows as I watch his confidence begin to crack.

“I didn’t know you were such a poet, either. Too bad your masterpiece looks more like a panic attack than a perfect plan,” I say as his expression changes, and I chuckle.

This is entertaining.

Well, at least I’m not dying bored.

“You expect me to believe you’ll pull this off without leaving evidence behind? Please,” I say as I take another drag of my cigarette and blow the smoke in his direction.

“I told you, unless you find a way to marry your sister, you won’t ever take my name or sit on my throne, so you can stop looking at my chair.” His eyes flick away from it immediately, and I chuckle.

“As for this murder you planned, leaving no trace is an art form, Damiano, and you’re just a kid playing with finger paint,” I say, smirking as his face turns red.

“This little family project of yours has failure written all over it,” I say, watching the vein in his forehead bulge and wondering how much more he can take before he stops pretending to be as calm as I am.

“Keep laughing, Alarico,” he snaps, trying to sound tougher than he is.

“At least when they write songs about your miserable end, they’ll remember I was the one who put you in the dirt while you stood there choking on your own smoke like a pathetic dog.” He looks pleased with himself again, and I almost feel bad for him, knowing what I’m about to do to his little attempt to intimidate me.

Almost.

“At least they’ll be writing songs about me. What are they going to do for you? People will probably forget whose funeral they’re attending before your coffin even hits the ground,” I reply as the vein in his forehead bulges even more.

“Also, you can’t exactly brag about killing me, now, can you?” I ask, smirking as his nostrils flare.

“Kid, you’re holding a gun you didn’t even have the balls to buy yourself, standing in a room you only ever entered because I gave you permission,” I say as his jaw clenches so hard that I wonder how he’s going to get another word out.

“You might kill me tonight, but if you think you’ll survive the fucking week afterward, that my family will let you live long enough to properly celebrate my death, you’re even stupider than I thought,” I say with a smirk, and he frowns as if this is the first time he thought about what happens after he pulls the trigger.

Apparently, he forgot killing me doesn’t mean everyone else will suddenly obey him. And I’m sure the fact that I’m still standing here smirking at him isn’t helping.

Maybe he’s finally realizing that even with a gun pointed at my heart, he still looks like a boy playing dress-up in my fucking office, and judging by the way his fingers tighten around my gun, he knows I can see it.

A/N.

And so it begins...

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Francesca Write