The room echoed with the sharp sound of glass shattering against the wall. Luciano's breath came in ragged bursts, his chest heaving as he stood over the remnants of the crystal tumbler he'd just hurled across the room. The amber liquid of the whiskey seeped into the plush carpet, staining it dark, but Luciano's eyes were fixed on the men before him.
"Idiots!" he bellowed, his voice vibrating through the room. His anger was palpable, filling the space like a thick fog. His broad shoulders were tense beneath his expensive suit, his hands still clenched into tight fists at his sides. "How the hell did you let this happen?"
The three men standing in front of him—his capo, Enzo, and two of his lieutenants—exchanged uneasy glances. Enzo, who had seen this side of Luciano many times before, remained calm, though his jaw clenched slightly as he stepped forward.
"Luciano, calm down. We're handling it," Enzo said, his voice low and steady, trying to keep the situation from boiling over. "Salvatore hasn't made a move. He's just posturing. It's nothing we can't turn around."
Luciano rounded on Enzo, his dark eyes flashing with fury. "Posturing? Is that what you call it? That old bastard is sitting there, laughing at us, thinking he's untouchable!" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "I won't let him think for one second that he's still in control."
Enzo held his ground, his sharp features impassive. He had been Luciano's right hand for years, and while he understood his boss's temper, he also knew how to keep him from losing it completely. "Luciano, we need to be strategic. If we move too fast, we risk giving him the upper hand."
Luciano let out a humorless laugh, stepping closer to Enzo. "You think I don't know that? You think I'm some amateur who's going to run in guns blazing?" He jabbed a finger at his chest. "I've been playing this game a lot longer than Salvatore gives me credit for. He underestimates me."
He paced the room, his footsteps heavy against the marble floor. The room was a stark contrast to his mood—sophisticated, with sleek, modern furniture, sharp lines, and cold, gleaming surfaces. It mirrored Luciano in many ways—controlled, sharp, but with an undercurrent of barely contained violence.
The two lieutenants shifted awkwardly in their places, unsure if they should speak. One of them, Carlo, finally spoke up, though his voice was cautious. "We could send a message. Make it clear we're not going to wait around for him to make the first move."
Luciano stopped mid-step, his gaze snapping to Carlo like a predator spotting prey. "A message?" he repeated, his voice low, dangerous. "What kind of message?"
Carlo hesitated under the intensity of Luciano's stare. "Something... physical. A show of strength."
For a moment, the room was silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, without warning, Luciano's face broke into a sharp, menacing grin. He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slowly. "Physical," he murmured, as if savoring the word. "Yes... maybe it's time we reminded Salvatore just who he's dealing with."
Enzo's eyes narrowed slightly, sensing where Luciano's mind was heading. "Luciano, we have to be smart about this. Salvatore is old, but he's not stupid. If we hit too hard, too soon, he'll retaliate. And we don't know what cards he's holding."
Luciano's grin faded as quickly as it had appeared. He strode over to the window, looking out over the city skyline, his hands clasped behind his back. The lights of New York stretched out endlessly before him, glittering in the night like a sea of opportunity and threat. He hated that Salvatore still had the power to make him hesitate. He hated the idea of anyone thinking they could outplay him.
"He's weak," Luciano muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "He thinks he's still on top, but he's not. He's just waiting for someone to put him in the ground."
Enzo stepped forward, his voice quiet but firm. "Luciano, if we make a move, it has to be decisive. If we provoke him, we need to be ready for war."
The word "war" hung in the air, and for a moment, Luciano didn't respond. He stood, staring out the window, the muscles in his back tense. He knew Enzo was right. A war with Salvatore would be costly, and it wasn't the kind of fight you walked away from unscathed.
But the thought of doing nothing, of letting Salvatore sit on his throne for even a second longer, was intolerable.
He turned back to face the room, his expression cold and calculating. "Fine. No rash moves," he said, though his tone was laced with bitterness. "But I want eyes on him. Everywhere he goes, everything he does—I want to know."
Enzo nodded, relieved that Luciano was at least willing to listen to reason. "Consider it done."
Luciano's gaze shifted back to the shattered glass on the floor. His anger simmered just beneath the surface, but he reined it in, for now. "And get someone to clean that up," he muttered darkly.
As Enzo signaled the lieutenants to leave, Luciano's eyes flickered with a new intensity. He might not be ready to make his move yet, but when the time came, he wouldn't hold back. Salvatore wouldn't see it coming