The Belladonna estate was alive with celebration. The scent of roasted lamb, garlic, and fresh basil filled the air, mingling with the laughter and chatter of family members spread across the grand dining hall.
Candles flickered on long, polished wooden tables, illuminating plates stacked with pasta, grilled vegetables, and golden loaves of freshly baked focaccia. Bottles of red wine were passed around freely, their deep crimson reflecting the warmth of the evening.
It was a Belladonna tradition, no occasion was too small for a grand feast. Tonight, however, the celebration was for the youngest of Leonardo Belladonna's children.
"Buon compleanno, piccolo Lorenzo!" The voices of nearly thirty family members rang in unison as they raised their glasses to the ten-year-old boy sitting at the head of the children's table. Lorenzo beamed, his dark curls bouncing as he reached for his slice of torta della nonna, a traditional Tuscan custard tart his mother had made just for him.
At the center of it all sat Leonardo Belladonna, the patriarch, the legend, the man who held the Belladonna Cartel together with iron discipline and unwavering respect for the old ways. Even in celebration, his presence commanded the room. He was a man of refinement, always impeccably dressed, his silver-threaded hair slicked back, his piercing green eyes missing nothing. He sipped his wine, listening to his children with a mixture of amusement and quiet authority.
To his left sat his eldest child, Isabella Belladonna, a woman as formidable as she was beautiful. At thirty-one, she had inherited her father's sharp wit and even sharper instincts. She wore a deep emerald dress that matched her eyes, her dark hair cascading in elegant waves. Though she played the role of a loving sister well, those who knew her understood that she was a force in her own right, one of the few in the family unafraid to challenge even their father.
And then there was Alessandro Belladonna.
Seated just across from his father, Alessandro exuded an effortless charm. At twenty-eight, he carried himself with the quiet grace of a man who seemed utterly uninterested in power. His features were striking yet unassuming, dark, tousled hair, warm brown eyes that never quite gave away what he was thinking, a perpetual soft smile that made people believe he was harmless.
He was never alone. Always flanked by his two cousins, the ones who had been at his side since childhood, their loyalty absolute, their presence constant.
The elder cousin, Luca Belladonna, 26, was a towering figure with a quiet, imposing aura. His dark hair was always slicked back, his sharp features rarely betraying emotion. Luca was a man of few words, but his presence alone was enough to command respect.
Then there was Matteo Belladonna, Alessandro's cousin of the same age. Where Luca was silent, Matteo was fire and unpredictability. His sharp grin rarely faded, his golden-brown eyes always alight with amusement, as if he found the world to be one great joke.
Together, the three of them formed a perfect balance, Luca, the unshakable foundation; Matteo, the wild storm; and Alessandro, the one who kept them together, the one they followed without question.
...
"Eat more, Lorenzo," Alessandro said, ruffling his younger brother's hair. His voice was calm, gentle, the perfect image of an older brother who cared for nothing but his family. "You only turn ten once, after all."
Lorenzo grinned up at him, stuffing another bite of cake into his mouth. The room erupted into laughter at the boy's enthusiasm.
Alessandro watched as the family carried on in their usual lively chaos. His eldest sister, Isabella, was scolding one of their younger brothers for sneaking too much wine, while their mother chided their father for smoking too close to the children. The aroma of roasted lamb, fresh basil, and red wine filled the air, mixing with laughter and fast-paced conversations spoken in half-Italian, half-English.
"Alessandro, don't just sit there looking pretty," Isabella teased, nudging him as she refilled his glass. "Say something, will you?"
He smiled, lifting his glass slightly. "I'm simply admiring the spectacle."
"Spectacle? It's a birthday party, not the Colosseum," another brother, Marco, chimed in, earning a round of chuckles.
Lorenzo, the youngest, beamed up at them, still chewing on his cake. "Best birthday ever!"
The room erupted into another fit of laughter, and for a moment, Alessandro allowed himself to relax, if only outwardly.
Then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. A call.
"Scusate," he said smoothly, excusing himself from the table.
He stepped away from the dining area, moving down the hallway toward the quieter part of the house. Alessandro stood in the dimly lit hallway, his phone pressed to his ear, his voice lowered but smooth.
"I'll handle it," he murmured.
A soft laugh came from the other end of the line, the voice feminine, teasing. "You're always so serious, Alessandro. One day, that'll give you wrinkles."
He smirked slightly but didn't respond. Instead, he exhaled, glancing down the hall to ensure no one was around.
"I'll call you later."
"I'll be waiting," she purred before the line went dead.
Alessandro barely had time to slip the phone back into his pocket before,
A presence.
His instincts flared.
His grip tightened for a fraction of a second, a breath away from striking.
Then, at the last possible moment, Alessandro saw him.
Salvatore.
A flicker of recognition cut through his instincts, and he forced himself to stop. His body resisted, every muscle in his arm tensed, trained to finish what had already begun. But somehow, he managed.
With a sharp exhale, Alessandro shifted his grip, smoothly pulling the stiletto away before Salvatore could even see it. His younger brother had no idea how close he had just come to death.
Alessandro exhaled sharply, forcing his heartbeat to steady. His grip loosened around the hidden stiletto, keeping it out of sight. He looked at his brother, still slightly tense.
"Salvatore… what are you doing here?"
Salvatore, still catching his breath, suddenly smirked.
"Forget that, who was the girl on the phone?" he teased, waggling his eyebrows.
Alessandro stiffened, his composure faltering for the first time.
"That's none of your business," he muttered, adjusting his cuffs, but the slight flush at the tips of his ears did not go unnoticed.
Salvatore grinned wider. "Oh, it's definitely my business. You looked way too serious for it to be casual. And don't think I didn't hear that little sigh of yours, 'I'll call you later', real smooth, Sandro."
"Salvatore, " Alessandro's voice was laced with warning.
"Wait, wait, don't tell me, did she mention wrinkles? Are you getting old?"
Alessandro turned away, clearly done with the conversation."What do you want?"
Salvatore chuckled, still grinning. "Relax, just passing a message, Papà wants to see you in his study."
Alessandro narrowed his eyes, studying his younger brother for a moment.
"What else did you hear?"
Salvatore's smirk widened as he started walking ahead. "Not much… lover boy."
Alessandro sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before following.
Salvatore lingered for a second, watching him, curiosity flickering in his gaze.
Then, with a knowing smirk, he jogged to catch up. "I'm just saying, whoever she is, she's definitely trouble."
…
Alessandro walked through the dimly lit hallway, his footsteps muffled by the ornate Persian rug beneath him. The old estate had always held a certain weight, history embedded in its walls, the kind that whispered secrets from generations past. As he reached the heavy oak doors of his father's study, he took a moment to smooth out his sleeves, his mask of composure slipping effortlessly into place.
He pushed the door open.
Inside, Leonardo Belladonna sat behind a grand mahogany desk, a half-full glass of brandy in hand. The room smelled of aged leather, tobacco, and the faint trace of ink from old documents stacked neatly on one side. The walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with everything from classic Italian literature to ledgers containing the family's business dealings. A large oil painting of their great-grandfather hung on the wall behind Leonardo, his sharp eyes seeming to watch over them.
To the side, Isabella stood near the window, arms crossed, her dark hair pinned back elegantly. She always had an air of quiet authority, the eldest of the Belladonna siblings, the one who carried herself with both grace and the iron will of their mother.
Beside her, leaning against the fireplace, was Cesare, the brother closest in age to Alessandro. Age: 24. While Alessandro was refined and calculating, Cesare was the blunt force of the family, a man built like a boxer, his knuckles scarred from too many fights in back-alley negotiations. He had a sharp jawline, a short, well-groomed beard, and a stare that could unnerve even the most hardened men. Unlike Alessandro, he wasn't interested in playing chess; he preferred breaking the board altogether.
"You took your time," Cesare remarked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. His tone was casual, but there was always an underlying challenge when he spoke.
Alessandro merely smiled.
Leonardo, who had been silent until now, finally placed his glass down with a soft clink. The subtle action was enough to draw the attention of the room. He looked at each of his children before exhaling through his nose, the way he always did when deep in thought.
"I will be leaving tomorrow," he announced. "The meeting of the Five Families."
A pause settled over them. The weight of those words was not lost on anyone.
"It is tradition," he continued, leaning back in his chair. "Every few years, the heads meet alone. No guards. No advisors. Just the five of us, as it has always been."
A muscle in Cesare's jaw tensed. "Alone?"
Leonardo nodded. "It is how it has always been done. There is no need for concern."
"No need for concern?" Isabella finally spoke, her voice controlled but edged with skepticism. "We are at a delicate time, Papà. The Delacroix's have been restless, the Takedas are unpredictable, and the Petrovs… well, no one ever knows what they're thinking."
Leonardo smiled faintly at that, but there was something behind his eyes, something unreadable. He reached for his cigar, lighting it with a practiced ease before speaking again.
"There is something you must all remember," he said, taking a slow drag. "The Code exists for a reason. No matter what happens in the world, the Five Families do not betray each other. We are different from the rest of the filth that runs the underworld. This is why we have ruled for so long."
Alessandro watched his father closely, noting the slight shift in his tone.
"But you don't trust them," Alessandro murmured. It wasn't a question.
Leonardo exhaled a thin stream of smoke, his gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight. Then, he spoke, his voice quieter this time.
"A man should never trust anyone too much. Not even those who sit at his table."
Silence.
Cesare scoffed, shaking his head. "Then why go alone?"
Leonardo looked at him then, a small, almost amused smile on his lips. "Because I am Leonardo Belladonna." He leaned forward, tapping his cigar into the ashtray. "And they will remember that."
Alessandro held his father's gaze, something unreadable passing between them. A question. A warning.
Then Leonardo stood, adjusting his cufflinks as if the conversation was over.
"The meeting is set. It will go as it always has," he said with finality. "There is no need for paranoia."