Chapter 13
My father’s old recordings became a family problem.
We had hundreds.
Speeches.
Dinners.
Private messages.
Enough sound to resurrect him convincingly.
I considered destroying everything.
Stopped.
Fear should not decide memory either.
So we separated archives.
Personal memories remained.
Operational recordings reduced.
Sensitive voice samples removed from systems where possible.
Not perfect.
Nothing is.
The more important change was cultural.
No dead man’s voice could authorize a current command.
No exception.
Even if it sounded real.
Even if the founder himself appeared from a speaker saying:
“Do this.”
Living leadership verifies living orders.
Older captains complained.
One said:
“What if your father left instructions?”
“Then he should have told us while alive.”
Harsh.
Necessary.
Dead men had governed Mafia families long enough through stories.
Now technology made that literal.
I refused.
At dinner one evening, Rafe played me an old genuine clip of my father.
“You’re too suspicious, Sebastian.”
I laughed.
He had said it when I was twenty-two.
Rafe asked:
“Real?”
“Yes.”
“How know?”
“Because five seconds later he threw bread at me.”
Rafe laughed.
Exactly.
Context.
Relationship.
No imitation library contains every stupid moment that makes a person real.
That thought stayed with me.
Elliot understood authority as sound.
Daphne understood authority as obedience.
Marcus understood authority as position.
I was beginning to understand authority as recognition built over time.
Harder to steal.
Harder to fake.
May you like
Not impossible.
But harder.
