Chapter 8
The next morning, I called every senior capo who had attended dinner.
No secrecy.
No whisper network.
If my family had turned succession into a private competition, I wanted to know how far the idea had traveled.
The first man to speak was Anthony Barlow, sixty-two, old enough to remember my father’s peak years.
“Francesca mentioned Mason.”
I looked at him.
“When?”
“Months ago.”
“What did she say?”
“That Caleb was too young and too attached to you. That Mason had the temperament older men trusted.”
My jaw tightened.
“Did you agree?”
Anthony hesitated.
“About age.”
“Not temperament?”
“No.”
Good.
Another capo spoke.
“Vincent once asked whether Mason should start attending informal discussions.”
My father looked away.
There.
Not innocent.
Maybe not fully involved.
Enough.
I asked the question that mattered.
“Has anyone here been told Mason is my successor?”
No hands.
No voices.
Then one man near the end said:
“Not directly.”
I looked at him.
He continued.
“Bianca said the family should not assume blood through the current boss automatically decides the next generation.”
That was closer.
I looked at my sister.
She did not deny it.
I asked:
“What did you want them to assume instead?”
Bianca shrugged.
“That alternatives exist.”
Alternatives.
Her son.
The word was designed to sound reasonable.
I looked around the room.
“Caleb is four.”
No one interrupted.
“Mason is ten.”
Still silence.
“Neither child is being discussed as successor again.”
Francesca snapped:
“You cannot forbid people from thinking.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“But I can forbid adults from turning children into campaigns.”
That landed.
Because several capos looked uncomfortable in the specific way men do when they realize they have listened too long without objecting.
Bianca stared at me.
“You’re protecting Caleb.”
“Yes.”
“And Mason?”
I looked at her son.
“He needs protection too.”
That surprised her.
May you like
Good.
“He needs adults to stop telling him love and status are things he can win by hurting another child.”
