Chapter 4 A Wounded Serpent

The morning after the raid, the warehouse was nothing but a smoldering ruin. Adriano sat alone in the back office of one of their clubs, La Fortezza, a cigarette burning between his fingers, when his phone buzzed against the table.

He knew the number by heart. He sighed and crushed the cigarette into the ashtray.

He answered on the second ring.

"Adriano," came the familiar, cold voice of Don Raffaele Greco-his father, head of Il Serpente Dorato. His tone was clipped, businesslike, as always. No 'good morning.' No 'how are you.' Just Adriano's name, heavy with expectation.

"Padre," Adriano said casually, leaning back in his chair.

"I heard there was...an incident." The Don's voice was even, but Adriano could practically feel the disapproval crackling over the line. "A warehouse burned to the ground. Several dead."

Adriano smirked slightly to himself.

News travels fast when you're a Greco. He thought to himself.

"Handled it," Adriano said, twirling his favorite golden ring around his finger. "Secured the money. Wiped out the rats. Clean."

There was a pause-one of those long, heavy silences that Don Raffaele specialized in. The kind that said, I'm giving you just enough rope to hang yourself.

"You're making noise, figlio mio," the Don said finally. "Too much noise."

Adriano's jaw tightened, but his voice stayed cool. "It needed to be done. The rats were tying themselves to La Rosa Nera. Would've infected the rest of the city if we let them."

"Your methods are...theatrical," Don Raffaele said, a slight edge creeping into his words. "Spectacles attract attention. Attention attracts weakness."

There it was-the veiled insult.

No matter what Adriano did, it was never clean enough, never quiet enough, never good enough.

Not like Alessandro.

Adriano inhaled slowly through his nose. "Weakness is letting traitors breathe. I solved a problem."

Another pause.

Then, in that voice that could slice skin from bone, the Don said, "Alessandro is concerned."

Adriano's hand clenched into a fist on the desk.

Of course he is.

The golden boy, the perfect heir, always watching.

"Alessandro thinks you are rushing. You're building your empire with fire and chaos instead of patience and precision."

Adriano barked a dry laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. "Maybe Alessandro would prefer if I knit sweaters and sang lullabies to our enemies?!"

A low, dangerous silence met that comment. For a second, Adriano wondered if he'd pushed too far. He immediately apologized, "Mi dispiace, padre."

Finally, Don Raffaele spoke again.

"You move loudly, Adriano."

"Loud men die young," the Don said sharply. "And they bring their families down with them."

The words were ice down Adriano's spine-but he kept his voice even. " I'll keep things under control from now on, as you wish."

There was a low, humorless chuckle from the other end of the line. It was worse than anger-it was amusement. As if Don Raffaele already knew how this story would end.

"Make sure you do," he said. "We are not in the habit of cleaning up failure, Adriano."

The line went dead without a goodbye.

Adriano sat there for a long moment, staring at the silent phone.

The familiar rage was building in him-hot, wild, and barely contained.

No matter what he did, no matter how much blood he spilled or enemies he crushed, he would always be the reckless one.

The embarrassment they tolerated.

The fuck-up son.

He stood up sharply, the chair scraping against the floor.

He needed to do something. He needed to prove himself to his father.

And thankfully, that opportunity was arriving that day.

-

The call came in just after midnight.

Adriano was at La Fortezza, his crown jewel. A high-end nightclub doubling as a front for money laundering and backroom deals. The bass from the music downstairs vibrated through the floor, but up here, in the VIP lounge, everything was silent. Too silent.

Luca answered first, his face darkening as he pressed the phone to his ear.

He muttered something in rapid Italian- curses, mostly-and handed the phone to Adriano like it was burning him.

"We're done," Luca said grimly. "Or rather...we're fucked."

Adriano pressed the phone to his ear, scowling. "Who is this?"

"It's me, Lorenzo." Enzo's slick voice crackled over the line, frantic, desperate. "We got a problem, boss."

Adriano's knuckles whitened around the phone. "What problem?"

"The shipment-it's gone. It was intercepted off the coast by U.S. Customs and Border Protection. It's almost as if they were expecting it. Known about it for some time."

Every word hit harder than the last.

Twenty million dollars...

An empire in the making...

All-Gone.

"How the fuck did they know, Enzo?!" Adriano's raised his voice, anger already boiling deep inside him.

"I-I don't know!" Enzo stammered. "Maybe a leak. Maybe the Russians got cold feet. Maybe the Feds got lucky, boss, you know they-"

The phone cracked as Adriano squeezed it too hard, but he didn't hang up.

Not yet.

"And what about my name?" Adriano asked, though he already knew the answer. The pit opening in his gut swallowed everything else.

"There's...there's some paperwork, yes. Small stuff. Transfers. Shell accounts. Offshore companies. They might trace it if they really dig."

"THEY WILL DIG!," Adriano screamed at Enzo through the phone. "They're gonna fucking dig until they find something!"

And when they did, they'd find the spider's web leading back to him.

He hung up without a word.

Luca and Marco stood there, tense, waiting for orders. Even they looked rattled-and nothing rattled Marco.

"How bad?" Marco finally asked.

Adriano laughed-a sharp, bitter sound.

"How bad?" He grabbed a bottle from the table, whiskey sloshing over his fingers, and threw it against the wall.

It exploded in a spray of glass and liquor.

"TWENTY FUCKING MILLION DOLLARS BAD!," Adriano snarled.

"And now the Feds have their fucking eyes on us."

The FBI. The DEA. The fucking IRS.

Not a manhunt yet-but the noose was tightening.

I'm losing it.

The realization sliced through him, white-hot.

He ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard. Every deal he made-every dirty dollar laundered through his clubs, his gambling dens, his strip clubs, his trucking companies, his private security businesses-all of it was supposed to build something.

A dynasty.

Proof to Don Raffaele that he wasn't just the reckless son anymore.

Proof that he deserved his own throne.

Now it was crumbling beneath his feet.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes as let out a frustrated groan. Then in his hand, the phone buzzed. A single, vibrating hum.

As soon as Adrian started at the screen, he felt the blood drain from his face.

Caller ID: Padre

"OH... MOTHERFUCKER! GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK!" Adriano yelled, bolting straight up from his seat.

He swept the entire desk off with one vicious motion, sending glass, whiskey, papers flying. He punched the wall, once, twice, three times-until blood smeared the paint. Marco and Luca stared frozen.

"Out," Adriano snarled through gritted teeth. "BOTH OF YOU, GET THE FUCK OUT!!!"

Luca and Marco immediately left the room.

Adriano staggered back, his chest heaving violently. His hand hovered over the phone screen, his knuckles still dripping blood.

He let it buzz once. Twice. Three times.

Then, with a hand trembling not with fear but with pure, burning rage-he answered.

His father's voice was cold enough to freeze the sun.

"Adriano."