Chapter 5 A Solution

Adriano rasped, tasting blood in his mouth. "Padre,"

"What the fuck did you do?" His father's voice-cold and sharp like a blade-crackled through the phone.

Raffaele Greco didn't yell at first-no. He let the venom drip slowly, the way a snake coils before it strikes. His English was precise, sharp.

"You think this is a game? You think you're still a goddamn bambino playing king of the hill?"

Adriano clenched his jaw so tight he thought his teeth might crack.

"Twenty million dollars, GESÙ CRISTO!"

Now Raffaele was shouting, switching into vicious Italian.

"Sei uno stupido, uno stronzo senza cervello!"

(You're a stupid, brainless asshole!)

"Padre, listen-" Adriano tried, but Raffaele steamrolled him.

"You listen to me, cazzo! The Greco name is bleeding because of you. Do you even understand what you've done?"

Raffaele's voice was a whip crack, slicing through Adriano's defenses.

"Mexican cartels will smell blood. American gangs-those cockroaches-will think they can take pieces of us. Even our own allies in Italy are questioning your leadership. 'The youngest son is careless,' they say. 'He is too wild.'"

Each word landed like a hammer blow to the chest.

"You're a fucking disgrace."

"Padre, please-" Adriano's voice broke despite himself, shame burning in his chest.

A silence. A cruel, cutting silence.

Then a disgusted exhale from the Don.

"You are not ready. You have shamed us all." And then, before Adriano could beg or explain-

CLICK.

The line went dead.

Adriano stood there, frozen, the dead phone against his ear. His hand trembled, blood trailing down his wrist.

For the first time in years, he felt small.

Alone.

Utterly, devastatingly alone.

-

Thousands of miles away, in a grand marble living room draped with silk curtains and gold fixtures, Don Raffaele Greco tossed his phone onto the low table with a clatter.

Alessandro Greco leaned back lazily against the plush sofa, pulling a cigarette from his jacket pocket. He lit it with a silver lighter, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp, cold features. He took a long drag and exhaled smoke into the air.

Gabriele, sitting beside him, wrinkled his nose and shot his older brother a look.

"Can you not do that right now?" he asked, voice sharp.

Alessandro smirked without turning his head. "You're always welcome to leave the room," he said, exhaling another plume of smoke.

Gabriele muttered something under his breath but stayed seated, his arms folded tightly.

Don Raffaele picked up his wine glass, swirling the deep red liquid, watching it catch the light.

He sighed-the kind of weary, bone-deep sigh that said he was already running out of patience.

"Your younger brother..." Raffaele said bitterly, "is a fucking mess."

He sipped the wine, as if trying to wash the taste of failure from his mouth.

"Twenty million dollars... gone. Così, senza cervello!"

(Just like that, without thinking!)

Alessandro flicked ash into a crystal tray. "He should be disciplined."

Gabriele shook his head once. "He should be replaced."

A thick and heavy silence fell over them.

Don Raffaele stared at the swirling wine.

Two paths.

Neither one clean.

He tapped the glass once, considering.

Meanwhile,

Back in the blood-smeared office at La Fortezza, Adriano sat slumped behind his ruined desk. The shattered glass had been swept away, but the damage remained.

His golden-blonde hair was tousled, messy from running his hands through it. His knuckles were cracked, dry blood forming jagged scabs. His green eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red-a man who'd either been crying or fighting it with everything he had.

No one dared point it out.

Across from him sat his inner circle-Luca, Marco, Enzo, Serena-all silent, waiting.

Adriano leaned back, resting his elbows on the chair's arms, his fingers steepled before his face.

Finally, he spoke.

"We lost twenty fucking million dollars," he said, voice hollow.

No one responded. They already knew. They had known the moment Enzo called to inform them.

Adriano let the silence stretch until it felt like a noose tightening around all of them.

"Don Raffaele," he continued, "is disappointed."

The words tasted like acid.

More silence followed.

Serena, tapping furiously on her laptop, broke it.

"I found something," she said, her voice low but urgent.

Adriano's bloodshot eyes flicked toward her.

"What?"

She spun the laptop around, showing him the screen.

"I did a deep dive on the Russian broker you partnered with. Viktor Baranov."

The name hit the room like a gunshot.

"And?"

Serena's fingers danced over the keyboard, pulling up a series of files, photos, messages."Viktor has ties to La Rosa Nera."

Gasps, curses, and sharp intakes of breath followed right after.

Serena's voice hardened. "He's been affiliated with them for years. They must've paid him to tip off law enforcement-set you up to fail."

Adriano's chair scraped violently as he shot up, looming over the table.

"That son of a bitch!" His hands clenched into fists again, fresh blood seeping from reopened wounds.

Enzo, ever the business-minded one, leaned forward carefully.

"What happens now, boss? How do we recover?"

Adriano glared at him, rage a barely contained inferno.

"You think I don't fucking know how bad this is?!" he snapped.

Enzo held up both hands, placating.

"I'm asking if you have a plan. Because if we don't act fast, we'll lose everything. The clubs, the casinos, the safehouses... they'll all go dark without money to feed them."

Adriano paced behind the desk, his boots thudding dully on the expensive carpet.

The room waited.

Five seconds. Ten.

Then suddenly-

Adriano stopped.

Something flickered in his bloodshot eyes.

An idea.

A dangerous, brilliant, reckless idea.

Enzo noticed immediately. "What is it?" he demanded. "You have a plan?"

Adriano's mouth curved into a slow, wicked grin.

Luca groaned quietly under his breath, already bracing himself.

"Don't fucking say it," Luca muttered.

Adriano leaned over the table, hands planted on either side, staring them all down.

"We're gonna rob a fucking bank."