By the time I arrived at the courtyard gathering, the sit-down disguised as a social event was already in full swing. Light reflected off the stone ground, the scent of aged whiskey mixing with Cuban cigars as it drifted through the air. These were not friends, but the core members of the underground Families—Capos, Underbosses, Consiglieres, and the silent soldiers who stood in shadows with hands never far from their weapons. Behind every smiling face lay a carefully calculated position.
And I moved among them like a ghost, already gone.
I was late again.
The moment I stepped into the amber glow of the chandeliers, the laughter died like a candle snuffed between fingers. Conversation fractured into whispers, then silence. A hundred eyes turned toward me—cold, appraising, stripped of pretense. I had grown accustomed to such receptions over the years, but tonight, something within me had calcified. I no longer possessed the will to perform for them.
"So you finally decided to grace us with your presence."
Silvia was the first to break the silence. Her voice carried that practiced softness, the kind that concealed a stiletto's edge. She moved toward me with the unhurried confidence of a woman who had already claimed her throne, each step deliberate, as if she were the true heir to this blood-soaked empire.
"Making the entire Family wait for you this long." She tilted her head, a gesture of mock concern. "Do you truly not understand the code, or have you convinced yourself that you stand above it?"
Behind her, the murmurs began—orchestrated, venomous.
"If the Don hadn't shown weakness all those years ago, she would never have been brought under this roof."
"Only Silvia has proven herself worthy of standing at Don Ettore's right hand."
"She contributes nothing. A ghost at our table."
The words fell like stones dropped into still water, each ripple calculated. At the head of the long mahogany table, Don Ettore Ashford and his wife Margaret sat in judgment, their silence more damning than any accusation. They watched me the way one watches an uninvited guest at a funeral—with barely concealed disdain and the patience of those who know the problem will soon resolve itself.
Their silence was its own verdict.
It did not matter.
Soon, I would vanish from their sight entirely.