Ch. I Watch 8 I Watch 8

Chapter 8 

My life in San Celano was a fresh start. 

I buried my past and entered the Family’s inner circle. I started by auditing money laundering ledgers and handling business disputes between gangs. 

No one here knew about my life in Porthaven, or the grief over losing my child that nearly killed me. 

The men of this old city saw me only as a young widow from the north, a quiet woman with eyes as cold as ice. 

During the day, I sat in the study, flipping through ledgers, cross-referencing every transaction from the Family’s vineyards, casinos, and shipping docks. 

At night, I read in Vittorio’s underground library, studying the bloodlines of the Five Families and thirty years of their debts. On weekends, I locked myself in the windowless underground archives, staying there all day long. 

Vittorio became my strictest mentor. 

“Your father could spot cooked books in three minutes,” he would say. “You will be no less.” 

Three months later, two hot-headed Capos drew their guns on each other at the negotiating table over cargo unloading rights at the docks. 

Without bringing a single bodyguard, I pushed the door open and walked straight into the hostile conference 

room. 

Under their murderous glares, I calmly tossed two cups of black coffee and a few thin bank statements onto the 

table in front of them. 

They were ironclad proof of their massive embezzlement of Family funds. With just a few words, I exposed their hands, effortlessly defusing an impending bloody shootout. 

Staring at the statements, the two Capos who had been screaming for blood moments before broke out in a cold sweat. Humbled, they lowered their heads. 

Vittorio stood outside the half-open carved wooden doors, taking it all in. 

Then, in front of all the high-ranking members, he made his praise clear. “Gentlemen,” 

The old man’s voice echoed down the hallway. “This mind of hers, just like her father’s, can stop a bullet for the Family.” 

That night, I wore a long black velvet dress and drove alone to the Family cemetery on the outskirts of the old city. 

Their names were carved into the marble headstone, beneath which was a Mafia proverb: Loyalty in life, honor in 1 death. 

I lowered my eyes, gently tracing the cold inscription with my fingers, my voice soft in the night wind. “Papa, Mamma. I’m home.” 

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