A rival hit. Clean. Professional. Two bullets each, delivered on a Tuesday evening while the pasta water was still boiling on the stove. The vast and once-feared Genovese empire collapsed inward like a building whose foundation had been removed in the night. The soldiers scattered. The allies grew distant. The tribute payments stopped arriving. And in the end, the great house that had once commanded the respect of every Family from the coast to the capital was reduced to two people. An old woman and a girl. Nonna Elisabetta and me, clinging to each other in the ruins of a name that no longer frightened anyone.
An old woman and a young girl. That was all the Genovese name had left. Two souls holding up the crumbling pillars of a house that wolves circled every night, sniffing for weakness. Nonna Elisabetta kept the old alliances alive with memory and grace, but memory did not stop bullets, and grace did not pay tributes. So I studied. I learned the ledgers, the routes, the names of every capo and soldier who had ever sworn loyalty to our blood. I wanted to carry the weight of the Family before it crushed us both.