The silence that settled over the grand ballroom of the Moretti estate was not merely quiet; it was heavy, suffocating, and absolute.

The two guards posted outside August’s bedroom door straightened up instantly as Santino approached down the dimly lit hallway. The sight of their Don carrying a loaded firearm, his face pale and eyes burning like stoked coals, made both men freeze in place.

"Don Santino—" one guard began.

"Key," Santino demanded softly.

The guard didn't hesitate. He pulled the brass master key from his pocket and unlocked the heavy oak door, stepping back out of the way.

Santino kicked the door open with a resounding smash that echoed like thunder throughout the wing.

Inside, the suite was dimly lit by a single desk lamp. August sat in a wingback leather chair by the window, sipping a glass of red wine, reading an antique Italian leather-bound book. He didn't look surprised. He slowly closed the book and set it on the side table.

"You lack discipline, Santino," August said calmly, turning his gaze toward his son. "Kicking doors like a common street thug. Is this how a Don behaves?"

Santino crossed the room in three long strides. Before August could react, Santino grabbed his father by the lapels of his silk robe, hauled the old man out of the chair with terrifying strength, and slammed him violently back against the wall!

The crystal wine glass shattered on the floor, red liquid splashing across the cream carpet like blood.

"You poisoned her," Santino hissed, pressing the cold steel barrel of the pistol directly against August’s throat, right beneath his jawbone.

August’s eyes flicked down to the gun, then back up to Santino’s face. Not a single trace of fear showed on the old man's weathered features.

"I don't know what you're talking about," August rasped smoothly.

"Don't lie to me!" Santino roared, his voice shaking the glass in the windowpanes. "Foxglove! From the greenhouse! Maria brought her soup twenty minutes ago! She’s coughing up blood, Father! She’s eight years old!"

August stared into his son’s eyes for a long, silent moment. Slowly, a small, cold smile curled the old man’s lips—a smile of absolute, sociopathic arrogance.

"A weed must be pulled before it chokes the garden, Santino," August whispered softly into his son's ear. "I told you... she carries weak blood. As long as that girl lives, you will always be soft. You will always choose her over the syndicate. I did what a true Don does. I removed the distraction."

The world went completely white in Santino’s mind.

Every rule of the Mafia, every ancient Sicilian law about respecting the father, every drop of shared blood vanished into a roaring vortex of pure, unadulterated vengeance.

Santino cocked the hammer of the gun. The sharp, mechanical click rang out like a death knell in the quiet room.

"You monster," Santino breathed, his finger tightening on the trigger.

"Go ahead," August whispered, leaning his throat harder into the steel barrel. "Pull it! Kill your father in cold blood! Show the capos that you're a madman who murders his own lineage! Valetti will have you executed by morning! The Moretti name ends tonight!"

Santino’s hand trembled. The barrel of the gun dug into August’s flesh, drawing a thin bead of dark blood.

Pull the trigger, a voice in Santino’s head screamed. Send him to hell for what he did to Nora!

"Don Santino!"

Mateo’s voice shouted from the hallway. Mateo burst into the room, gasping for breath.

"Santino, stop! Dr. Rossi is here! He gave her the antitoxin! She’s stabilized! Nora is going to live!"

The words cut through the dark fog in Santino’s mind like a beam of pure sunlight.

She’s going to live.

Santino took a slow, shuddering breath. His trembling fingers slowly relaxed on the weapon. He slowly lowered the hammer, uncocking the pistol.

August let out a short, triumphant chuckle. "See? You don't have the stomach for it. You're soft, Santino. Just like your mother."

Santino looked at his father. The rage in his eyes hadn't vanished—it had transformed into something far colder, far more permanent than death.

"I'm not going to shoot you, Father," Santino said softly, stepping back and pulling a set of heavy steel handcuffs from his coat pocket. "Death is too fast. Death turns you into a legend."

Before August could comprehend the words, Santino struck him across the temple with the heavy brass butt of the pistol.

August groaned loudly as his knees buckled, tumbling down onto the carpet.

Santino didn't waste a second. He pinned his father’s arms behind his back, snapping the steel cuffs tightly around his wrists.

"Mateo," Santino commanded, looking down at his unconscious father. "Call the capos. All of them. Tell them to be at the abandoned stone quarry in Jersey at midnight."