Page 1 of Mario
Prologue
Naples, Italy
Two Years ago
Francis Conti did not ask for a priest.
That told Mario everything he needed to know.
His father had lived without confession, ruled without apology, and now, with death finally closing its hand around him, Francis intended to meet it the same way.
No weakness. No regret. No absolution.
Only one command left to give.
Mario stood beside the bed in the dimly lit room, the heavy air thick with the scent of medicine and dying breath. Beyond the shuttered windows, Italy slept. The estate was silent, waiting.
Francis’s eyes opened.
Still sharp. Still aware. Still dangerous.
“Chicago,” he said.
Mario didn’t move. “It’s already arranged.”
A faint, satisfied curve touched his father’s mouth. “Good.”
Of course it was good. Mario had been raised to anticipate what came next before anyone else recognized the need. His brothers would follow. The business would move. The Conti name would cross the ocean again.
But not to Atlantic City.
Not to Elio’s sons.
Not to the branch of the family Francis had cut from his life and refused to name for decades.
Francis’s fingers twitched weakly against the sheets.
“There is something you must know.”
Mario’s spine straightened.
In all his life, he had never heard hesitation in his father’s voice.
Until now.
“Maria’s first son,” Francis said.
Mario went completely still.
Luca.
The name was never spoken in this house, but it lived there all the same. Luca Conti. Don in Atlantic City. Elio’s heir. Elio’s legacy.
Francis turned his head, slowly, deliberately, his fading gaze locking onto his eldest son.
“He was mine.”
The room shifted.
