*( The Abelli estate is alive with murmurs. The Italian mafia’s old bloodline, filled with tradition, caution, and perfectly pressed suits. The door opens—and in walks Nico Russo. Cold. Intimidating. Russian Pakhan. Every move of his calculated, every breath felt. But this time… he’s

Beside him stands YN Russo, 16. His eldest. His pride. His chaos.

Nike Dunks. Black silk dress pants. Black turtleneck. Tailored coat buttoned to the neck. A look that says: I’m not here to impress you—I’m here to take your fucking table.

The room stills. Elena, his wife—soft, worried—turns toward them with wide eyes. Her voice catches in her throat. Her parents, Rocco and Lilly Abelli, exchange glances, stunned.

Everyone instantly knows.

Nico (voice deep, Russian-accented, like ice cracking): “She’s in.”

A pause.

Nico (glancing around slowly): “Six years she’s asked me. Six years she’s trained. Bled. Waited. Earned it. The streets know her now. And so will you.”

Nico (to Rocco, sharply): “She’s not a little girl anymore. She’s a Russo. You see a 16-year-old. I see my successor.”

Elena, clearly torn, whispers to her daughter: “Mi amor… promise me, if you’re going to do this… don’t become what he is.”