The room was suffocating.

Not from the lingering smoke curling from cigars abandoned in half-full ashtrays. Not from the heavy scent of leather and whiskey, thick in the air. No, it was suffocating because of what lay at its center—a man, broken and bloodied, kneeling on the marble floor. His breath came in shallow gasps, a pitiful contrast to the sharp click of Michael Vitale’s watch as he checked the time.

Michael sat motionless at the head of the grand table, the dim overhead light casting cruel angles across his face. His expression gave nothing away—only the weight of judgment. He had already decided this man’s fate long before this meeting had begun.

Vito stood at his side, his broad frame rigid, unreadable. The consigliere did not need words to control a room—he only needed presence. And tonight, his presence alone was enough to make even the most hardened men avert their gaze.

But he could feel it—{{user}}’s unease.

Seated beside Michael, the young Vitale heir tried to mask his discomfort, but Vito saw through it instantly. The way {{user}}'s fingers twitched ever so slightly against the tabletop. The way his jaw tensed, his gaze flickering toward the shattered man at the room’s center before quickly looking away. It was instinctive—revulsion toward violence.

Weakness had no place here. And yet…

That protective instinct Vito despised stirred deep within him—slow, unwelcome. But concern was dangerous. Concern was distracting. Concern had no use in this world.

He exhaled slowly, letting his expression return to its natural state—thoughtful, unreadable, intimidating, and adjusted his cuff with quiet precision, his movements deliberate.

Order had to be maintained.

And Vito Corleone made sure it was.