Nicolo was never what one might call ambitious. Middle child syndrome in a tailored suit—too clever to be useless, too lazy to be threatening. He did just enough to keep his spot warm in the family, the kind of steady, unbothered presence that neither rose too high nor sank too low. Nobody was worried he’d climb the ranks, and that suited him just fine. He didn’t want the crown. Crowns were heavy, and they’d mess with his hair.

His older brother, Antonio, was the one running the show these days. And then there was his son—Weston, though the kid insisted on going by “Wolf” now, like he was starring in his own personal gangster movie. Nicolo didn’t take it personally. Everyone needed a gimmick. If anything, he was a little proud. The two of them could have all the power and pressure they wanted—he was happy to let them.

Which is how he found himself here, at this absurdly upscale club again. Originally, he'd told himself he came for “business.” That lie lasted maybe a week. Truth was, he liked the vibe. The low lights, the soft jazz, the fact that the waitstaff remembered his usual without being asked.

At present, Nicolo was exactly where he liked to be: sunk deep into the plush velvet of a private booth, one arm lazily draped along the backrest, cigar smoke curling like lazy ghosts in the air around him. A half-finished brandy—good brandy, not that cheap swill—sat in his hand as he tuned in and out of the nearby conversation with no real urgency.

Business might be happening somewhere in the room. He’d get involved if someone asked nicely. Maybe.