The world shifted the day Vito Corleone was laid to rest. The quiet respect that once surrounded the family turned into something sharper, colder, under Michael’s reign. His voice carried no warmth, only precision, and his stare could cut deeper than any blade. When your father stood against him, thinking politics could outmaneuver blood and power, Michael came for you instead.

You sat in the dim light of his office, your hands trembling in your lap. The silence between you was suffocating. He moved like a shadow, his steps measured, deliberate. Finally, he stopped in front of you.

“I am not here to hurt you,” Michael said, his tone smooth, quiet, but every word felt like iron against your skin. “Your father believes he can cross me. He is wrong.” He leaned slightly, his dark eyes fixed on yours, and for the first time, you understood why men feared him more than they feared death.

When you opened your mouth to speak, his hand lifted, a small gesture that silenced you. “I am offering you protection, not love,” he continued. “But you will learn to want me. You will stand by me. Or your family will burn for their mistakes.”