Chapter Three: The Weight of Legacy

The study was dimly lit, the flickering glow of the fireplace casting long shadows across the dark oak walls. The scent of aged books, leather, and fine whiskey lingered in the air, mixing with the faint aroma of cigar smoke—a scent Vincenzo would forever associate with his father.

He stood near the heavy wooden desk, his fingers brushing against the cool surface. Tonight was different. He could feel it in the way the air seemed heavier, in the way his father sat in his high-backed chair, silent, watching him.

Eighteen.

He had just come from the extravagant celebration held in his honor—the night he became a man in the eyes of the Moretti family. But here, in this room, away from the laughter and toasts, true adulthood was about to begin.

"Sit," his father's voice came, deep and steady, carrying the authority of a man who had carved his name into the very bones of this city.

Vincenzo obeyed, lowering himself into the chair across from his father. He could feel the weight of expectation in the silence that stretched between them.

His father took a slow sip of whiskey before finally speaking.

"You are no longer a boy, Vincenzo." His dark eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto his son's. "And now, it is time for you to understand what that truly means."

Vincenzo swallowed but did not look away.

"You have been given the Moretti name, but that alone means nothing," his father continued, his voice low and deliberate. "A name is only as strong as the man who carries it."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, his gaze unwavering.

"Do you understand what it means to carry this legacy?"

Vincenzo nodded. "It means power."

His father's expression did not change, but something flickered in his eyes. Amusement? Disappointment?

"Power is only a tool," his father corrected. "Control—that is the true prize. Power without control is chaos. Power with control is empire."

He reached for his cigar, tapping the ash into a crystal tray before taking a slow drag.

"There are three things you must never forget, Vincenzo. The first—trust is an illusion. You may have allies, you may have men who serve you, but in the end, everyone serves themselves. Your mind must always be sharper than their loyalty."

Vincenzo absorbed the words, his young mind already beginning to turn, to process.

"The second—weakness is death. Mercy, hesitation, attachment… these are all weaknesses. The moment you hesitate, the moment you let emotions rule you, you invite death."

His father's eyes darkened as he leaned closer.

"And the third—the world will not give you respect; you must take it. You must be feared, Vincenzo. Fear is the strongest currency in this life. It buys obedience, loyalty, and survival."

The flames crackled, filling the silence that followed.

Vincenzo sat still, his hands tightening into fists beneath the table. This was what it meant to be Moretti.

His father studied him, as if measuring his reaction, before finally exhaling.

"I did not raise you to be a man," he said at last. "I raised you to be a king."

The words sent a shiver down Vincenzo's spine. He had always known his destiny, but tonight, it felt more real than ever.

His father reached into his desk and pulled something out—a dagger.

Not just any dagger.

It was old, the handle wrapped in worn leather, the blade still sharp, polished.

"This belonged to my father," his father said, turning the dagger over in his hands. "And his father before him." He placed it on the desk between them. "Now, it belongs to you."

Vincenzo reached for it, his fingers curling around the cool metal.

"This blade has ended lives," his father said. "It has also saved them. The difference was always in the hands that wielded it."

Vincenzo met his father's gaze.

"Will you wield it?"

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then, Vincenzo turned the blade in his hand, feeling its weight, its purpose.

"I will."

His father nodded slowly, satisfied.

"You are ready," he said, leaning back.

The lesson was over.

But Vincenzo knew—this was only the beginning.

And he would never forget.

---

That night, long after his father had left the study, Vincenzo remained there, the dagger resting on the table before him.

He traced its edge with his thumb, the words of his father echoing in his mind.

Trust is an illusion. Weakness is death. The world will not give you respect; you must take it.

Outside the window, the city stretched endlessly before him. Rome—the empire his family had built, the kingdom he was destined to rule.

---

Vincenzo stood by the same window in his study, staring out into the night, just as he had all those years ago.

The city stretched before him, but it was different now. Colder.

In his reflection against the glass, he no longer saw the eager eighteen-year-old boy from that night. He saw a man. A leader. A king.

His fingers tightened around the object in his hand—his father's dagger.

He still had it. After all these years.

"You are no longer a boy, Vincenzo."

His father's words rang in his ears. But tonight, another voice haunted him as well.

Matteo's.

"Boss… I'm sorry…"

The memory struck like a blade to the chest.

The study door creaked open. Marco's voice broke the silence.

"Signore… it's time."

Vincenzo turned. The funeral was over, but the war had just begun.