Page 108 of Lupo

"We can move within the week. Maybe sooner if we're smart about it. The key is hitting them before they know you're back. They think you're dead—that's our advantage."

"How do we do it?"

"There's a meeting. Next week on Thursday night. The Florence don and his three top lieutenants. They meet every week at a restaurant in Florence—same place, same time. They think they're untouchable there." Ciro's smile is cold. "We prove them wrong."

"That's not long."

"It’s enough to plan it, to position our people, to make sure it's clean." He pauses. "If we do this right, you could be back to the woman and child within a month maybe."

"What about internal problems?" I ask. "You said the organization is unstable without me."

"It is. But that's secondary. Your allies have been holding things together, waiting for you. Once you're back, once you take control again, they'll fall in line." Ciro glances back at me. "There are a couple of people who've been getting ambitious—Salvatore Costa, Antonio Greco—but they're not immediate threats. They're opportunists, not enemies. Once you're back and the Florence situation is handled, they'll back down."

"And if they don't?"

"Then we deal with them. But I don't think it'll come to that. You built this organization from nothing. People remember that. They respect it. Most of them want you back."

From nothing. The words trigger something—not a full memory, just a feeling. The knowledge that I started with nothing. No family, no money, no connections. Just hunger and intelligence and a willingness to do what others wouldn't.

That's why I know how to use a hammer. Why working construction felt natural. Because I did it before, when I was young and building my way up.

"Tell me about my life," I say. "Before. How did I get here?"

Ciro settles back in his seat, clearly relieved to talk about something other than strategy. "You grew up in Forcella. The slums. Your mother died when you were a kid—eight or nine. No father in the picture. You were on your own."

"How did I survive?"

"You worked. Construction at first, when you could get it. Odd jobs. You were smart. Didn't waste money on drugs or gambling like the other kids." He pauses. "When you were fifteen, you started running errands for the local crew. Small stuff.Delivering messages, keeping lookout. They paid better than construction."

"And I worked my way up."

"Yes. You were good at it. Reliable. Smart. By the time you were twenty, you were handling collections. By twenty-five, you were managing territory. By thirty, you'd taken over the entire operation."

"How?"

"The old boss—Carmine—he trusted you. Made you his second. When he died, you were the natural successor." Ciro's voice holds something like pride. "You could have just taken over his organization and kept it small. But you didn't. You expanded. Moved into new territory. Built alliances. Within five years, you'd tripled the size of the operation. Within ten, you were one of the most powerful dons in southern Italy."

I try to imagine this, the poor kid from the slums who built an empire. Who went from construction work to commanding men. Who rose from nothing through intelligence and ruthlessness.

It should feel foreign. But it doesn't. It feels right.

"And the Florence family? When did that conflict start?"

"Two years ago. You wanted to expand north, into Tuscany. They saw it as encroachment. Tried to warn you off. You didn't listen." Ciro shrugs. "It's been a cold war ever since. Small skirmishes. Territorial disputes. Nothing major until they decided to eliminate you."

"And after we take them out? Will there be retaliation from their allies?"

"Possibly. But if we make it look like an internal power struggle—if we're smart about it—their allies won't have anyone toretaliate against. They'll be too busy trying to claim pieces of the Florence territory for themselves."

We drive in silence for a while. The countryside gives way to small towns, then larger cities. The landscape becomes more industrial, more crowded. We're getting close to Naples.

"When we get to the villa," Ciro says, "we'll go through everything. Your home, your office, key people you need to recognize. I'll show you photos, brief you on relationships, tell you what's been happening while you were gone."

"How long will that take?"

"A few hours. Maybe all night." He glances back. "But we need to do it right. You need to be able to walk into a room tomorrow and convince everyone that you're fully back. Fully in control."

"And then?"