Page 14

14

MATTEO

T he family estate loomed against the twilight sky, marble and stone carved against the gathering darkness like a monument to power that had survived generations. I adjusted my cufflinks—platinum with obsidian inlay, understated yet deadly in their elegance—and felt the weight of the claiming mark at my neck pulse with a certainty that transcended the coming confrontation.

Blood ties were about to become severed chains.

I’d brought Luca home hours ago, his trembling smile proof he’d survived the Souzas ’ attempt to turn him into a pawn. Only once he was safe behind reinforced doors had I turned my attention to the reckoning awaiting me here.

Carlo stood beside the car, his face a careful mask despite knowing what awaited us inside. The gathered vehicles in the circular drive told their own story—not just family but captains, lieutenants, witnesses summoned to observe whatever reckoning my father had orchestrated.

"All the captains have already gathered," Carlo confirmed, his gaze sweeping the illuminated windows where shadows moved like predators behind frosted glass. " Every territory represented."

Significant. My father had elevated this from private ultimatum to public judgment. A calculated maneuver to force my capitulation through the weight of collective expectation.

"And Luca ?" I asked, my focus remaining on the mansion where I'd spent my childhood learning the precise mechanics of power and violence.

"Secure at the penthouse. Three rotating security teams, satellite monitoring active." Carlo hesitated, loyalty battling practicality. " There's still time to reconsider, sir. The claiming is... recent. It could be legally reversed before?—"

"No." The single word emerged with such finality that Carlo flinched despite our years together. " It couldn't."

The claim existed beyond documentation now—blood and bite and biochemical bond that had altered us both at the molecular level. My scent carried notes of his honey-citrus essence. His carried the sandalwood and cedar that defined me. Our biologies had merged, creating something neither could undo through legal mechanisms or political convenience.

The grand foyer stretched before us in imported marble and handcrafted mahogany, generations of Corvino wealth compressed into stone and wood and crystal. The bitter scent of my father's imported cigars hung beneath more recent notes of expensive cologne and the distinctive chemical undertone of concealed firearms. The captains had come prepared for potential conflict, then.

Vincenzo appeared from the study doorway, aged face betraying nothing as he acknowledged my arrival with the slightest inclination of his head. " They're waiting."

The study—my father's inner sanctum—had been transformed. Furniture rearranged to create a tribunal setting, with the massive oak desk at the head and twelve captains arranged in descending order of rank. Men who controlled territories, operations, and bloodlines that had defined Corvino power for generations. Men whose loyalty I was about to test beyond recovery.

My father sat like an aging emperor, silver hair catching light from crystal fixtures overhead. His expression remained neutral, though the slight tightening around his eyes betrayed the satisfaction he took in orchestrating this performance.

"Matteo," he greeted, my name in his mouth sounding like the first warning before gunfire. " How kind of you to honor our invitation."

The phrasing—deliberate, pointed—established the tone immediately. Not son but subordinate. Not heir but subject. The captains registered the distinction with subtle shifts in posture, the choreography of power dynamics already in motion.

"Father," I acknowledged, taking the lone chair positioned opposite him—a symbolic isolation that hadn't escaped my notice. " I understood this was a family matter. I'm surprised to see our entire leadership assembled."

"Family matters become organizational concerns when they threaten established alliances." His fingers drummed once against polished wood—the only external sign of the rage I knew simmered beneath his controlled exterior. " Particularly when the heir apparent compromises decades of strategic positioning for an omega accountant."

Captain Russo —head of our eastern territories and longtime supporter of my father's traditional approach—leaned forward, salt-and-pepper beard failing to soften the hard lines of his face. " We've received communication from Emilio Souza . He considers your... choice of mate a direct insult to his family."

The contempt in his final words hung in the air, a test of my reaction that would set the tone for what followed. I allowed the silence to stretch, maintained eye contact until Russo's gaze dropped a fraction—alpha yielding to alpha despite his seniority.

"The Souza alliance was never viable," I said finally, voice pitched to carry without appearing defensive. " Sofia was already negotiating separate arrangements with the Venucci family while her father dangled her before us as bait."

A murmur rippled through the assembled captains—information they hadn't been privy to, the first suggestion that my father's cherished alliance contained cracks invisible from outside.

"Irrelevant," my father cut in, reclaiming control of the narrative. " Even if the Souza girl proved unsuitable, there were dozens of appropriate candidates. Instead , you claimed an omega nobody from accounting. A male omega, flouting generations of traditional alpha-female omega pairings."

Another calculated thrust, aimed at traditional values that still dominated our world despite evolving attitudes in younger ranks. Captain Esposito —ancient, conservative, controlling shipping routes critical to our import operations—shook his head in visible disapproval.

"The Corvino bloodline deserves prestigious continuation," he pronounced, each word weighted with the authority of his eighty-plus years. " A leader with a nameless, family-less omega consort weakens our standing with the other families who value proper breeding and connections."

I studied him thoughtfully, noted the younger man standing behind his chair— Esposito's own son and presumptive successor, watching with poorly concealed interest. The old power dynamics laid bare: patriarchy, bloodlines, traditional conceptions of strength bound to conventional family structures.

I'd known the moment Luca's scent shifted—richer, sweeter, unmistakably layered with the hormonal markers of new life. Even from miles away, the claiming bond had transmitted the truth biology had already written into his scent.

"And if I told you Luca is pregnant?" I said, the declaration landing like a grenade in the center of the assembled leadership.

The silence that followed held multitudes—shock, disbelief, recalculation. My father's expression hardened to granite, the revelation clearly unexpected despite his intelligence network. Captain Russo recovered first, skepticism evident in his scoff.

"Convenient timing. And unconfirmed."

"Medical documentation can be provided," I replied evenly. " The next generation of Corvino leadership grows as we speak. The only question is what world they will inherit—one bound by outdated alliances and crumbling traditions, or one positioned for survival in changing times."

The strategic reframing—from personal choice to organizational adaptation—created visible division among the captains. The younger ones, particularly Mancini and Delvecchio , showed interest rather than dismissal. The possibility of heir combined with progressive restructuring offered pathways to advancement that traditional hierarchy would have blocked for decades.

"This changes nothing," my father declared, voice dropping to the register that had preceded violence throughout my childhood. " The claiming was ill-considered. The pregnancy, if real, unfortunate. Both can be addressed discreetly, allowing you to resume your rightful position once this... distraction has been removed."

The casual suggestion of eliminating Luca —of erasing both my claimed omega and our unborn child—should have triggered rage, should have shattered the control I'd maintained since entering the room. Instead , it crystallized something cold and absolute in my chest—certainty beyond emotion, decision beyond debate.

I reached into my jacket, extracting the document I'd brought for precisely this moment. The paper—heavy stock, embossed with the Corvino family crest—represented generations of accumulated power, territorial rights, and succession protocols.

"Do you recognize this, Father ?" I placed it on the table between us, positioning it so all captains could see the official seals and signatures. " The Corvino succession protocol. Article seventeen specifically addresses challenges to designated heirs."

My father's expression shifted minutely—recognition dawning that I'd chosen a battlefield he hadn't anticipated. Not emotional appeal but legal challenge, using the very foundations of our organization against its current leadership.

"You wouldn't dare," he said softly, threat embedded in each syllable.

"I invoke the rite of leadership challenge," I continued, ignoring his warning to address the assembled captains directly. " Article seventeen provides clear protocol when the Don and heir apparent reach irreconcilable positions on organizational direction."

Captain Esposito , keeper of our oldest traditions, nodded reluctantly. " The rite hasn't been invoked in three generations, but remains valid under our founding principles."

"This is absurd," my father countered, rising from his chair with controlled fury. " You would risk everything—your position, your inheritance, the very name that gives you standing in this room—for an omega accountant?"

The question hung between us, weighted with implication and judgment. Not just strategic miscalculation but fundamental weakness—alpha compromised by inappropriate attachment, heir choosing emotion over duty.

I met his gaze directly, allowed the assembled captains to witness the confrontation in its naked simplicity—father and son, Don and heir, tradition and evolution locked in contest that transcended personal grievance to become organizational watershed.

"I would risk everything," I agreed, voice carrying the certainty that had driven me since discovering Luca's abduction, since confirming the pregnancy that represented future beyond my father's limited vision. " For him. For our child. For the organization's survival beyond outdated alliances that serve pride rather than practical advancement."

My father's expression darkened further, calculation replacing outrage as he recognized the strategic corner I'd maneuvered him into. Denying the challenge would undermine his authority with the captains. Accepting it risked transition of power he clearly wasn't prepared to relinquish.

"The challenge requires witnesses," he said finally, shifting to procedural details that might provide breathing room for counter-maneuvers. " Preparation . Formal protocols."

"All present," I countered, gesturing to the assembled leadership. " Unless you're suggesting the captains are insufficient witness to Corvino succession matters?"

The trap was elegant in its simplicity—either acknowledge the captains' authority as sufficient for challenge proceedings, or insult the very leadership structure my father had spent decades cultivating. Captain Mancini —youngest of the assembled leaders, controlling technology operations critical to our money laundering infrastructure—leaned forward with poorly concealed interest.

"The witnesses are valid," he confirmed, political calculation evident in his willingness to speak first. " The challenge can proceed according to protocol."

My father's gaze shifted to him briefly—a promise of future reckoning if this gambit failed—before returning to me with renewed intensity. " You choose this battlefield, knowing what failure would mean? Not just position, but complete separation from family protection. From the Corvino name itself."

"I choose future over politics," I replied, the declaration emerging not as calculation but as truth bone-deep and absolute. " Legacy defined by choice rather than manipulation."

For one suspended moment, something almost like pride flickered across my father's features—recognition, perhaps, that the son he had raised to ruthless calculation had applied those lessons against the master himself. It vanished quickly, replaced by the Don's trademark resolve.

"Then we proceed," he decided, standing with the fluid grace that belied his advancing years. " The knife. Traditional parameters. First blood from torso determines successor."

The selection—ritual knife combat practiced since our organization's earliest days—represented calculated risk on his part. His experience with the blade exceeded mine in years if not technique, his familiarity with my fighting style potentially advantageous where other challenges might have favored my more recent training.

Vincenzo disappeared briefly, returning with the ceremonial box that contained the matched blades kept specifically for succession challenges. The captains arranged themselves around the cleared center of the room, forming the ritual circle that would contain and witness the transfer of power—whether to confirmed heir or retained Don .

As preparations progressed, Captain Ferraro —historically one of my stronger supporters despite his traditional leanings—approached under the guise of examining the ceremonial blades.

"Everything you've built," he murmured, voice pitched for my ears alone. " Territory , respect, position—all for an omega who entered your life weeks ago."

The assessment—so fundamentally misunderstanding what had formed between Luca and me—merely confirmed the necessity of the challenge I'd initiated.

"What I've gained outweighs what you think I'm losing," I replied quietly. " A partner who sees beyond secondary gender to genuine capability. A future based on evolution rather than stagnation."

The ritual began with traditional positioning—combatants facing each other across cleared space, witnesses arranged in ceremonial pattern that dated to Sicilian origins centuries removed from current operations. My father's expression remained calculating as he held the ceremonial blade with practiced familiarity, decades of similar confrontations evident in the ease with which he assumed fighting stance.

"Last opportunity to reconsider," he offered, voice pitched for privacy despite the attentive witnesses surrounding us. " Return to your position as heir. Release the omega. Restore proper order to succession planning."

My response emerged with certainty that had solidified through crisis and claiming alike, through partnership discovered within possession, through future glimpsed within present challenge.

"No."

The simplicity of my refusal registered across my father's features—not just defiance but finality, not just challenge but severance of what had bound us through blood and ambition alike. In that moment I understood with perfect clarity: regardless of the outcome, I had already chosen separation from everything he represented.

The first exchange came without further warning—my father advancing with the controlled aggression that had defined his leadership style for decades. Blade moving in precise patterns designed to test defenses rather than immediately penetrate, to establish rhythm before committing to decisive strike. I countered with measured response, neither retreating nor advancing beyond strategic necessity, conserving energy where he expended it through offensive positioning.

The dance continued with increasing intensity—metal flashing beneath crystal chandeliers as we circled through patterns familiar from childhood training yet heightened by genuine intent behind ceremonial framework. My father's technique remained formidable despite advancing age, experience compensating for diminished speed as he pressed advantage through sequential attacks designed to create opening through accumulated pressure.

I absorbed the offensive pattern without yielding significant ground, recognition forming that his strategy relied on superior endurance rather than decisive victory—wearing down younger opponent through sustained engagement rather than risking everything on singular strike that might fail against prepared defenses. The calculation betrayed fundamental misunderstanding of what had changed since my departure from family structure.

I was no longer fighting for position or power or even family legacy in its traditional definition. Each movement, each calculated response, each strategic decision served singular purpose beyond personal ambition or organizational advancement. Protection of what was mine. Security for the future growing within Luca's body. Establishment of world where our child might inherit strength without the constraints that had limited potential through generations of outdated hierarchy.

I shifted suddenly from defensive positioning to controlled advance, the transition catching my father momentarily off-balance as pattern recognition failed against unexpected variation. The opening created lasted mere fraction of second—barely perceptible to witnesses more accustomed to observing prolonged engagement before decisive movement.

My blade found its mark with surgical precision—a clean slash across my father's torso that communicated deliberate restraint rather than limitation of capability. Deep enough to establish unquestionable victory, controlled enough to demonstrate discipline beyond mere violence.

Blood bloomed across white shirt, spreading in pattern that announced succession more eloquently than verbal declaration could have achieved. My father's expression registered something beyond surprise or anger—recognition, perhaps, that the son he had attempted to control through political manipulation and family obligation had evolved beyond the heir he had tried to shape in his own image.

"First blood," Vincenzo announced, the formal acknowledgment sealing transfer of authority that had been initiated through ceremonial challenge. " Succession established without dispute."

The assembled captains remained silent as my father pressed hand against bleeding wound—not life-threatening but significant enough to require medical attention beyond ceremonial acknowledgment. His gaze held mine for extended moment, assessment evident as he processed implications beyond immediate physical defeat.

"You've won the position," he said finally, voice pitched for my ears rather than public consumption. " The question remains whether you can maintain it with an omega consort and progressive policies that contradict generations of established protocol."

"That question," I replied with equal privacy, "has already been answered through the loyalty of captains who recognize strength beyond traditional definition. Who understand that evolution ensures survival where rigid adherence to outdated methods guarantees extinction."

I turned from him then, blade still held in formal positioning as I addressed the assembled witnesses who would translate tonight's events throughout our organization and beyond to allied families and rival interests alike.

"As successor established through traditional protocol, I declare the following changes to Corvino organizational structure," I announced, voice carrying the authority now formally transferred through ceremonial combat. " First , Luca Bianchi - Corvino is acknowledged as my consort with full authority appropriate to that position. Our child, currently developing, is recognized as legitimate heir to whatever structure evolves from reforms now initiated."