Dante stood by the window of Matteo’s study, nursing a drink that did little to take the edge off the fury simmering inside him.

The amber liquid swirled lazily in the glass, catching the light of the chandelier above.

His godfather sat across from him, looking like the world's weight didn’t affect him.

Matteo leaned back in his chair, his cigar leaving a faint trail of smoke that curled lazily toward the ceiling.

His nurse was nowhere in sight and Dante didn’t bother to ask his godfather if he was really allowed to smoke in his condition.

He knew what Matteo’s response would be anyway.

“You’re tense,” Matteo said, breaking...