“Boss, seriously, what the hell is this?!”
All eyes flicked to Durinn as he blew up.
“It’s fine if you retire. It ain’t easy for us to watch you torture yourself to keep this thing running. But putting the family in the hands of that heinous gay clown?! The man who killed our own family?! I won’t stand for it!”
“I am the one who ordered it,” said Vito. “It does not eliminate him from candidacy.”
Vito’s words and attitude were hard as stone. Durinn’s face scrunched up in disgust, but he wasn’t done yet.
“Fine. So we put the killing aside. But shouldn’t we be the ones to decide who leads us? You said you’re leaving because of your age hampering your decision-making, right? If that’s the case, I think you should leave the matter of your successor to us.”
“I never said that I was making Finocchio the don. But I’ll admit that there is some logic to your words, Durinn.” Vito nodded to himself, then looked over at Alessio. “Your thoughts, son?”
“I agree with Durinn. The matter of your successor should be decided on by the entirety of the executive board. That said, there is something I would like to make clear before we do so.” Alessio paused for a moment to stare at Finocchio. “You said that you were most suitable to take the seat at the head of the family, yes? Well, I want to know why.”
Alessio’s tone was defiant, and Finocchio smiled in reply.
“There are two reasons. The first is the astronomical earnings from the Seven Star Cup which, may I remind you all, I manage. I realize we’re scheduled to announce our earnings and the family’s cut—and that I’m the reason we haven’t gotten to that yet. Well, let me announce my own earnings here and now. At present, Barzini family profits for the second half of the year come to two hundred billion fil. Based on our predictions, we are expecting to make another eight hundred billion by the end of the Seven Star Cup’s finals. In total, then? One trillion fil.”
The board went silent at the grinning Finocchio’s announcement. Everyone knew that the Seven Star Cup was going to result in huge earnings, but nobody had expected anything so outlandishly high as one trillion fil.
Just holding the tournament wasn’t enough to rake in one trillion. The real source of these earnings came from Finocchio’s gambling promotions for even non-spectators. He’d used his network to spread word across the country and worked closely with newspaper publishers leading up to the event. This was not to mention his PR efforts outside of the empire, which encouraged wealthy foreigners to participate. All of this meant that their projected earnings continued to grow.
“F-filthy liar! One trillion fil?!”
Durinn was livid, his head and hands shaking as he accused Finocchio of lying. It did not have the desired result—it only made it clearer to everyone at the table that Durinn simply didn’t want to admit to the truth.
“I assure you I speak true, my dear Durinn,” said Finocchio. “And as the rules state, the family gets a 20 percent cut. If I’m lying about this, I’m just digging myself a deep hole of debt.”
“Not if you become the boss! Then you can just write off your own losses!”
Finocchio sighed. “Un-be-lievable. Do you really think the board, of all people, can’t work out the difference between truth and lies? The only reason you can speak such malarkey is because you refuse to understand what’s going on. If anyone on the board is going senile, I daresay it’s you.”
“The hell?! What do you mean!”
Finocchio let out another deep, pretentious sigh, then turned on Durinn with an ice-cold stare. “I mean exactly what I said. If you were managing the Seven Star Cup, one trillion fil in earnings would be impossible. But I’m doing it. I’m saying we’re on different levels, you and I.”
“You godforsaken…!”
Durinn’s rage had turned him bright red, and he heaved breaths like noxious fumes. He looked ready to pounce at Finocchio at any instant. That he held himself back showed he was still clinging to a shred of reason. This disappointed Finocchio, who had hoped he might be able to kill Durinn right here and now and slap a nice cover of “self-defense” on it.
“Durinn, calm down. Now.” Alessio’s short, sharp order reached the dwarf, who sat down, his still face twisted with fury.
“Well, I see the logic in your first reason,” said Alessio, bringing his hands together over his knee. “One trillion fil is truly commendable. It’s almost on par with what we made across the entire organization in the first half of the year. As a member of the board, it’s certainly enough to make a case for yourself. What’s your second reason?”
Alessio never lost his cool, and Finocchio couldn’t understand why. Yes, he was the organization’s number two, but he appeared entirely unfazed. Had he somehow caught on to Finocchio’s plot? Even if he had, Finocchio knew it was too late to change his strategy now—the clown would have to take his chances and push on.
“To explain the second reason, I’ll need a specialist’s opinion.”
“A specialist, you say?”
“Yes. I fear that my words alone won’t be entirely convincing. Do you mind if I call upon him?”
Alessio considered the question for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. Father, do you mind?”
Vito made a grand show of shrugging his shoulders. “I am already retired. Until a new boss is elected, you can manage the proceedings as you see fit.”
“Understood. Finocchio, you may call your specialist.”
Finocchio sent a flash of magic through his earring—a comms receiver—to transmit a silent message to his specialist outside: “It’s me. Everything is ready, so come in. As long as you’re with one of my people, security will let you through.”
“Got it. On my way.”
Within five minutes, there was a knock at the door.
“Enter,” said Alessio.
The door opened, and a young man walked in: the clan master of Wild Tempest, Noel Stollen. His black outfit matched his hair perfectly. The board members’ jaws dropped as Noel strolled toward the head of the table, where he bowed politely.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Luciano,” he said. “I am Noel Stollen, clan master of Wild Tempest. I believe we were acquainted through Andreas Hooger.”
Noel lifted his head and met Vito’s gaze. The don wore a bright smile, but Finocchio knew that there were dark feelings bubbling behind it. In the past, Noel had been in conflict with Hooger Commerce, which was under the protection of the Luciano family. As a result, Hooger Commerce collapsed, and the Luciano family lost a valuable source of income.
At the same time, Noel was a valued partner. He was also an organizer of the Seven Star Cup. Though Finocchio and Noel’s relationship did not go through the don, it made little difference to Vito. Whatever Vito may have felt, he did not let it show on his face—rather, he looked every bit the portrait of the kindly grandfather.
“Ah, so you’re the snake,” he said. “Handsome, too, but you don’t resemble your grandfather in the slightest. The splitting image of your grandmother, aren’t you? Did your grandfather ever tell you about the time she refused my hand?”
“Unfortunately not. He was always secretive about that particular topic.”
Vito chuckled. “I see. In any case, are we to assume you’re the specialist Finocchio called for?”
Noel nodded. “Yes. I look forward to speaking with you all.”
“And I look forward to seeing how competent the son of Overdeath is.”
Noel smiled at Vito once more before turning his gaze on the rest of the table. “Let’s get straight to the point,” he said. “I’m here to talk to you all about what will happen to the empire after we defeat the Valiant. Namely, how the power structure of the underworld will shift.”