Nicholas Rossa

The room smelled like old money and older secrets—mahogany, cigar smoke, and the faint trace of expensive whiskey that had soaked into the walls over decades. I sat at the long polished table, fingers resting lightly against the surface, listening without really listening. Men like this didn’t speak unless they had something to say, and tonight, they all had something to say. Or more accurately, something to decide. About me. I leaned back slightly in my chair, keeping my expression neutral, unreadable. Across from me sat men who had built empires out of silence and blood, men who had known me since I was a boy trailing behind my father’s shadow. Now they watched me differently—measured, weighing, calculating. At the head of the table, my father didn’t look at me right away. He never did. Power, he’d taught me, wasn’t just in what you said—it was in when you chose to say it. His hands were folded in front of him, posture calm, but there was nothing relaxed about him. There never was “Nicholas,” he said finally, his voice cutting clean through the room. I lifted my eyes to him. “Yes.”