[Seraphina, tomorrow is Grandpa's 80th birthday. I suggest you don't try any stunts at the celebration. Don't cause trouble for Daniela or her baby.]
He stared at the screen for a full minute after sending it. No typing indicator appeared. No read receipt. Nothing. He locked the phone and set it face-down on the railing, then lit a third cigarette with the Zippo, the flame catching in the wind before holding steady.
The next day. Don Salvatore Valente's 80th birthday celebration began at the Family's estate, every room lit and staffed, soldiers in dark suits stationed at every entrance like fixtures of the architecture itself.
Dominic arrived hand-in-hand with Daniela, publicly and confidently, as though they were a perfect couple. Associates and Capos noted it. Some looked away. Others filed it for later.
They remained side by side, affectionate and high-profile, until Salvatore Valente himself entered the venue. The old Don moved slowly, his cane striking the marble floor with each step, and every conversation in the grand hall died mid-sentence. Men who ran their own crews straightened their spines. Wives stopped talking. The gravity of the room shifted to a single point.