I had seen the evidence. The documents hidden in the concealed cabinet in his private study, carefully backed up in a safe I was never meant to find. Every letter, every record, pointed to the same person. Her name was written again and again, with devotion that bordered on worship. And I did not even qualify as a footnote in his heart.
What we called a betrothal was closer to an approved arrangement—a blood-bound alliance between the Ashford and Corleone Families. As long as it kept Don Ettore steady, as long as it reassured the Commission that the old alliances held firm, Giorgio was willing to play any role.
And he played it well.
At the sit-downs, he was the most reliable executor. In the gray zones where legitimate business bled into darker dealings, he never hesitated. The Family's expansion, the formation of alliances, the intimidation of rival syndicates—all depended on him. Don Ettore trusted him. The Council of Capos relied on him.
And I was merely an attached condition—a clause in a contract I never signed.
"Sit properly."