The morning on the Upper East Side was so peaceful it was sickening.The sun was shining brightly, birds were chirping in the trees of Central Park, and *nannies* in uniforms were pushing expensive strollers on the clean sidewalks. There's no trash, no homeless people, no smell of urine like in Brooklyn.In the black armored SUV Cadillac Escalade, Marco sat in the back seat with Sofia."Papa, there's ballet practice this afternoon," Sofia chirped happily as she tidied up her school bag with a picture of a pony. "Miss Nancy said I would be the main actor in the winter stage!"Marco smiled faintly, stroking his daughter's hair. "Great. Papa will definitely come. Papa will buy the first ticket.""Promise me? Don't be busy 'working' all the time," Sofia held up her little finger."Promise," Marco put his little finger together.In the front seat, Bruno was driving with sunglasses. His eyes continued to scan the rearview mirror, alert. In front of them, there was another black sedan—a body

St. St. Patrick's Day stands majestically amidst the hustle and bustle of Manhattan, a bastion of gothic sanctity among the money-worshipping skyscrapers. Outside, police sirens and taxi horns screamed. Inside, it's quiet. There was only the smell of incense, burning beeswax, and old sins hiding behind the confession booth.The giant wooden doors of the cathedral opened slightly. Daylight slipped in, forming a straight line on the cold marble floor.Marco Rossi stepped in.He didn't carry a weapon. At least, not that it seems. He wore a long black coat (trench coat) that covered his rumpled suit. Behind him, Bruno "The Wall" Ferro stood guarding the door, folding his bandaged hands, glaring at every tourist who tried to enter."The church is closed," Bruno growled at a pair of Japanese tourists. "There's a Mass for the Soul."Inside, Marco walked down the main aisle (nave). His footsteps echoed softly, tak... tak... tak..., breaking the silence of the holy place.In the front row, rig

FBI NEW YORK FIELD OFFICE 08:00The fluorescent light in the room was sterile, cold, and blinding. The aroma of stale coffee and sugar donuts filled the air, typical of the breakfast of sleep-deprived law enforcers.On the large glass wall in the center of the room, a map of the structure of a new criminal organization was being drawn up. The mugshot photos were attached with clear tape, connected with a red marker.At the top of the pyramid, there was a blurry photo from street CCTV. A man in a black leather jacket with a cold gaze. Underneath there are photos of Bruno "The Wall", Julian "Joker", and Isabella Moretti (whose face was taken from an old LinkedIn profile)."Black Dragon," muttered a middle-aged man while sipping his black coffee.Special Agent John Parker. Fifty years old, close-cropped gray hair, a hard face like it was carved from granite, and eyes that have seen too many corpses. He is a legend in the Bureau. The man who brought down the Colombian Cartel in the 90s an

L'ECLAT CLUB PRIVATE VIP ROOM 21:00The sound of clinking crystal glasses and boisterous laughter filled the VIP room on the third floor of the nightclub which now belonged entirely to the Black Dragon.Tonight was a night of victory. Don Costello is dead. The territory has been controlled. The power map of New York has been redrawn in blood ink, and Marco Rossi's name is at the top.In the middle of a long table filled with sumptuous dishes, Marco sat in the head chair. He wore a pitch black Armani suit, his hair neatly combed back—showing his streak of silver gray proudly as a sign of battle."For the Godfather!" shouted Julian, raising a $2,000 glass of Champagne."FOR GODFATHER!" shouted dozens of lieutenants and captains of the new Black Dragon division in unison.They drank, laughed, and started devouring the dishes served.There were Lobster Thermidor, Caviar Beluga, black Truffle, and the main star: Wagyu A5 Kobe Beef which was flown directly from Japan this morning. The meat

VANDERBILT MANSION, LONG ISLAND ONE WEEK LATERThe house wasn't a house. That's the palace. Or more precisely, a mausoleum for the living. Marco stood on the balcony of the second floor of the $20 million mansion. The Long Island sea breeze blew hard, shaking the white silk curtains behind him. Down there, a garden tended by five gardeners spread out, complete with a European-style fountain and an infinity swimming pool with clear blue water.Everything was perfect. Just like in the flyer that Maria threw that night.There were no thugs. No garbage smell. There was no sound of police sirens. His neighbors were a bank CEO, a plastic surgeon, and a Wall Street stockbroker.Marco smoked a thick Cohiba cigar in his hand. White smoke billowed into the night air.He didn't taste the deliciousness of the tobacco. For Marco, it felt like sucking in car exhaust. But he did it anyway. It's part of the image. Part of the "Godfather" mask."Report in, Boss," Isabella's voice came through the sma