THE MAFIA'S FORGOTTEN SON

Chapter Four – The Heir’s Oath

The blade in Denilson’s hand was slick with blood. He stared at it, chest heaving, as silence thundered in the chamber. All eyes burned into him, waiting. Judging. Measuring.

At the head of the table, the silver-haired man stood, his presence filling the room like a storm. “So, Denilson Franfurt,” he said softly, almost reverently. “Will you walk out that door as the beaten dog they made of you… or will you stay, and rise as your father’s son?”

Denilson’s pulse hammered. Images flashed in his mind Jenna’s mocking sneer, her family’s laughter, the sting of humiliation etched into every meal, every day, every year. The glass cutting into his hand, the wine staining the floor, her body in another man’s arms.

His grip tightened on the blade, “I…” His voice faltered, raw. He swallowed hard, forcing strength into the cracks. “I won’t be their dog anymore.” The silver-haired man’s eyes gleamed. “Then kneel.”

Denilson’s legs felt heavy, but he dropped to one knee, the blade still clutched in his hand. The man stepped forward, laying a hand heavy with authority on Denilson’s shoulder.

“By blood, by fire, by steel  you are one of us.” His voice rang like an oath, echoing through the chamber. “From this night, you are no longer a shadow. You are heir to the Franfurt legacy. You will inherit our enemies, our allies, our empire. And should you betray us”

He leaned closer, his breath cold against Denilson’s ear. “ you will wish those blades had ended you tonight.”

A murmur of approval swept the table. Some faces smiled with respect, others with calculation. Denilson knew then he was not welcomed. He was tested. And he would continue to be tested until either he broke… or they bowed.

he man returned to his seat, gesturing for Denilson to rise. “Sit.” Denilson obeyed, his body aching, blood still drying on his skin.

A woman to his left leaned forward, dark eyes sharp beneath raven hair. “Do you even understand what you’ve stepped into?” she asked, her voice dripping with disdain. “This city bends at our will. Politicians, judges, bankers, police all of them dance when we pull the strings. Our enemies fear us. Our allies envy us. And you…” She tilted her head. “You were washing wine stains from a carpet last night.”

Laughter rippled through some of the seats. Denilson said nothing. His silence was not weakness this time  it was a blade, sharp and patient.

The silver-haired man raised a hand, and the room fell quiet. “Do not mistake his silence for submission. He carries his father’s fire. It only waits to burn.”

Denilson turned his gaze toward him. “Who are you to me?”

The man smiled faintly. “I am your uncle. Marcus Franfurt. And you, boy, are the only son of Alaric Franfurt the man who once ruled this empire until he was betrayed.”

Denilson’s breath caught. The name struck something deep, a memory half-buried. A tall man with eyes like his own, a voice that commanded even silence to listen. Then a gunshot. Screams. His mother’s trembling hands. Darkness.

Marcus’s tone hardened. “Your father was cut down by rivals who feared what he was building. They thought they had destroyed our bloodline. But you survived. Hidden. Kept small. Until now.”

Denilson’s chest tightened. “And my mother?”, “Dead.” The word was blunt, merciless. “She paid the price of loyalty. But her sacrifice kept you alive long enough to return.”

Denilson bowed his head, grief slicing through him.

Marcus’s voice softened, almost kind. “Grieve, but not for long. Your enemies will not wait for your tears to dry. The men who mocked you yesterday would slit your throat tomorrow if they knew what you are. Already, whispers spread of your return. And already, vultures circle.”

A man across the table, broad-shouldered, scar across his cheek  leaned forward. “And what if the boy isn’t ready? We risk too much placing our trust in someone raised as a pawn.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “Then he will prove himself.”

His gaze shifted to Denilson. “Tomorrow night, we test you again. You will not kneel in a chamber this time. You will stand in the streets. There is a debt owed to us, by a man who has forgotten his place. You will collect it.”

Denilson’s stomach tightened. “And if he refuses?” Marcus’s smile was sharp. “Then you will remind him why the serpent wears a crown.”

Later, when the chamber emptied and the others drifted into the night, Marcus lingered with Denilson.

“You’re angry,” Marcus said quietly. Denilson’s jaw clenched. “Angry doesn’t cover it.”

“Good.” Marcus studied him. “Hold onto that. Anger is a weapon if you sharpen it. But if you let it rot, it becomes weakness.” He paused, then added, “Do you know why your wife treated you like dirt?”

Denilson’s throat tightened, the memory burning fresh. “Because she could.”Marcus shook his head. “No. Because she saw only the mask you wore. The world sees what you show them. And you showed them nothing but obedience. From now on, you show them fire.”

Denilson said nothing, but the words carved themselves into his bones. Marcus clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Go. Rest. Tomorrow, you stop being their servant. Tomorrow, you start becoming their fear.”

Denilson walked out into the cold night, the serpent and crown card heavy in his pocket, his heart heavier still.

His mind whirled with questions, grief, rage, and something dangerously close to hope. He reached his car, slid behind the wheel, and for a moment simply sat in the silence. His reflection in the window no longer looked like the beaten man who had knelt at Jenna’s table. His eyes were harder now. Sharper.

His phone buzzed. A message. No number. Just four words. We’re watching you tonight, Denilson’s blood ran cold. He spun, scanning the empty street, shadows stretching long under the lampposts. Nothing, And yet, he felt it eyes in the dark. Waiting. Measuring. Judging.