THE MAFIA'S FORGOTTEN SON

Chapter Three – The Serpent’s Table

The room was heavy with silence, the kind that could smother a man. Denilson stood at the threshold, the flickering candlelight painting shadows across the faces that watched him.

They were strangers, yet not. Something in their eyes, in the sharpness of their posture, felt unnervingly familiar, as though he had seen fragments of them before, in another life.

At the head of the table sat a man with silver hair and eyes the color of steel. He exuded authority so naturally it didn’t need to be announced. His voice carried the weight of command when he spoke again.

“You look like him.” Denilson’s brow furrowed. “Like who?” The man leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Your father.” The words hit harder than a blow. “My father died when I was a child.”

“Did he?” The man’s lips curved into something between a smile and a snarl. “Or was that simply the story you were fed by those who wanted to keep you small?.

Murmurs rippled through the others at the table. Some nodded in agreement, others simply stared at Denilson with curiosity, as though he were an artifact finally unearthed.

Denilson swallowed hard, forcing steel into his voice. “I don’t know what you want from me, but I didn’t come here to entertain fairy tales.”

The man chuckled, low and humorless. “Fairy tales? No, boy. Fairy tales are for children. What we deal in is legacy, power, blood. And your blood…” His eyes glinted. “Your blood is ours.”

The words vibrated through Denilson’s chest, stirring something long-buried. He clenched his fists. “If that’s true, then where were you? Where were you when I was laughed at, when I was spat on, when I bled for people who treated me like dirt?”

His voice cracked at the edges, fury boiling over years of silence, The man’s gaze did not waver. “Waiting. Because only fire forges steel. And now, you are ready.”Denilson shook his head, backing a step toward the door. “I don’t want your riddles. I want answers.”

“You will have them,” the man said, rising slowly. “But first… you must survive.” A sharp snap of his fingers echoed through the room.

The double doors behind Denilson slammed shut. From the corners of the chamber, two figures emerged masked, clad in black, blades gleaming under the candlelight.

Denilson’s heart lurched. “What is this?” “Your initiation,” the man said coldly. “Blood must prove blood.”The masked figures advanced.

Denilson’s pulse thundered. He had no weapon, no training, nothing but raw instinct and desperation.

One lunged. Denilson ducked, the blade grazing his shoulder, searing pain tearing through him. He staggered back, breath ragged. The second attacker swept low, trying to trip him. Denilson stumbled, hit the floor hard, and the crowd around the table leaned forward, eyes sharp with hunger.

“Pathetic,” someone muttered.

“Like a beaten dog,” another sneered. Rage flared in Denilson’s chest. The same rage he had swallowed at Jenna’s table, the same rage that had festered for years behind his silence. No more.

He rolled as the first blade stabbed where his heart had been, grabbed the attacker’s wrist with both hands, and twisted with every ounce of strength. Bone cracked. The masked figure howled, dropping the blade.

Denilson seized it,The second attacker came at him with a roar. Denilson spun clumsily but drove the blade upward, catching the figure in the side. Blood sprayed, hot and real. The attacker collapsed.

Panting, trembling, Denilson turned to the first one, who now clutched their broken wrist. For a heartbeat, he hesitated — then his grip tightened, and with a snarl he brought the blade down.

Silence, The chamber held its breath. Denilson stood over the fallen bodies, chest heaving, blood on his hands, The man with silver hair finally smiled. A slow, approving smile. “Yes. Just like him.”

Denilson’s vision blurred with fury. “What the hell is this? Who are you?”

The man stepped closer, resting a heavy hand on Denilson’s shoulder. “We are the Franfurt bloodline. The dynasty that built this city from shadows. The empire that kings and politicians bow to. And you, Denilson… are its heir.”

Denilson’s throat tightened. The room spun, not from exhaustion but from the weight of revelation, He opened his mouth, but no words came.

The man’s grip tightened. “You have a choice. Walk away now, back to your cage, your cheating wife, your mockery of a life. Or stay… and claim what is yours by right.”

Denilson’s heart pounded. The faces around the table burned into him, expectant, demanding. His wife’s laughter rang in his ears, cruel and cold. For the first time, the choice did not feel like chains. It felt like wings.

He lifted his head, eyes meeting the silver-haired man’s, And with a voice low and steady, he spoke.