Chapter 1 - The Rule of Thirty-Five
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The heavy oak doors of the locked room swung shut, sealing out the ambient noise of the grand Long Island estate. Inside, nine men sat around a polished mahogany table. Every single one of them was older than Enzo Marquetti, yet the room was thick with a tense, oppressive silence.
At thirty-four, Enzo sat at the head of the table. Tall, broad-shouldered, and quiet, he possessed a Presence that did not require loud commands. A faint scar ran along his collarbone—a violent souvenir from his early days taking over the family after his father's death.
At the opposite end sat Bruno Castellano, the family underboss. Bruno carefully opened a worn, yellowed leather binder that had been retrieved from the vault.
"I take no pleasure in this, Enzo," Bruno began, his tone dripping with practiced affection. "You know I love you like my own flesh and blood. But the family charter was written over a century ago by your great-grandfather. Its laws do not bend for emotion."
Bruno cleared his throat, running a manicured finger down the aged parchment.
"Clause Forty-Two," Bruno read aloud. "If the Don reaches his thirty-fifth birthday without a legal wife or an established heir, the family council holds the absolute authority to convene and appoint a successor. A bloodline without an heir is a house built on sand."
Several captains shifted in their chairs, exchanging subtle, knowing glances. Bruno smiled faintly, satisfied with the heavy silence settling over the room. Most expected Enzo to erupt, to slam his fists, or to threaten bloodshed.
Instead, Enzo leaned back slightly. He reached into his dark jacket pocket and pulled out a solid, antique brass compass. Without a word, he set it firmly onto the wooden surface.
Click.
The metallic sound echoed off the wood panelling like a hammer dropping.
"Uncle Bruno wants me to take a wife," Enzo said softly, his dark eyes fixed on the underboss. "I agree. I will be married before my thirty-fifth birthday."
Bruno’s smile faltered slightly. "And who will select the bride? The council has prepared a list of eligible women from our allied families—"
"No one at this table will select her," Enzo interrupted. "Nor will I."
"Then who?" Bruno asked, leaning forward.
"There is only one person left in this house who still has the right to tell me I am wrong," Enzo said calmly. "My grandfather."
Bruno’s posture stiffened for a fraction of a second—a tiny detail Enzo did not miss.
"Alfonso is eighty-four and dying of heart failure," Bruno argued quickly. "He barely leaves his bed. Is it wise to place such a burden on a man who may not even be lucid?"
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"My grandfather built the table you are sitting at," Enzo replied, his voice cold and final. "As long as he still draws breath, his word weighs more than anyone else’s in New York."
Enzo picked up his compass, slipped it into his coat, and walked out of the room, leaving the council in stunned silence.
