His Family Left The Mafia Boss To Die—But His Loyal Maid Stayed, And His Comeback Shocked Them All

No one moved.

Dardan’s hand remained frozen beneath his jacket, his knuckles white against his leather holster. He looked at Sodor, then at the two silver pistols on the tray, then at the old captains standing in the back booths.

In the tradition of their homeland, to draw a weapon against a leader who carried his grandfather’s Besa pistols into a council was an act that stripped a man of his name, his family, and his grave. His own cousins would hunt him before the week was out.

"Sodor..." Lawyer Vance stammered, his chair sliding back two feet as he tried to stand. "I... Dritton showed me the medical records from North Shore... he said—"

"Sit down, Vance," Sodor said without raising his voice.

The lawyer dropped back into his chair as if he had been struck with an iron bar.

Sodor walked to the head of the table. He stood directly behind Dritton’s chair, resting his large, pale hands on the carved wooden back.

"Dritton," Sodor murmured, his head leaning down so his cheek was six inches from his brother's ear. "You were always fast. Fast with money. Fast with cars. Fast with women who didn't know your surname."

Dritton sat frozen, his teeth clicking together, his silver tie crooked against his white collar. "Sodor... listen... Dardan said—"

"Dardan is an illiterate who thinks a city is held together by lead," Sodor said softly. He reached out, picked up the black ledger Dritton had stolen from his safe, and tossed it into the open fire of the brick hearth behind the bar.

The old leather crackled, the iron-gall ink burning with a bright blue flame that filled the room with the smell of scorched paper.

"That book," Sodor announced to the room, "was full of lies I wrote to see which of my officers would sell my name when I had a fever."

He looked at old man Hoxha.

"Hoxha."

"Yes, Boss?" the old man said, bowing his head.

"The South Side stays twelve percent. The river docks go to your son."

"Thank you, Boss."

Sodor turned his eyes to Dardan.

"Dardan."

The heavy man swallowed hard, his hand slowly coming out from beneath his coat, empty. "Sodor... I served you for twelve years."

"You served my grandfather for twelve years," Sodor corrected cold. "To me, you served three days as a thief. Take your coat. Leave the city before eight AM tomorrow. If I see your Lincoln on Lake Shore Drive after sunrise, I will give your nephew Besnik the territory on Grand Avenue and tell him who broke his leg."

Dardan turned pale. He didn't argue. He bowed his head once, turned on his heel, and walked out into the rain without looking back.

Sodor looked down at his brother.

"And you," Sodor whispered.

Dritton fell to his knees beside the oak table, his hands grasping the hem of Sodor’s trousers. "Brother... please... our mother... she asked you on her deathbed—"

"Our mother," Sodor said, his dark eyes turning into cold stone, "is the only reason you are walking out of this door on your own feet."

He reached down, took Dritton by the silk collar of his gray jacket, and hauled him to his feet with a single, sudden exertion that showed his strength had fully returned.

"You will take the house in Naples," Sodor said into his face. "You will live on four thousand dollars a month sent from the trust in Zurich. If you set foot in North America again, I will not call the lawyer. I will call Eliti."