“She’s Gone—Now You’re Mine,” His Mistress Smiled… Until the Mafia Boss Heard “Twins”

The neon signs of the industrial district bled red and blue through the dense morning fog. It was 5:30 a.m., ninety minutes before sunrise.

The D’Angelo Syndicate operated out of an old meatpacking plant on the edge of the river—a sprawling, windowless brick complex that had been converted into a high-security administrative center thirty years ago. In the basement beneath the processing floor sat the Council Chamber: an octagonal room with a massive oak table, eight heavy leather chairs, and no secondary exits.

When Roman entered, six men were already seated around the table.

These were the Caporegimes—the commanders who controlled the docks, the construction unions, the gambling dens, and the distribution networks across three states. They were older men, battle-hardened, their faces etched with scars and years of cold calculation.

Among them sat Paulie Vane and Anthony Russo—the two capos Naomi’s file had flagged for financial embezzlement and secret communications with the Moretti family.

The atmosphere in the room was thick with tension. News of Marco Voss’s disappearance and the federal raid on Sabrina’s penthouse had spread through the syndicate’s private channels like wildfire over the last two hours.

Roman walked to the head of the table. He didn't sit down. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, letting it hang open, and placed both hands flat on the polished oak surface.

"Where is Marco?" Anthony Russo asked, his tone crisp, attempting to hide the nervous edge in his voice. He was a stocky man in his fifties with thinning gray hair and gold rings on every finger. "The boys in the East District are saying his house was cleared out by your security team."

"Marco is no longer with the organization," Roman said flatly.

A murmur ran through the capos.

Paulie Vane, a tall, lean man with a scar running from his left ear down to his collar, narrowed his eyes. "He was a Capo, Roman. The rules state that a Capo cannot be removed or liquidated without a formal vote by the full Council. You can't just clear out an entire district on your own whim."

"The rules," Roman repeated, his voice dangerously soft. "Paulie wants to talk about the rules."

Roman reached into his pocket, pulled out a stack of printed documents, and tossed them into the middle of the table. The papers slid across the wood, stopping right in front of Paulie and Anthony.

"Page forty-two," Roman said. "Read the bottom line."

Paulie frowned, picking up the top page. As his eyes scanned the numbers, the color slowly drained from his face. It was a complete breakdown of his private bank accounts in the Bahamas, detailing three million dollars in unauthorized kickbacks received from Moretti-controlled construction firms over the last eighteen months.

Anthony Russo leaned over to look, his jaw tightening as he saw his own signature forged on secondary bill of lading documents.

"This... this is a setup," Anthony stuttered, looking around the table at the other capos for support. "This is fake! Someone is trying to frame us!"

"My wife compiled those records," Roman said. "She started tracking your accounts two years ago. Every time you thought you were clever, every time you took a cut from a union pension fund or sold a crate of unregistered sidearms to the south, she wrote it down."

The other four capos sitting at the far end of the table pulled back slightly, distancing themselves from Paulie and Anthony. In the syndicate, theft from the Boss was an absolute death sentence.

"Roman, listen to us," Paulie said, his voice dropping into a desperate plea as his hand moved casually down toward his waistline. "We were loyal to your father! We built this family! You’ve been distracted for the last year—spending time with that Voss girl, ignoring the business! We had to protect our own interests!"

Paulie’s hand reached the edge of his jacket.

Before his fingers could touch the grip of his hidden sidearm, a sharp CRACK echoed through the concrete room.

Paulie’s head snapped back. A small, neat hole appeared in the center of his forehead. His eyes rolled back, and his heavy body slumped sideways, knocking his chair over as he crashed onto the concrete floor.

Standing in the doorway behind Roman was Leo, a suppressed pistol held in his right hand, a thin wisp of gray smoke rising from the barrel.

Anthony Russo shrieked, throwing his hands into the air, his entire body shaking violently. "DON'T! ROMAN, DON'T! I SURRENDER! I’LL GIVE IT ALL BACK! EVERY CENT!"

Roman didn't even look down at Paulie’s body. He kept his eyes fixed on Anthony.

"You won't give it back to me, Anthony," Roman said, stepping around the table until he stood right beside the cowering capo. "You will transfer every asset, every property, and every offshore account directly into the D’Angelo Children’s Trust by nine o'clock this morning."

"Yes! Yes! Anything! Whatever you want!" Anthony sobbed, his hands trembling so hard he could barely keep them elevated.

"And then," Roman continued, leaning down to whisper in his ear, "you will take a driver, you will go to the Moretti compound in Jersey, and you will deliver a message to Don Carmine himself."

Anthony blinked through his tears. "What... what message?"

"Tell him," Roman said, "that the widow’s debts have been settled. And now, I am coming for his."

He looked up at the remaining four capos, who sat in absolute, stone-cold silence.

"Clean this room," Roman commanded. "The East District and the Union Rackets are now under my direct control. Anyone who has an issue with this arrangement can join Paulie on the floor."