They followed behind Don into the house.
They stood in the center of the vast living room, boots planted on rugs worth more than most men's houses. The estate's main salon stretched wide as a ballroom.
"I'd rather we talk now," Luca replied. "I'll be leaving in the morning."
Don Genovese's gaze hardened by degrees. "You are here," he said. "You will stay." His authority had never relied on volume.
The Don lowered himself into the central sofa, a piece custom-built in Florence, high-backed and imposing.
Julian remained standing at his father's right.
"How is New York?" Don asked, crossing one leg over the other.
"It's in good hands," Luca answered. His jaw flexed slightly. "Marco's hands."
Don's brows drew together. "Excuse me? He is still alive?"
"Of course," Luca replied, irritation flickering openly now. "He has done nothing wrong. So I don't understand why you sent Ricardo to replace him."
Don's eyes moved slowly to Julian.
