And that, he thought, was the art of being Don.
Don Vincenzo De Luca swirled his Brunello, watching the man kneel before him. The traitor’s hands were bound. His mouth was taped. But his eyes… his eyes screamed. the italian don
Until her.
"You sold my shipment to the Albanians," Vincenzo said, his voice soft as a prayer. "You sat at my table. You ate my salt. And this is how you thank me?" And that, he thought, was the art of being Don