Power is intoxicating. People talk about it like it's a privilege like it's some gift handed down to the lucky few. 

But they don't understand what it means to have power. The way it seeps into every aspect of your life, the way it becomes your prison, a shackle you can never quite shake off.

Most people think power is about control. About making decisions, about calling the shots. But the truth is, power is about responsibility—an unrelenting weight on your shoulders. The more power you hold, the less control you have. 

The higher you climb, the more people watch you, waiting for you to fall.

There's this illusion that power gives you freedom. That if you have enough of it, you can do whatever you want, be whoever you want. 

But that's the cruelest lie of all. Power doesn't free you. It chains you. 

Because when you have power, it's no longer about what you want. 

It's about what you're expected to do. Who you're expected to be. 

There's always someone watching. There's always a legacy to uphold. 

And once you step into that role, there's no going back.

Here we are born into power. We never had a choice in the matter. From the moment we take our first breath, the expectations were laid out before . 

We don't just inherit a name; we inherit empires. 

And with that came the constant pressure to be perfect, to be ruthless, to be more. 

More cunning, more strategic, more powerful than anyone else. 

It's like walking a tightrope, every day of your life, knowing one misstep could send everything crashing down.

The conference room in Lucien's penthouse was a stark contrast to the chaos brewing outside.

The panoramic windows offered a deceptive sense of calm, the city sprawling beneath us as if untouched by the violence that had erupted in recent weeks. 

But inside, the tension was palpable.

I glanced out the window, feeling the weight of the silence in the room. 

The city, a place I had once ruled with certainty and precision, now felt like it was slipping through my fingers. 

The streets below held no safety, no sanctuary. 

Everything we had built was teetering on the edge of ruin, and I wasn't sure how long we could keep it from collapsing.

The head of the table had two chairs—one for me and one for Lucien. 

The symbolic placement wasn't lost on me. We were partners, bound by more than just duty, though even I questioned what exactly that bond meant anymore. 

Sitting beside him felt right, but there was an unspoken distance between us that I wasn't sure could ever be bridged.

To my right were Salvatore Bianchi, the head of the Italian mafia, and his trusted men, including my father and Vincenzo. 

On my left sat Giuseppe Roux, the head of the French mafia, his face drawn with worry, his eyes dark with a sense of doom that mirrored my own. 

Several underbosses from both sides were present, their faces reflecting the gravity of the situation. These were not men easily swayed by fear, and yet fear had a way of creeping in when the stakes were this high.

"We've taken significant hits," my father began, his voice steady but edged with the anger he had barely contained for weeks. "My house was attacked, our bars vandalized, and a substantial amount of our drugs stolen. The Russians are not just making threats; they're executing a calculated assault on our operations." 

His words hung heavy in the air, each syllable like a lead weight pulling us further into the abyss.

Giuseppe leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "We need to bolster our defenses. Strengthen our security measures to protect our assets and people."

I could see the gears turning in everyone's minds, but it wasn't fast enough for me. 

They were all inclined to take a defensive stance, but I knew that wasn't going to be enough. 

The Russians were already at war with us, and merely protecting ourselves wouldn't stop them. It would only delay the inevitable.

Michele nodded in agreement with Giuseppe. "We can't afford to leave any vulnerabilities. Our priority should be safeguarding our territories."

Charles chimed in, his tone firm. "We must also consider the long-term impact. This isn't just about immediate retaliation; it's about ensuring our future stability."

Future stability. The phrase made me want to laugh. The future felt so uncertain, so fragile. How could we plan for stability when the ground beneath us was shaking?

As the others continued their conversation, I felt frustration building in my chest. 

They were all thinking about defense, about safety, but I had been on the battlefield long enough to know that a purely defensive strategy was a slow death sentence. 

You couldn't win a war by playing it safe.

My hands curled into fists under the table as I listened to the endless debate about security, territory, and protecting assets. It all felt so meaningless. 

The Russians had already decided our fate by moving against us. 

The only question was whether we'd let them write the ending or take the pen back into our own hands.

"We can't just sit back and defend," I said, forcefully. I could feel my pulse quicken as I locked eyes with the older men who sat around the table, their faces a mix of skepticism and caution. 

It didn't faze me; they had spent too long playing it safe, too long calculating without acting.

"This is our war now. The Russians have already made their move, and if we don't respond in kind, we might as well hand them the keys to our empire."

The room was still, but the tension crackled like a live wire. I took a breath, knowing I had to push harder. "Yes, strengthening our defenses is necessary. But if we don't strike back, we'll lose more than territory. We'll lose the fear, the respect we've spent generations building. We need to target their supply chains, cut off their resources, and cripple their alliances. Hit them where it hurts. We need to be ruthless."

Giuseppe, always the cautious voice, leaned back, his fingers steepled together as he regarded me. "Serafina, an offensive could escalate the situation."

"It's already escalated!" I snapped, my voice ringing out in the dimly lit room. "This isn't a question of escalation anymore; it's a question of survival. We are being hunted. We can either take control or let them pick us off one by one. I refuse to let that happen."

I saw Lucien's gaze flicker toward me, and I caught his subtle nod of agreement. 

His support steadied me, though I didn't need it to continue. I was too far in to stop now.

"Serafina is right," Lucien's voice was calm, but there was a sharpness to it. "We can't afford to just sit back and react. We strengthen our defenses, yes, but at the same time, we hit them hard. Let them know that we will not hesitate to burn their world to the ground if they come for us."

There was a murmur of agreement, but I wasn't done yet. 

I leaned forward, my hands flat on the table. "This isn't just about one attack. It's about sending a message. If the Russians think they can provoke us without consequences, we'll be defending until we have nothing left. We strike now. One clean, decisive blow to show them that this war is already theirs to lose."

Charles, ever the strategist, nodded thoughtfully. "A calculated strike could serve as a warning, a demonstration of our strength."

Giuseppe, along with the other leaders, exchanged glances. I could see the wheels turning, the shift in their thinking. "One decisive blow," Giuseppe repeated, his voice measured. "To show them we're not playing games."

"Exactly." My voice was unwavering, every word sharp with conviction. "We need to make them understand that they don't get to play with us. Not without bleeding for it."

The room was quiet again, but this time, it wasn't because of doubt or hesitation. It was a stillness born from agreement. From understanding.

"They need to fear us," I added, softer now, my voice lowering but no less firm. "Not just respect us. Fear. Because without that, we're just waiting for our turn to fall."

The silence stretched out, thick with tension, until finally, Charles broke it. "Then we move forward with the plan. One attack. One message. Let's make it clear."

A slow smile spread across my face as I leaned back in my chair. 

For the first time in a long while, the weight pressing on my shoulders felt lighter. 

We were no longer playing defense. We were taking the fight to them.

Victory isn't just survival, I thought as I scanned the faces around the table. It's control. It's power.

And I was ready to wield it.

The door to the conference room swung open suddenly, and Eleanor walked in. Her eyes widened in surprise as she took in the scene. I clenched my jaw, annoyed at the interruption.

She likely assumed the room was empty, given the soundproof walls. "Uh, sorry," she stammered, her face flushing with embarrassment. "I didn't realize..."

I stood up quickly, shooting a glance at Lucien. 

He caught on immediately, rising to address the room. "Everyone, this is Eleanor," he said smoothly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "She's our new cook. Eleanor, these are... business associates."

The look of confusion and curiosity in Eleanor's eyes was unmistakable, but she tried to mask it.

She wasn't a fool, and I knew she suspected more than what we let on. But that was a problem for another time. Right now, we had bigger issues to deal with.

I forced a smile, my irritation carefully concealed. "Yes, Eleanor. She's an exceptional cook and will be helping us with meals."

The assembled mafiosos exchanged glances, but no one questioned the explanation. Eleanor nodded awkwardly and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Once she was gone, I took a deep breath, trying to push away the gnawing sense of unease that had settled in my stomach. 

Eleanor was becoming more involved, more present in our lives, and I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

But for now, we returned to the matter at hand. 

Plans were taking shape, and though the path ahead was fraught with danger, it felt good to have a direction. It felt good to take control.

As the meeting drew to a close, I looked around at the faces of those who would be our allies in this fight. The stakes were high, the risks even higher, but we were united in our resolve. At least, I hoped we were.

"We'll reconvene tomorrow to finalize the details," I said, standing up. "This is our chance to reclaim our power and protect our families. Let's make it count."

Lucien caught my eye as we filed out of the room. "You handled that well," he said quietly.

I nodded, feeling the weight of the responsibility on my shoulders. "We have no other choice. We need to act now, before it's too late."

But as we walked down the hallway, leaving the tense atmosphere of the meeting behind us, I couldn't shake the feeling that the real battle was only just beginning. 

The Russians had forced our hand, and now it was up to us to show them what we were made of.

I glanced at Lucien as we walked side by side, and for a moment, I felt a pang of doubt. Could we do this? Could we really win against the Russians, against the storm they had unleashed? I had never been afraid of a fight, but this... this was different.

This was about more than just power and control. 

It was about survival. And the weight of that realization settled over me like a shroud.

Eleanor was waiting for us in the living room when we returned, her face a mix of concern and curiosity. "How did it go?" she asked, her eyes darting between Lucien and me.

"It went as well as could be expected," Lucien replied, his voice steady but weary. "We've got a plan."

Eleanor nodded, but I could see the questions swirling behind her eyes. She wanted to know more, but she wouldn't ask. Not yet, anyway.

Lucien sat down on the couch with a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. "We'll strike first," he said, as if trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. "We'll show them we're not afraid."

I sat beside him, feeling the weight of his words. We were about to go to war, and there was no turning back now.

Eleanor lingered in the doorway, watching us with a guarded expression. I met her gaze, my heart racing with the knowledge that this war would change everything.

And then there's love—love and power don't mix. 

They can't. Love makes you vulnerable. 

It exposes you, weakens you, in ways power never could. 

And in our world, vulnerability is the kiss of death. 

The moment you let someone in, the moment you let your guard down, you risk losing everything. I learned that the hard way.

People say power corrupts. But I think it's more than that. Power isolates. 

It forces you to make impossible choices, to sacrifice parts of yourself in ways you can't undo. 

You lose pieces of your soul along the way, bit by bit, until you're left wondering if the person you've become is even someone you recognize anymore.

But still, I can't let go of it. I can't walk away. 

Because without power, without that protection, what's left? Weakness. Vulnerability. 

And in a world like mine, those things will get you killed.