Chapter 3 - The King on the Wooden Throne
The following Monday, the Romano estate ceased to be a mausoleum.
At eight o'clock in the morning, a black sedan pulled up the long gravel driveway, followed by two more. Six men stepped out—men with broad shoulders, dark suits, and watchful eyes that scanned the tree line before they moved toward the house. These were not lawyers. These were the old guard—the lieutenants who had served Alessandro’s father, men who had remained loyal to the family name even as Marco allowed the foundations to rot.
They walked into the grand parlor downstairs, expecting to find a broken man in a bedroom, or perhaps Marco sitting behind the desk with an apology.
Instead, they found Alessandro Romano waiting for them in the center of the library.
He was sitting in his wheelchair, but he was dressed in a tailored three-piece charcoal suit, his hair neatly trimmed, his shoes polished to a mirror shine despite their uselessness. On his left stood Gina, holding a tray of clean glasses. On his right, sitting on a leather footstool with a coloring book across her lap, was Lucia.
The men stopped in the doorway, taking off their fedoras, their eyes shifting from their legendary boss to the small girl sitting beside his chair.
"Don Alessandro," said Frank Torrio, the eldest of the lieutenants, his voice rough from forty years of cigars. "We... we received your message."
"Frank," Alessandro said. His voice was calm, clear, and carried across the high-ceilinged room like an iron bar hitting concrete. "Sit down."
The six enforcers moved into the room, taking seats along the heavy oak table. None of them looked at Lucia directly, but the presence of the child created an unmistakable atmosphere—this was not a funeral. This was a house that was alive.
"Marco has proven himself unfit to manage the family's interests," Alessandro began, resting his folded hands on his lap. "He thinks in terms of fear and retreat. He believes that because I cannot walk, the Romano name has lost its teeth."
Frank sighed, looking down at his scarred knuckles. "Vincent Moretti is pushing hard, Boss. He’s taking the docks in New Jersey. He told the union representatives that you're done. He said you're just a ghost sitting on a hill."
"Vincent Moretti is an idiot who mistakes patience for weakness," Alessandro said flatly. "He thinks power comes from legs. Power comes from here." He tapped his temple with one finger.
Lucia looked up from her coloring book, holding up a purple crayon. "And from Princess Emerald," she added quietly.
Frank Torrio’s eyes widened slightly. The other five men held their breath, waiting for Alessandro to snap at the child's interruption.
Alessandro didn't snap. He glanced down at Lucia, his dark expression softening for a fraction of a second. "Yes. And from the emerald crayon."
He looked back at his lieutenants, his eyes hardening into flint once more. "Here is what we are going to do. Frank, you will take twelve men to the Brooklyn transport depot tonight. You will not fire a single shot. You will simply present Vincent’s drivers with these signed bills of lading—the ones Marco forgot we owned. If they refuse to move the trucks, you tell them that Alessandro Romano is back at his desk, and that if I have to roll my chair down to Fifth Avenue myself, I will personally see to it that their families lose every dock license in the state."
Frank Torrio slowly sat up straighter, a thin, ruthless smile forming across his weathered face. "And if Moretti calls a sit-down?"
"Tell him I don't sit down with thieves," Alessandro said. "Tell him if he wants to speak to me, he can come to this house, climb these steps, and look me in the eye while I sit on my throne."
The six men stood up in unison. The hesitation that had hung over them for months had vanished, replaced by the electric, dangerous confidence that Alessandro Romano had always inspired in his people.
"Yes, Don Alessandro," Frank said, bowing his head respectfully.
As the men turned to leave, Frank paused, looking down at Lucia, who was busy drawing a purple crown on top of a tree. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small silver coin—a silver dollar he carried for good luck—and laid it gently on the edge of her footstool.
"For the princess," Frank muttered gruffly, before hurrying out the door after the others.
Lucia picked up the heavy silver coin, held it up to the morning light, and turned to Alessandro. "Is he one of your trees?"
"No," Alessandro said, a genuine smile finally touching the corners of his mouth. "Frank is an old dog. But he knows how to bite."
That afternoon, after the lieutenants had gone to execute his orders, Alessandro spent two hours in his physical therapy session.
For six months, he had treated the exercises with cold indifference, doing the bare minimum required to stop his muscles from completely atrophying. He had hated the therapist, hated the padded table, hated the degrading reality of having his legs lifted and moved by another man.
Today was different.
When the therapist, a patient man named David, arrived at three o'clock, he found Alessandro waiting beside the parallel bars in the sunroom.
"Don Alessandro," David said, surprised. "You're ready early today."
"I want to work on trunk stability," Alessandro said, grabbing the polished wooden bars with his powerful arms. "I need to be able to sit without support for three hours at a time."
David blinked, then smiled professionally. "That’s a tough goal, Don Alessandro. It takes core strength that has been dormant for a while."
"I don't care how long it takes," Alessandro said, his knuckles turning white as he pulled his torso upright, his massive upper body lifting his dead legs off the ground through sheer, unadulterated willpower. "I have meetings to conduct."
From the doorway, Lucia sat on her yellow rain bucket, watching the sweat pour down Alessandro’s face as he held himself upright between the bars, his chest shaking with effort, his eyes fixed on the tree line outside.
"Mr. Big is watching you," she called out encouragingly, holding up her stuffed rabbit. "He says you look like a giant."
Alessandro didn't answer. He couldn't speak through the burning strain in his shoulders and back. But he held his position for ten seconds longer than he ever had before, refusing to let go until his arms trembled so violently he collapsed back into the soft leather cushion of his chair.
He lay there, panting, staring at the ceiling, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.
May you like
He was tired. He was battered. He was paralyzed.
But he was no longer dead.
