Mafia Family | The Waltz of Shadows.

In the Rossi household, breakfast is never a family affair; it's a war council disguised as etiquette.

From my corner of the table, steeped in silence, I dedicate myself to what I do best: observing. My older brother, Elian, the eternal strategist, doesn't even touch his coffee. His morning routine consists of reviewing the customs reports that the police will ignore this week, crossing out names with a fountain pen that moves with the precision of a scalpel. Beside him, Alessandra pretends to read a fashion magazine, but I know she's training her eyes to capture the reflections in the windows, always alert, always immaculate.

The commotion in the courtyard tells me Dante has already started his day. The echo of his heavy boots and the crunch of the punching bag tearing under his bandaged fists are the house's alarm clock. He wipes the blood from his knuckles with the same indifference with which he will later rid the streets of informers.

At the head of the bed, my father, Don Vittorio, breaks the silence by lighting his first cigarette of the day. The thick smoke rises toward the Gothic ceiling, merging his presence with that of my mother, Francesca, who observes the scene from the balcony above, a glass of wine replacing breakfast. They exchange a single glance, a private code that dictates who lives and who dies before nightfall. They need no words; the empire is run with imperceptible gestures.

Meanwhile, Bianca runs her fingers across the parlor piano, playing a classical melody as perfect as it is cold, the ideal distraction while she mentally calculates the interest on the loans the family will collect today. Nearby, my uncle Giovanni whispers into the phone in the library, closing smuggling deals with a cynical smile and his gaze fixed on the two girls, Ginevra and Nicoletta, whom private governesses are already teaching to sit up straight and not to ask questions about the shouts that sometimes come from the basement.