Realistically, Roman could attempt a coup. Hell, depending on how many men chose loyalty to him, he could win. My father was dead. He could force his way in. Although, without money and the accounts held in the Benedetti name, he’d struggle to pay them. In all my years both in and out of life within a crime family, I’d learned one thing: in most cases, loyalty was a flimsy thing. Money ruled. Loyalty generally leaned toward the side of cold, hard cash. And after the reading of the will, it’d be my cash. This house would be my house. The car my uncle drove would be my fucking car.

He’d hired my birth father to kill Sergio and attempt to kill Salvatore.

He’d betrayed my mother, his sister. He’d betrayed his nephew. He’d betrayed Franco. He’d betrayed the entire Benedetti family.

How in hell did Salvatore sit beside me now, revealing no emotion at all, not confusion, not even hate?

I’d been in my twenties when Sergio had died. For a moment, I wondered why Roman hadn’t ordered my assassination too, but then I realized. He’d been playing my father all along. I was a bastard. My father already knew it. Roman banked on the fact that when Franco learned it was the man whose blood ran in my veins who had taken his sons’ lives, he’d disown me, at the very least. Hell, maybe he even counted on Franco killing me.

I thought of Henderson’s words: “Old age makes us see things differently, son.” He’d said it didn’t matter who my blood father was. I was a Benedetti according to my birth certificate. I was raised a Benedetti. There was some small part of me, something deep beneath the wretchedness, that smiled at that. That felt more happiness at that than I probably should.

Did Franco really regret that night? Did he feel sorry about what had happened? About telling me like that? Had he tried to find me? Roman had known where I was some of that time. At least in the beginning. Had he kept that information from Franco, knowing the old man wanted to reconcile? Had he wanted to reconcile?

I covered my face with my hands and rubbed my eyes.

I’d never know. That was all there was to it. I had to take it at face value. Franco Benedetti named me as his successor. He accepted me as his own in his final act. He was about to give me what I had wanted for so long—the rule of the Benedetti family.

And I felt heady with power.

Salvatore cleared his throat beside me, his gaze falling on me.

I straightened.

“Mr. Benedetti made a few changes to his will in the last days of his life.”

Mr. Marino glanced at me.

I kept my face expressionless, but noticed Roman’s eyes narrowed.