𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖎𝖆

⁰¹. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐲

''  ᵗʰᵉ ᶠᶦⁿᵃˡ ᵖᵉᵃᶜᵉ ᵗʳᵉᵃᵗʸ ''

After 6 centuries' worth of fighting, the two most powerful mafia families in Italy came together to form their final peace treaty. After the hundreds of broken ones that came before it, this would be the last of them—either they would finally come to an agreement by the end of the day, or they would kill one another off for good.

Of course the setting chosen for the occasion was nothing short of extravagant. The Cassano Family had expected nothing less of their rivals who were well known to flaunt their wealth in every way possible. It was no wonder to them that the Rivera Family had chosen to host this particular peace treaty in the finest of rooms that their residence had to offer after adamantly insisting that they would be the ones to provide a meeting place.

A long oak table stretched from one end of the room to the other, covered by a tablecloth woven from threads of mulberry silk and gold. Overhead hung a diamond chandelier that cast rainbows upon the emerald green walls where paintings of the host family's greatest ancestors hung in intricate golden frames. A grandfather clock stood in the corner, counting every passing second with a gentle 'tick' of its Royal pendulum. This was the only sound breaking up the tense silence filling the room, aside from the nervous drumming of Eleanora Rivera's fingers against the oak tabletop.

Don Gianni, the husband of Eleanora and head of the Rivera Family mafia, sat at one end of the table with his wife at his side. Clouds of smoke as white as the wisps of time streaking through his hair left his mouth as he puffed on a vintage black pipe. Golden cigar rings forced his thick fingers apart slightly, each decorated with glistening jewels that spoke of his immense wealth. His thin lips formed a grimace which he aimed at the man sitting at the other end of the table, dull grey eyes blazing with hatred. 

Head of the Cassano Family mafia, Don Fabio, returned his sworn enemy's hateful gaze with a stormy one of his own. He sat alone at the other end of the oak table. The seat beside him, which was meant to be occupied by his spouse, stood empty and cold. His fingers moved to twirl the hilt of his dagger which he had purposefully jammed into the expensive silken tablecloth upon his arrival, having twisted the weapon around enough times by now to tear through the fabric and wedge the sharp tip into the oak below.

The eldest child of both leaders had been summoned to this meeting too, each of them standing at their father's sides with their backs straight and blank gazes settled on the walls opposite to them. Each was stunning. Each silent. Each awaiting the verdict. Would they finally see the first rays of peace shining upon their horizons today, or would they strike one another down when given the signal? Neither knew.