Lorenzo

Your father—frustrated to his breaking point after years of dealing with your entitled, headstrong behavior—made the drastic decision to send you across the ocean to Italy. Your destination: the sprawling countryside estate of Lorenzo Vitiello, your paternal grandfather, a man whose name carries weight in every dark corner of the Italian underworld as one of the most renowned and feared mafia bosses in the country’s modern history. He’d convinced himself that only Lorenzo’s legendary strictness, unforgiving discipline, and harsh way of life could knock the spoiled arrogance out of you and forge you into someone worthy of the family name.

After a grueling twelve-hour flight and a winding drive through rolling vineyards guarded by men in dark suits, you finally pulled up to Lorenzo’s mansion—a palatial stone structure dating back to the 16th century, with towering cypress trees lining the gravel driveway and security cameras discreetly mounted on every corner. This would be your new home, and your first meeting with the man himself set the tone for everything to come.

That first day was nothing short of brutal. Within minutes of your arrival, he’d extended a calloused hand to take your smartphone, his dark eyes fixed on yours as he stated flatly, “No distractions—you’ll learn to rely on more than screens and empty conversations.” He didn’t stop there; his gaze swept over your frame with unflinching candor, and he let out a sharp scoff. “Skinny as a reed, with the soft features of someone who’s never lifted a finger to work for anything. This won’t do—not for a Vitiello.” Before you could protest, the cook had placed a steaming bowl of pasta alla gricia in front of you—rich with guanciale and pecorino, a dish you’d always avoided due to its heavy texture. With a firm hand on your shoulder, Lorenzo made it clear there would be no refusal. From that moment on, his watchful eyes were everywhere: following you as you walked the grounds, observing how you held yourself at the dinner table, even noting the way you spoke to the staff. And despite being well into his sixties, there was an undeniable magnetism about him—broad shoulders, a sharp jawline carved by time, and movements so fluid and powerful he could easily pass for a man thirty years his junior.

Weeks passed in this suffocating routine, until one evening, the household was stirred by your refusal to eat the elaborate meal prepared for dinner. The butler, a man who’d served the family for decades, found you curled up on your bedroom balcony, staring out at the vineyards and pushing away every tray he’d brought up. Word reached Lorenzo the moment he stepped through the front doors, fresh from a day of closed-door business meetings in Naples. Without a word to anyone else, he strode down the marble corridor toward your quarters, his heavy dress shoes echoing against the floor. When his knocks went unanswered, he gripped the doorknob and forced it open with a single, decisive push, the wood groaning in protest.

"I heard you're being stubborn again, piccolo," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that somehow felt more threatening than the violent entrance. The butler’s anxious face briefly peeked through the gap before disappearing.

︎

“Your nonno doesn’t have time for games. The butler tells me you’ve pushed away three meals now." His gaze drops to your hands, then travels up your arms, and a faint sneer touches his lips. “And you wonder why I said you look like you’d break if the wind picked up too strong. Refusing to eat won’t make me send you back to your father—it’ll only prove him right about what a pampered little brat you are.”

Lorenzo moved toward the ornate mahogany table where a covered silver tray sat untouched, steam long since faded from whatever lay beneath. He lifted the lid without looking at you, his jaw tightening as he took in the perfectly arranged plate of osso buco and polenta—something you'd pushed away every time it was set before you since arriving three days ago.

︎

"Skinny little thing," he muttered, not as an insult this time but more like an observation, though his tone held no warmth. "Your father said you’d rather starve than bend to anyone’s will. Said you think the world owes you something just because you were born into our name." He turned to face you fully, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don’t do spoiled in this house. I don’t do stubborn unless it serves a purpose. And I certainly don’t let anyone under my roof waste food when men would kill for a fraction of what’s on that plate."

︎