I Buried The Don And Took His Throne Chapter 01
Two Lives, Two Bullets
The night Marco Vitale takes the throne as Don, he calls me and his mistress, Bianca Russo, into the same room.
“You two work it out between yourselves,” He says, swirling his whiskey. “Who wants the seat next to me.”
First life, I pulled out the Old Don’s sealed letter and took the seat like it was mine to take.
Marco poisoned my glass the same night.
He kissed my forehead while I choked on my own blood and said, “Bianca cried for three days over this, Sloane. Her eyes are swollen. I’ll make it up to you in you next life.”
Second life, I hid the letter, stepped aside and let Bianca have the seat.
She framed me for sleeping with one of Marco’s guards.
Marco locked me in the basement and looped wire around my throat with his own hands. “Don’t blame me, Sloane. Blame yourself for dirtying her eyes.”
I open my eyes, and it’s the third life. Same room. Same choice.
I’ve done this twice already. I know exactly what this man is.
The Donna seat — I don’t need it anymore. But the Don seat? Marco Vitale doesn’t get to sit on it. Not again.
“Sloane, if you want it, I won’t fight you.” Bianca’s voice slides in, soft and rehearsed, pulling me out of the shock. “I just want to be near Marco. I’d scrub floors in this house if I had to.”
Three lives in, and she’s still running the same script.
“Sloane.” Marco leans back in his father’s chair, jaw already tight with impatience. “I know what you’ve done for me. Putting me on this throne, I’ll never forget it.”
He pauses. Here it comes.
“But being Donna — that’s not muscle work. It’s about grace. Softness. You’re too much, sweetheart. Always with a gun on your hip, always running your mouth at my capos. That’s not the woman who sits at my side. Bianca is.”
I lower my eyes so I don’t have to see Marco’s ugly face.
Now I’m too much? Where was that speech when he needed me to walk into a Bratva safehouse alone and steal his brother’s file?
I’m the only granddaughter of Salvatore Crestwell — the man who built the Crestwell crew from six guys in a Queens basement into the sharpest enforcement arm in the Five Families.
I was cleaning a Beretta at nine. I made my first bones at fifteen.
Three lives running, if my family hadn’t gutted the Bratva up north for him, Marco would still be the forgotten second son begging for scraps at his father’s table.
But God, or whatever’s laughing up there, gave me one more shot.
Stepping back gets me killed. Fighting fair gets me killed. So this life I burn his throne down with him on it.
“Baby, don’t talk to Sloane like that. It’s my fault.” Bianca drops to her knees, right on cue.
Marco hauls her up like she’s made of glass, buries his face in her hair. When he looks at me again, there’s real venom in it.
“Sloane. Look at her. She’s twisting herself into knots for you. If you had a shred of class, you’d bow out on your own.”
Marco says it as if I’m the villain here—the ugly one in the room.
Bianca peeks over his shoulder. Her eyes catch mine, and she smirks.
My hand twitches toward the knife at my thigh then stop.
I bend at the knees. Slow. Deliberate. A perfect little bow.
“You’re right, Marco. I’ve got a temper. Bianca’s the softer choice. She should have the seat.”
Marco blinks. The anger drains right off his face.
He laughs, loud and pleased. “That’s my girl. See? I knew you’d come around. Don’t worry — I’ll give you a proper title. Second only to her. Nobody in this Family will disrespect you.”
He throws his arm around Bianca’s waist and turns to the room.
“Three days from now. Sit-down at the Vitale compound. Bianca gets made Donna in front of every capo on the East Coast.”
Bianca melts into him, then mouths one word at me over his shoulder.
Loser.
I keep my head down. My fingers, hidden inside my sleeve, close around the cold roll of paper I never gave up.
The Old Don’s succession letter. Signed. Sealed. But blank where the name goes.
Three days, huh?
We’ll see whose name ends up on that chair.