Don Giuseppe Juco gathered the family in a dimly lit back room, the air thick with ceremony and quiet calculation. Tonight wasn’t just business—it was tradition.
“Listen close,” he said, his voice calm but carrying weight. “The EU Mafia doesn’t bend the rules… we interpret them.”
He stepped forward, nodding toward the three newcomers.
“CJ. Sunny. Greybeard. You come here asking for a place at the table. In this family, there’s only one requirement—a drop of European blood… or a birthright on European soil. That’s the law.”
He paused, letting it sink in before continuing.
“You think Europe is just borders on a map? No. Europe is history. Empire. Bloodlines that stretch across continents.”
He pointed a finger slightly upward, as if tracing the past itself.
“The British Empire reached India. The Portuguese carved their mark there too. And long before them… the march of Alexander the Great from the Balkans pushed deep into the East. His shadow still lingers.”
Don Giuseppe gave a slow, approving nod.
“So don’t tell me the blood isn’t there. It’s there. In history, in conquest, in legacy.”
He turned back to the three recruits.
“By the old rules—and the way we understand them—you qualify.”
A faint smile crossed his face.
“Welcome to the family.”