The wind from the Ionian Sea carried the scent of salt, mixed with the aroma of dry grass and old dust as the black car came to a slow stop on the gravel courtyard. The clock showed 10.30 PM Calabrian time, and night hung heavily over the cliff. The sun had long since set, leaving a pale sky faintly illuminated by the last light from the western horizon.
The majestic Roman-style facade of the villa stood silent at the edge of the cliff, lit by the dim glow of golden-flickering wall lanterns. The travertine columns still stood tall, but small cracks had appeared in their corners—time indeed shows no mercy, not even to stone.
Domenico got out of the car without a word after a 7.5-hour journey on a private jet, landing at the Aeroporto dello Stretto "Tito Minniti," followed by a 40-minute drive to southern Calabria.
His steps were slow, deliberate. His leather shoes made a soft sound on the gravel, almost inaudible. He looked at the building as one looks at a past that never truly left.
Villa Cassano.
The place where his first blood was spilled in the name of the family. The place where he took his oath as Don at twenty-nine. The place where he brought the boy from California who didn't speak Italian, didn't know who he was, only knew one thing—his mother had handed him over to a cold, shadowy stranger.
And the place still stood. Still waiting for him.
Night in Calabria descended silent and grey. The cloudy sky hid the moon, and only the flicker of old oil lamps on the outer walls drove back the darkness. The winter wind from the Ionian Sea cut to the bone, carrying the scent of salt and dead grass. In the distance, the howl of a wild dog was heard occasionally, echoing like the sound of a spirit lost among the valleys and ancient stones.
"Benvenuto, Don Domenico," a low, hoarse voice greeted him.
An old man stepped from the shadows of the side gate—his body thin, his hair completely white, but his gaze was still alive.
"Francesco," Domenico said briefly, nodding.
They did not shake hands. No need. Francesco had been at the villa since before Domenico was born. He saw the boy grow up, hold his first knife, receive his first Joey. He knew silence was more courteous than a greeting.
Domenico entered the villa. The air inside was colder, even though spring was warming the Calabrian soil. The scent of old stone, olive wood, and linen stored too long welcomed him like small ghosts.
Dark corridors narrowed behind the dim light of candles. The small flames swayed slowly, as if afraid to disturb the memories still hiding in the walls. A curved staircase of grey stone stretched up to the upper floor. Domenico's footsteps echoed in a rhythm unchanged since his teenage years. This time, he did not go to his room.
Domenico headed to the small room in the east wing—a chestnut wood door slightly askew on its hinges. No lock, never locked.
He opened the door slowly.
The room was small. Its window was narrow, but faced directly out to sea. From there, only thick darkness was visible tonight, fog shrouding the cliff and the waves below were no longer seen. A single wrought-iron bed was still in the corner, with pale white linen sheets that had started to yellow. On the low wooden table—there was still an English-language storybook with a tattered cover. A glow-in-the-dark star still stuck to the ceiling, though its color had faded. And on the wall, an old nail mark remained—where little Joey had once hung his oversized hoodie.
Domenico stood motionless in the middle of the room.
He looked at it all as one looks at something that will never return, but also never truly leave.
In the corner, an old chair. He remembered sitting there reading files while Joey slept on the floor with a small kangaroo plushie in his arms. Near the window, there was a pen scratch mark—Joey's writing; J + D = 4ever, scratched out, then rewritten, then scratched out again.
Domenico walked slowly to the window. He unlocked it, letting the sea breeze in.
The same wind that once made little Joey cry at night because of the owls and wolves from the small forest behind the villa. The same wind that carried the sound of "Dom... I scared..." His voice broken, followed by a small hug that was cold yet stubborn.
Domenico closed his eyes for a moment. His hand touched the rough window frame.
Now, Joey was no longer a little boy who could be hugged until he calmed down.
Footsteps were heard from outside. Fabio stood at the threshold, not entering, just giving a slow nod.
"Capobastone of Palermo arrived three hours early. Waiting in the lower room."
Domenico nodded. He walked out of the room, but paused in front of the door.
His eyes looked inside one more time, before finally closing the door—slowly, almost without a sound.
*
Night fell slowly over Villa Cassano. The wind from the sea carried a metallic salty smell and a humidity that clung to the old stones. Candles had been lit along the underground corridor, illuminating cracked walls and brick arches covered in moss—the path to the secret meeting place only opened when the rituale del sangue began.
At the end of the corridor, a stone dining room opened like an ancient altar.
A long olive wood table stretched through the center of the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs with lion carvings. On the table, there was only old red wine, hard bread, and one small silver knife in front of each chair—a silent symbol of power, brotherhood, and betrayal.
Five men sat in their respective places.
They came from different places, but wore similar colors; black, dark, and without logos. Representing each Cassano territory spread from Italy to South America.
There was Emilio Battaglia, Capobastone of New York—a young face, full of confidence, holding tension behind every word.
Ettore Gallo, Palermo—stubborn and rough, a former boxer, calls himself the last street kid from Sicily.
Alessandro Greco, Toronto—religious, wearing a steel rosary ring, with an old scar under his eye.
César Bellucci, Buenos Aires—wearing a red scarf, laughs like a poet but kills like an executioner.
Finally, Luca Cassano, Domenico's own younger brother, sat at the left end of the table—calm, polite, and dignified.
Not all the Capobastone were happy to have flown across continents to attend this meeting. Emilio Battaglia had questioned why this discussion couldn't just be held in New York—faster, safer, more practical.
One brief answer from Matteo De Luca silenced all objections. "Power never bows to convenience."
Villa Cassano wasn't just a house. It was the root of everything—the ancestral land, the place where the first blood was spilled, where every oath was taken and every traitor judged.
New York was where business was conducted. Calabria was where final decisions were made.
There, Domenico's voice was not merely a command—he became the law that could not be bargained with.
And in the villa's underground room, far from the reach of American surveillance and digital spies, the Banchetto del Crimine was held like the last supper of the gods—silent, cold, and full of threats that no longer needed a voice to be understood.
Then, all attention focused on the one man who had just entered the room.
Domenico Cassano.
In a black three-piece suit, no tie. His hair slightly damp from the night fog. In his hand, a neatly folded document—and as he sat in the main chair at the head of the table, a low rumbling seemed to bow along with him.
Fabio stood behind him, silent as a shadow. Matteo stood to his right, holding a black file with a gold seal.
Domenico swept his gaze over each face.
"The last time we sat like this," he said softly, "was when two of you tried to make a deal with Marino of Cosa Nostra without the federation's blessing."
No one answered.
"Jacob Doyle was killed," he continued. "An artist, a small-time dealer in Hollywood. Had a tongue that was too sharp and clients that were too important. One of them—involved with my son."
César Bellucci's ear twitched slightly. Vescari glanced downward.
Domenico placed the document on the table.
"The name of the person who leaked Joseph James Carter's identity to outsiders is here. And they are not Cosa Nostra."
Silence.
"Some of you may know," Domenico said, his voice deeper, "that Santiago Morales—the second son of the Morales family, the Mexican cartel—asked me to open the Bedloe's Island port route for their cocaine distribution. An official request, structured, through black diplomatic channels."
Ettore Gallo gave a low growl. "And you refused?"
Domenico looked at him. "I refused."
Matteo interjected in a low voice, his accent heavy from the south, "'Na richiesta senza onore, Don. Quelli non portano rispetto, solo sangue."
A request without honor, Don. They don't bring respect—only blood.
Domenico gave a slight nod.
"I told them, 'Non vendo più la polvere.' But the real reason... you know."
I don't sell powder anymore.
César narrowed his eyes. "Even though the profit margin... is extraordinary."
"True," Domenico answered. "But that margin is too expensive if it has to be paid with the blood of an innocent kid. Morales doesn't like being refused. So he started pressuring through other channels. Disrupting our distribution on the East Coast. Contacting people thirsty for position—like Emilio."
Domenico turned to Emilio Battaglia.
"He promised you power in New York, didn't he?"
Emilio held his breath.
"In exchange for a small betrayal, Joey's apartment location, the studio security routes, even fake CCTV footage."
Matteo opened the file and distributed small copies to each Capobastone.
Several minutes passed filled only with the sound of pages turning. Then:
"Emilio," Domenico said calmly.
Emilio Battaglia looked up. His face showed no fear, but no challenge either.
"Do you deny it?"
Emilio was silent.
Domenico stood up.
"You sold information. Not for money, but for position. You thought Cosa Nostra would make you Don in New York? They would kill you after getting what they wanted."
"I only—"
A bullet hit the candle in the center of the table.
Everyone froze. Only the smoke moved.
Domenico put his gun back into his jacket. "Don't speak. Don't lie. And don't repeat."
Fabio moved quickly, pulling Emilio from his chair. Hands tied behind his back. No resistance—Emilio knew this was the end he had chosen.
"Drag him to the lower room," Domenico ordered.
"Hang him by his feet.Let his blood flow slowly, one hour each day. For three days. After that, send his head to Brooklyn."
Fabio dragged the body out.
Domenico sat back down. Picked up his wine glass, looking at each Capobastone one by one.
"We will not fracture. I will not let us fall apart like the Marino family. Starting tomorrow, strict surveillance applies. Inter-territory communication is re-coded. And if anyone touches my son again..." He took a slow sip of his wine, "...then I will bury their entire family in the garden of this house."
Not a single one of them doubted his meaning.
The night wore on, in the old villa the air grew heavier. As if the blood not yet spilled had already given off its scent.
And in the distance, in the upstairs window, the room that once belonged to Joey was dark again.
One hour after the meeting...
Villa Cassano had quieted. The underground corridor was locked again, and the candles extinguished one by one, leaving only the smell of burnt wicks and the aroma of wine lingering in the air.
Domenico stood on the back balcony, facing the Ionian Sea which was almost waveless that night. A cigarette glowed in his left hand, almost finished. Its smoke danced in the cold wind from the south.
Footsteps were heard behind him.
Luca Cassano appeared soundlessly, carrying two glasses and an old bottle of wine from the family cellar. He handed one to his older brother, then stood to the left—not too close, but close enough to share the silence.
Several minutes passed without a word.
Only the sound of the wind and the cigarette ember glowing and fading, fading and glowing.
"You never touched the center candle before," Luca finally said, flatly.
"That wasn't to light the table," Domenico answered softly. "It was to remind everyone who was sitting at its head."
Luca sipped his wine. "Joey... does he know all this?"
Domenico shook his head. "Not entirely. And let it be so."
"You think he would stay if he knew?"
Domenico answered without turning, "I'm not asking him to stay. I'm just trying to make this world safe enough in case he one day chooses to come back."
Luca nodded slowly. "So that's why you refused Morales?"
"Not out of morality. I'm not that good."
"Then why?"
Domenico turned. His eyes were dark, but not with anger. More with a fatigue held for too long.
"I know how that kid grew up," he said. "In a studio, behind a screen, in forced silence. I know how many voices are in his head. And I know he has never been truly calm since the day I brought him to this house."
Luca fell silent. Domenico's cigarette went out on the balcony's stone railing.
"I once thought... protecting him meant binding him," Domenico continued, his voice almost drowned out. "But maybe, protecting also means learning to step back. Removing one cocaine route from the network won't save the world. But maybe it's enough... to let one person breathe a little longer."
Luca gave a thin smile. "That's the most human thing you've said in twenty years."
Domenico didn't respond. He just stared at the vast, dark sea, as if it held answers that could not be found through calculations of power.
A few seconds later, he spoke again.
"Santiago Morales thinks I've weakened. That I've changed because of love. He's wrong."
"You haven't changed?"
Domenico turned.
"I have changed. But I haven't become weak." He paused for a moment, then added in a low tone. "Now I know, anything that touches Joey I will destroy tenfold. Even if it means becoming again the monster I left behind."
Luca nodded slowly. "Then I will make sure your back is covered, Fratello."
The two stood still under the grey Calabrian night sky, with a silent understanding.
In a world that never gives mercy,protection is the last form of love a brother—or a Don—can offer.
[•°]
.
· Fratello is Italian for "brother" or "male sibling"
· Capobastone is the leader of a 'ndrina (local group within the 'Ndrangheta organization, like a branch). Has full authority over operations in his territory: from extortion, drug distribution, money laundering, to recruiting new members. Also directly responsible to the highest leadership such as the Capo Crimine.