He didn't know how long he stood there, paralyzed by horror, the images of his family seared into his young mind. The smell of metal and orchids seemed to linger in his nostrils. The silence of the mansion was a roar in his ears. Eventually, sound tore him from his stupor. Distant at first, a low hum that quickly turned into a high-pitched howl: sirens. There were many of them, coming from many directions, piercing the stillness of the early morning.The first blue and red light began to dance through the living room windows, painting the overturned furniture and dark spots with an eerie glow. The sound of sirens grew louder, drowning out the distant din of traffic. Minutes later, the once-impeccable garden was overrun. Men and women in dark blue uniforms and bulletproof vests burst in, their heavy boots crushing the flowers and shrubs. The mansion, once a sanctuary of privacy, was transformed into a stage of controlled chaos.Vincenzo watched from the top of the main staircase, hidden in the shadow of a medieval suit of armor his father had imported. He saw the choreography of urgency: police officers with flashlights on their helmets sweeping every corner, some with guns drawn, others talking on radios. A group of technicians, wearing white coveralls and latex gloves, carried aluminum suitcases. The incessant flash of cameras punctuated the darkness of the house, each click freezing a fragment of the crime scene. A detective's voice, deep and professional, echoed: "Secure the area. No one in, no one out."He watched them find Marco. One of the officers lowered his head for a moment before regaining his composure. Others covered his brother's body with a white sheet, a gesture of respect Vincenzo barely registered. Sofia's image, small and motionless beside the fireplace, was similarly covered, and the forensic team bent over her, collecting evidence with methodical coldness.In his parents' bedroom, the activity was even more intense. Several flashlights shone on the unmade bed and the torn curtains. Vincenzo heard murmurs, words like "multiple gunshots," "signs of a struggle," "execution." He watched them wrap his mother and father's bodies in black bags, sealing them with zippers. The sound of the zipper, a long, icy hiss, felt like a tear in his very soul. Each black bag that left the mansion was a piece of his life being ripped away, taken to a place he could no longer go.A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Vincenzo turned, not with fear, but with a strange resignation. It was a female police officer, with a tired face but kind eyes. She didn't have a smile, but an expression of deep compassion. She led him down the stairs, away from the sight of the bodies. The living room, now lit by forensic lights, looked like a theater of shadows and nightmares.He was led into a police car, the smell of old upholstery and burnt coffee replacing the scent of blood. The outside world seemed to spin in slow motion: the flashing lights of police cars, the curious crowding behind the yellow tape, their pale faces intermittently illuminated by the glow of sirens. In the backseat, Vincenzo was in shock. He wasn't crying. He wasn't screaming. His heart was beating, but it felt like it was packed in ice. The trauma was so great that it had shut him down.The police station was a stark contrast to the opulent luxury of the mansion. Fluorescent lights punished the room, revealing faded cream-colored walls, metal tables, and hard plastic chairs. The air was heavy with the smell of stale coffee and old paper. He was led to a small interrogation room, a claustrophobic space with a metal table and two chairs. The detective's voice was gentle, trying to calm him, but the questions were like fine needles, poking at the open wound."Your name, son?" "Vincenzo Pettes." The voice was a hoarse whisper. "How old are you, Vincenzo?" "Eight." "Did you see anything, Vincenzo? Someone come in? A sound?"He closed his eyes. He looked at his shoes, the drops of blood, the silence. But something kept him from speaking. Perhaps it was a childish intuition that the danger hadn't passed, or the seed of what his grandfather would later teach him: discretion. He shook his head. "I was sleeping. I woke up to the sirens." The lie came easily, a defense mechanism, a reflex to protect himself.Hours passed. Fatigue was a haze. Then the living room door opened, and a tall figure with a stern face but piercing blue eyes entered. It was his maternal grandfather. The man Vincenzo barely knew, a ghost from family stories, a former SEAL Team 6. He wasn't welcome in his father's mansion, but now, he was the only family member left.The grandfather said nothing. He simply took his hand, his calloused palm enveloping Vincenzo's small one. The detective tried to intervene, but the grandfather silenced him with a look. "He's coming with me. There's no one else for him." His voice was a command, not a request. The detective, for some reason, didn't argue. Perhaps there was a silent respect, or an acknowledgment of the power the old man exuded.
Vincenzo left that police station like a prisoner released into another cell, a cell of mourning and uncertainty, but also of a new discipline.The funeral was a somber and nearly deserted affair. The cemetery was vast, with white marble headstones lined up under a gray, rainy sky. A strong wind whipped through the few trees, and the damp smell of earth and dead flowers hung in the air. Only a few dozen people attended, a pathetically small number for the wealth and power his father supposedly wielded. There were lawyers in dark suits, impassive faces, and a few hard-faced men who seemed uncomfortable in the daylight, whispering to each other, their glances furtive. Most were faces Vincenzo didn't recognize, or had only seen in passing at the opulent parties his parents threw.The three oak coffins—one large for the parents, two smaller ones for Marco and Sofia—were slowly lowered into the cold earth. The creaking of ropes and the hollow thud of wood against the damp ground were the only sounds, breaking the respectful silence. Vincenzo remained motionless beside his grandfather, the old man's arm firm and protective around his shoulders. His grandfather did not cry. He did not shed a single tear. His face was a mask of stone, but Vincenzo felt the subtle tremor in his fingers, a sign of deep, contained grief.No priest or minister. Just a few quick words from one of the lawyers, a formal, empty speech about the "tragic loss" and the "legacy" his father left behind. Vincenzo felt a bitter taste in his mouth. Legacy? What legacy? A legacy of death and secrets. He looked at the mounds of fresh earth, at the flowers already beginning to wilt under the light rain. His brother, his sister, his parents. Forever silenced.As the small crowd dispersed, his grandfather led him away to a small, isolated house nestled among hills and tall trees. The place was modest, made of rustic wood, smelling of pine and damp earth. The contrast with the mansion of his childhood was stark. But there, under his grandfather's tutelage, Vincenzo began his new life, a life of discipline and rigor.The day after the funeral, his grandfather led him to the small house's only bedroom, a spartan space with a simple bed, a built-in wardrobe, and a single window overlooking a dense forest. The air was pure and smelled of pine. His grandfather sat on the edge of the bed, his imposing figure filling the space. He looked at Vincenzo, his piercing blue eyes fixed on those of a boy still in shock."Vincenzo," his grandfather began, his voice deep and blunt, but with a strange undercurrent of tenderness. "For you to become what I will create... to become my masterpiece... you must lose your humanity. I don't mean your compassion, but your naiveté, your weakness. Just as I, too, had to isolate myself when I lost my granddaughter, her mother, and her grandfather. Everyone has their own way, Vincenzo." He paused, his eyes searching his grandson's, seeking to understand the pain he knew was there, stifled. "Scream. Cry. Break whatever you want... except the TV, please," he added, a fleeting, sad smile playing at the corners of his calloused lips. It was the first attempt at relief, the first crack in his grandfather's armor. "I'll be back in a week. When I do, we'll be ready to begin. Seriously."And so, his grandfather departed, leaving Vincenzo alone in the isolated house, in the deafening silence of his new reality. The promise of a week of "freedom" to grieve was a brutal gift. For the first few days, the silence was filled only by the echoes of his own mind. Every corner of the house, every shadow, brought forth aflashbackof the memories of that fateful day. Sofia's laughter. Marco's protective manner. His mother's gentle embrace. His father's proud gaze. And then, the dry thud of the bodies, the smell of blood, the killer's icy sentence.Eight-year-old Vincenzo Pettes screamed. Not a childish scream, but a throat-wrenching howl of despair, a guttural sound that echoed off the rough wooden walls of the house. He cried until there were no more tears, until his sea-green eyes were swollen and red, but empty. He grabbed pillows, clothes, anything soft, and smashed them against the wall, against the floor, releasing his pent-up fury. He kicked the trees outside, feeling the pain that reminded him he was still alive. The house became his echo chamber, a silent witness to his raw suffering. He crawled across the floor, reliving every moment, every sound, every image, until exhaustion overcame him, and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.A week later, when his grandfather returned, the house was silent in a different way. Not the hollow silence of trauma, but a silence of exhaustion, of emptiness, of something forcibly purged. The scent of pine and earth had replaced the scent of orchids and blood in his mind. Vincenzo sat on the porch, staring out at the forest, his eyes still red but now dry, fixed on the horizon. There was a new, cold determination in his gaze, a hollowness where there had once been innocence, but also a spark of purpose. The TV was intact. The promise fulfilled.His grandfather approached, the silence broken only by the creak of wood beneath his feet. He asked no questions. There were no comforting hugs. Just a nod. "Well. You're ready, Vincenzo." And so, Vincenzo Pettes's childhood ended for good. Then began the brutal transformation, the honing of a weapon. The isolated training camps, the smell of sweat and gunpowder, the controlled pain of martial arts blows. He would be his grandfather's masterpiece, a genius of war and strategy, stripped of the humanity that had broken him. He would be the Mastermind of the Robbery, and the agency that had taken everything from him would pay the price.