The convoy returned under the veil of nightfall, engines dimming one by one as the cars pulled through the heavy estate gates.
A sharp breeze whispered through the trees, brushing against metal and stone like a warning too soft to be heard.
The convoy slipped through the gates, gravel hissing under tires as if holding its breath.
Matteo stepped out first. The house lights blinked on like they sensed his arrival—gold spilling out from tall windows across the gravel.
A long shadow stretched behind him, his figure tall, precise, untouchable.
He didn't wait.
He moved straight through the doors, coat trailing, footsteps silent on marble.
The estate greeted him with its familiar, obedient silence.
"Luca," he said, without looking back, voice low and exact. "Gather everything. Now."
"Yes, Don," came the swift reply. Luca was already moving, fingers flying over his phone as if his bones remembered orders before his brain did.
Matteo pushed through the hall and into his study.
The door clicked softly shut behind him, sealing the hush like a tomb.
He didn't change.Didn't even shrug off the damp chill that clung to his shoulders.
Instead, he sat—low in the leather chair behind his desk, elbows resting on the polished wood, fingers steepled in front of his lips.
A single lamp flickered in the corner, its antique glass casting warm, uneven light across the room.
Shadows crept across the shelves, brushing over rows of books and framed photographs that once held meaning but now only watched him like ghosts.
His eyes stayed fixed on nothing.
Minutes passed like mist—formless and slow.
The kind of silence that stretches until the ticking clock begins to sound like thunder.
A knock broke the stillness.
He didn't speak. Just tilted his head slightly, giving permission.
The door creaked open.
Luca stepped in, a tablet tucked under one arm, a slim folder in his hands.
He didn't sit. He stood near the desk, posture straight, gaze steady—but not bold. Never bold in front of Matteo.
"It's confirmed," he said. "The man who shot Mr. Felix—he's one of Frankie's."
"Scar matches, height, build. Name's Paulo Fierro."
"Left Naples within the hour. Destination—Milan. Traveled alone, no baggage. Already covered his trail. Cameras caught him only twice."
He placed the folder down carefully.
The photo on top showed Paulo's face, mid-turn, the scar on his cheek like a blade permanently etched into his flesh.
The eyes were cold. Confident. A soldier, not a thinker.
The kind who never fired without an order.
Matteo didn't move. His gaze landed on the photo. Stayed there.
"You may leave," he said, barely above a whisper.
Luca gave a respectful nod, then stepped back.
The door closed without a sound, sealing him alone once again.
The room held its breath.
Matteo's gaze lingered. The face in the photo stared back, almost daring him.
He recognized the type—loyal to a fault, fueled by rage, blinded by obedience.
His thumb brushed across his lower lip. His jaw tightened.
The Fox.
Frankie.
This wasn't just business anymore.
This was blood for blood.
He leaned forward, slowly pulling the file closer.
His fingers moved over the textured paper, memorizing every detail of Paulo Fierro's face like he was carving it into his memory.
He'd remember that scar. The angle of the man's jaw. The color of his teeth when he begged.
He turned to the monitor on his desk.
A tap awakened the screen, flooding his face with a cold, blue hue.
His hands moved quickly—opening encrypted files, selecting attachments. Muscle memory.
To: Ricci — Milan.
The cursor blinked. Waiting. Still. Unblinking.
He typed slowly.
Target: Paulo Fierro.
Location: Milan.
Do not let him disappear.
Leave nothing of him before I arrive.
He hit send.
Then he leaned back again, fingers steepled once more—but this time not in thought.
This time, it was in wrath.
He didn't care how deep Paulo went. Didn't care how many alleyways he vanished into, or whose pockets he filled to stay invisible.
Matteo would find him.
He would rip him from the shadows.
Even if it meant burning half the city down.
And Frankie?
He'd wait.
Matteo wouldn't face The Fox until the rats were cleared.
Until Paulo Fierro paid in blood.
Downstairs, the low murmur of voices curled through the tiled halls.
In the kitchen, the maids hovered by the counter, hands idle over half-chopped vegetables.
"Poor Felix," one whispered, glancing over her shoulder. "So sweet... and now like this."
"Shot, just like that." Another shook her head, her knife tapping against the board. "And Don Matteo… have you seen his face? Cold as stone, but eyes like a storm."
"He's grieving in his own way," murmured the oldest maid, Rosa. "Men like him don't cry. They bleed inside."
Their voices drifted upward, carried through old walls and marble stairs.
Upstairs, the master bedroom was cloaked in the after-hush of a hot shower.
Steam still clung to the corners, clouding the mirror in a soft haze.
Matteo stepped out, a bathrobe loosely tied around his waist, a crystal glass of wine in one hand.
His long hair clung damp against his neck, a few strands falling into his eyes.
He didn't move right away.
Just stood there.
Staring at the open wardrobe.
The suits inside were perfectly arranged—pressed, spaced, untouched.
But it was the row of ties that held his attention.
Color-coded. Sleek silk. Lined like soldiers.
And next to them—one slightly crooked, the knot imperfect.
He reached for it slowly, fingertips brushing over the fabric like it might burn.
His jaw tightened.
A memory surfaced—Felix's hands fussing with his collar in the backseat of the car, just days ago.
"Hold still," Felix had murmured, tongue caught between his teeth, brows furrowed with mock seriousness.
"There. Fixed."
Matteo's lips twitched — a fragile smile, born in the shadows of grief… and guilt sharp enough to cut.
But he didn't pick the tie.
He let his hand fall.
Still holding the glass, he turned from the closet with that same crooked smile ghosting his face.
It was already fading.
And somewhere behind his eyes, something else had begun to sharpen.