Don Matteo Grimaldi sat in his mansion's dining hall, hands trembling as he gripped a glass of wine. Once, this room had been alive with the laughter of his allies, the boasting of his soldiers, and the warm glow of power. Tonight, it was filled only with silence, broken by the faint dripping of rain against the windows.
His men were disappearing. Every morning brought news of another corpse nailed to a wall, headless and unrecognizable. Entire crews were vanishing in the night, their guns abandoned in the streets. Matteo slammed his fist on the table, shattering the glass. "Find Cain Mortalis! Find this executioner!" he roared. But his words rang hollow. Even his captains avoided his gaze, fear gnawing at their loyalty.
At the same time, the women of his household wept uncontrollably. Ravenna's whispers had poisoned their dreams, and now the wives of his soldiers begged their husbands to leave. Rumors spread that even the Don's daughter had locked herself in her room, refusing food, mumbling about the Devil's laughter in the dark.
Matteo turned to his financial advisor, only to be met with more despair. "The banks won't release our funds, Don. Our shipments have been seized. Investors are pulling out. And the Tycoon… Victor Draemont… has acquired half our assets overnight." The man's voice cracked. "We are bleeding, Don. Bleeding to death."
Adding to the misery, Adrian Crowe's influence in court hit them like a hammer. Politicians who once smiled at Matteo now crossed the street to avoid him. Papers branded the Grimaldis as traitors, murderers, even child traffickers. Each accusation was exaggerated, but none dared defend them. The Don was being crushed by law as surely as he was by fear.
Silvio's rumors finished the job. Rival gangs who once called Matteo an ally began deserting him. "The Devil is stronger," they whispered. "To stand with Grimaldi is to die with Grimaldi." What was once a proud syndicate now felt like a ship sinking in black waters.
For the first time in his life, Don Matteo felt a chill that wine could not warm, nor rage could burn away. It was not the fear of death—he had faced bullets before. No, this was different. This was the terror of inevitability. A whisper rose in his mind, one he could not silence: The Devil is already inside your home.
In the distance, from the heart of the city, came laughter. Cold, sharp, cruel. It echoed not through the walls, but through Matteo's very bones.
The cracks had begun to spread. And soon, the mighty Don would break.