The night air of Palermo felt heavy, as if carrying centuries of secrets unwilling to be revealed. In a grand villa on the outskirts of the city, the De Luca family gathered. The villa stood on ancestral land, surrounded by old olive trees that had witnessed blood and oaths, love and betrayal. That night, the long oak dining table was filled with Italian dishes homemade pasta, red wine poured into crystal glasses, roasted meat scented with rosemary. Yet it wasn't the food that drew everyone's attention, but the presence of Don Vittorio De Luca, the old king of the Sicilian mafia, and beside him, Alessandro Moretti, his loyal consigliere.
Alessandro, a gray-haired man with eyes as sharp as blades, gazed at the long table with mixed feelings. Dozens of chairs were filled with family members, caporegimes, and the Don's right-hand men. They laughed and conversed as if the supper were just another feast. But for Alessandro, this night felt like the Last Supper—one final gathering before the storm.
Don Vittorio sat at the head of the table, his face pale yet still carrying authority. His hand trembled slightly as he raised his glass, but his eyes remained sharp, like those of an old wolf. He tapped his glass gently, calling for attention. The room fell silent.
"My children," Vittorio's voice was hoarse but firm, "tonight we gather as a family. The world may see us as shadows, but here… we are one blood."
Everyone nodded, some lifting their glasses. Alessandro studied the young faces at the table, especially Marco De Luca, Vittorio's only son. Marco, thirty years old, wore a sharp black suit. His gaze was arrogant, his smile full of confidence—too much confidence. Alessandro had long sensed something dangerous in the young man burning ambition without control or wisdom.
After the short speech, the supper resumed. Laughter returned, glasses clinked, and the aroma of wine and roast meat filled the hall. But to Alessandro, the sounds felt distant, like echoes muted by his own thoughts. His eyes lingered on Don Vittorio, whose coughs grew more frequent, whose pain became harder to hide. His time is almost gone, Alessandro thought. And when that moment comes, everything will change.
A servant approached to refill his glass. Alessandro nodded, allowing the crimson liquid to flow. As he drank, his gaze met Marco's across the table. Marco offered a thin smile, one without warmth. Alessandro returned it with a slight nod, though inside, a chill crept through him. That smile wasn't courtesy—it was a challenge.
Time passed. The main course was finished, and now the table was filled with fruit, cheese, and tiramisu. Yet the atmosphere grew heavier. Some had drunk too much wine, laughing louder, but Alessandro knew it was only a fragile veil over true tension.
Suddenly Marco stood, raising his glass high. "To my father, Don Vittorio De Luca, the legend of Palermo! For decades he kept our name alive, made our enemies kneel, and built the glory of this family!"
Cheers erupted. Glasses were raised, applause thundered. Alessandro lifted his glass too, though bitterness lingered in his chest.
"But…" Marco's voice rose, "times have changed. The world is not the same as it was. We cannot survive with the old ways. We must be harder, bolder, more… ruthless."
The room fell silent. Some faces tensed, others puzzled. Don Vittorio's eyes narrowed at his son, but he said nothing. Alessandro felt blood pound in his temples. These words… they are words of war.
Marco's gaze swept the room, his eyes gleaming. "My father built the foundation, and I will expand it. Any enemy who dares oppose us will be crushed, every cop who blocks us will be bought or killed, and anyone who doubts this family… will regret it."
Silence lingered. No applause this time. Alessandro knew Marco's words had just ignited a fire that could consume everything Vittorio had built.
Don Vittorio struggled to stand, his hand pressing the table. His voice was rough, full of authority despite his weakness "Marco… remember, power without honor is nothing but a path to ruin."
Marco turned to his father and smiled thinly. "With all due respect, Father, the world no longer cares about honor."
Alessandro's stomach twisted. That sentence was a dagger through the heart of mafia tradition. He wanted to speak, to rebuke Marco, but he knew—this was not his place. He was the consigliere. His role was not to challenge publicly, but to whisper counsel into the Don's ear.
Yet in his heart, he knew tonight was a sign. A sign that a great storm was approaching.
When the supper ended, the guests began to leave. The night grew colder. Alessandro stepped onto the villa's balcony, lighting a cigar. From there he could see Palermo, its lights twinkling like fallen stars. Behind that beauty, he knew, lay blood, whispers of betrayal, shadows waiting to strike.
"Uncle Alessandro," a young voice came from behind. It was Marco, hands in his pockets, still wearing that sly smile.
"Marco," Alessandro answered flatly, blowing smoke into the night.
"I know you didn't agree with what I said earlier."
Alessandro looked at him briefly. "I only want this family to survive, Marco. Don Vittorio has always taught us that. Power may come and go, but honor… honor is what keeps the De Luca name alive."
Marco stepped closer, eyes sharp. "Honor won't stop bullets from our enemies. This world belongs to those ruthless enough to take it, not to those wasting time guarding old rules."
Alessandro drew a deep breath, suppressing his anger. He knew debate was pointless. But deep inside, he made a vow if Marco truly inherited his father's throne one day, this family would march toward destruction.
And he, as the last consigliere, must be ready to make the choice that could change everything.
The villa grew quieter after the guests departed, though the echo of laughter and clinking glasses still lingered in the halls like ghosts. The servants cleared the dining table, sweeping away crumbs and half-finished glasses of wine. The chandeliers flickered with the weight of time, their golden glow casting long shadows across the marble floor.
Alessandro remained on the balcony, cigar burning low between his fingers. His thoughts were heavy, pressing down like the Sicilian night. Marco's words haunted him—words too sharp for a mere toast, words that declared a vision of the future built on fire and blood.
Behind him, the sound of footsteps approached. Slow, deliberate. Alessandro turned and saw Don Vittorio himself, leaning slightly on an ebony cane. The old man's face was pale under the soft lights, his lips pressed tight as if holding back both pain and secrets.
"You still smoke those cheap cigars, Alessandro," Vittorio rasped, forcing a faint smile.
Alessandro bowed his head respectfully. "Some habits are hard to break, Don."
The Don stepped beside him, looking out over Palermo. For a moment, they stood in silence, two old men watching the city they had shaped, a kingdom of shadows.
"Marco…" Vittorio's voice trailed, as if the name itself weighed him down. "He is my blood, my heir. But his fire burns too fast."
Alessandro inhaled slowly, then spoke with careful measure. "Fire can light a path, Don. But left uncontrolled, it burns everything."
The Don nodded, his eyes tired yet sharp. "You have always been my conscience, Alessandro. My other voice. I fear… he will not listen to you as he listened to me."
Alessandro remained silent. He knew the truth. Marco was too headstrong, too intoxicated by the taste of power. To him, Alessandro was a relic, a cautious whisper in an age that demanded screams.
"Promise me something," Vittorio said suddenly, turning to face him. "When I am gone, do not let him destroy everything we built. Guide him if you can. Stop him if you must."
Alessandro felt his chest tighten. The weight of those words was heavier than any bullet. "Don…"
Vittorio raised a trembling hand, silencing him. "I am not asking as your Don. I am asking as an old man who knows his end is near. As a father who fears for his son. You are the last consigliere I trust. The last one who remembers the old ways."
Alessandro lowered his gaze. In that moment, he felt not like an advisor but like a priest hearing a final confession. "I promise," he whispered.
The Don exhaled, a sound like the wind through dry leaves. He placed a hand on Alessandro's shoulder, firm despite its frailty. Then he turned and walked back into the villa, cane tapping softly against the marble. Alessandro remained, staring at the city lights, the oath burning in his heart.
Later that night, in Vittorio's private study, the Don sat in his leather chair, surrounded by shelves of books and old photographs. The room smelled of tobacco and dust, of memories preserved in silence. Alessandro joined him, closing the door behind them.
"Do you remember the night we first took Palermo?" Vittorio asked, a wistful smile curling his lips.
Alessandro chuckled softly. "How could I forget? Half the city was ours before sunrise, the other half by dawn. You never doubted, not for a moment."
"I doubted," Vittorio admitted. "But I had you beside me. You saw the moves I didn't, the traps I would have walked into. You were not just my consigliere, Alessandro. You were my brother."
The words struck deep. Alessandro had always known his place, always accepted the role of shadow behind the throne. But hearing Vittorio's confession now, on the edge of death, stirred something more than loyalty. It stirred grief.
Vittorio coughed violently, blood flecking his handkerchief. Alessandro reached forward, but the Don waved him off. "No doctors," he growled. "They can't buy me more time than I already have."
The old Don leaned back, his eyes drifting to the portrait on the wall—a painting of his late wife, Marco's mother. "She would not have wanted this for him. She wanted him to be free of this life. But he was born into it. And I… I chained him to it."
Alessandro's heart ached at the sorrow in the man's voice. But before he could speak, the door opened. Marco entered without knocking, his expression unreadable.
"Father," he said coolly. "The guests are gone. The villa is secure."
Vittorio's gaze hardened. "It should always be secure. We live in a world where one open door can end a dynasty."
Marco smirked faintly. "Dynasties end because they grow old and weak, not because of doors."
The silence that followed was sharp, cutting through the air. Vittorio's knuckles whitened as he gripped his cane. Alessandro felt the tension building, the old lion and the young wolf circling each other.
"Leave us, Marco," Vittorio said at last. "I need words with Alessandro."
Marco hesitated, then bowed his head slightly. "As you wish, Father." He left, closing the door behind him.
Vittorio exhaled, eyes clouded. "Do you see it, Alessandro? His arrogance, his hunger. He will not wait for me to die. He will take what he wants, when he wants it."
Alessandro's jaw tightened. "Then we must prepare."
The Don closed his eyes. "Yes. Prepare for the inevitable. The Last Supper was not just tonight's feast, Alessandro. It was a warning. A reminder that even families can betray each other."
Near midnight, Alessandro walked alone through the villa's garden. The olive trees swayed gently in the wind, their branches whispering secrets of centuries past. He lit another cigar, though the taste was bitter on his tongue.
A rustle drew his attention. From the shadows emerged Luciano Romano, one of the caporegimes, his face tense.
"Consigliere," Luciano whispered, "there are rumors. Men loyal to Marco are meeting in secret. They say he's making deals with outsiders—Russians, even Albanians. He promises them territory if they help him when the time comes."
Alessandro's eyes narrowed. So the coup was already brewing. The young wolf was not waiting at all; he was building his army.
"Keep this quiet," Alessandro ordered. "Tell no one. Not even the Don."
Luciano frowned. "But—"
"No," Alessandro cut him off. "The Don does not need this burden in his final days. Leave it to me."
Luciano nodded reluctantly, disappearing back into the shadows.
Alessandro stood still, the oath he had sworn to Vittorio echoing in his mind. Guide him if you can. Stop him if you must.
The night felt colder than ever. He looked up at the Sicilian sky, dark and endless, and knew the storm was closer than anyone dared admit.
The Last Supper had ended. But the true feast—the feast of blood, betrayal, and power—was only about to begin.