The night after the Last Supper weighed heavy upon the De Luca villa. Silence lingered in its halls like a suffocating fog, broken only by the creak of old wood and the occasional murmur of guards patrolling the grounds. Alessandro sat alone in his study, the amber glow of a desk lamp casting shadows across piles of documents. His glass of wine remained untouched. His thoughts were elsewhere, trapped between the oath he had sworn to Don Vittorio and the haunting arrogance in Marco's eyes.
The whispers had begun already. Luciano's warning still rang in his ears—Marco making deals in secret, promising power to outsiders. The Albanians. The Russians. Wolves invited into Palermo's den. Alessandro knew what that meant betrayal was not a question of if, but when.
He lit a cigar, though the taste of tobacco was bitter, almost metallic, as if laced with dread. The door to his study creaked, and Giovanni Russo, one of the older caporegimes, stepped inside. His face was carved with lines of worry, his dark suit hanging loosely on his tall frame.
"Consigliere," Giovanni said in a low voice, closing the door behind him. "Have you heard? Another body has turned up near the port. One of ours."
Alessandro set down his cigar, his jaw tightening. "Who?"
"Salvatore Greco. He handled shipments at the docks. Loyal. He was found in the trunk of his own car, throat slit, eyes gouged out. They left him as a message."
Alessandro's hand curled into a fist. Salvatore had been a soldier since the old days, a man who never wavered. His death was not random. It was a whisper. A warning.
"Do we know who?" Alessandro asked.
Giovanni hesitated, his eyes shifting. "Some say the Albanians. Others say it was a message from within. Whoever it was… they want us afraid."
Alessandro leaned back, exhaling sharply. "Fear is the oldest weapon. More dangerous than bullets. It makes men turn on each other before the enemy even strikes."
Giovanni nodded grimly. "The men are restless. They see Marco gathering his own circle, whispering in corners. They wonder if the Don still controls the family… or if his time is already over."
Alessandro rose, his eyes narrowing. "The Don still breathes. Until he no longer does, his word is law. Anyone who forgets that should be reminded."
But deep down, Alessandro knew the truth. Power was already shifting. Marco's whispers carried more weight than Vittorio's weakened voice. And now death had entered their house, carried on the wind like a warning.
The following morning, Alessandro visited Don Vittorio in his chambers. The old man was seated near the window, sunlight pouring over him like a cruel spotlight. His skin looked thinner, almost translucent, and his coughs came more often now. Yet his eyes burned with the same fire Alessandro had always known.
"They killed Salvatore," Alessandro said quietly.
Vittorio's gaze darkened. "I raised that boy like a son."
"They left him as a message," Alessandro continued. "Eyes gone. Throat cut. Whoever did this wants us to know the old guard is vulnerable."
The Don's fingers tightened around the armrest of his chair. "This is Marco's doing. Not by his hand, but by the chaos he invites. His reckless deals bring wolves to our door."
Alessandro hesitated. "He moves faster than we thought. Men whisper his name more than yours. Even Giovanni fears the tide is turning."
Vittorio's face hardened, a shadow crossing his features. "Then let them whisper. A whisper cannot topple a king while the king still breathes."
Alessandro bowed his head, though his thoughts remained troubled. Whispers could topple more than kings—they could erode loyalty, corrode families from within. And with every death, every rumor, the family fractured a little more.
That evening, Alessandro ventured into Palermo himself. He dressed simply, abandoning the tailored suits of power, instead wearing a plain coat and hat to blend with the night. He needed answers, not ceremony.
The docks smelled of salt and rot, the air thick with smoke from distant ships. Men moved like shadows, unloading crates, their faces grim and cautious. Alessandro found Luciano waiting for him near an abandoned warehouse, his expression tense.
"They're watching us," Luciano muttered. "Every corner, every shadow. The Albanians move freely now, as if they own the city. Someone's given them permission."
"Marco," Alessandro said flatly.
Luciano nodded. "He promises them territory—drugs, women, weapons. They think he will be Don soon. They're already calling him il nuovo re—the new king."
The words hit Alessandro like a blow. Marco was not waiting for Vittorio's death. He was declaring himself already.
A sudden sound cut through the night—a sharp whistle, followed by footsteps. Alessandro's hand went to the revolver under his coat. Luciano tensed. From the shadows, two men approached. Strangers. Foreigners. One spoke in broken Italian, his accent harsh.
"Tell Don Vittorio his time is over," the man sneered. "Palermo belongs to Marco now. And anyone who stands in his way…" He drew a finger across his throat.
Before Alessandro could reply, the men vanished back into the darkness, like whispers swallowed by the sea.
Luciano cursed under his breath. "They don't fear us anymore. They walk our streets and spit in our faces."
Alessandro's jaw clenched. The whispers of death were no longer just rumors. They were declarations.
He looked out at the black waters of the port, waves crashing against the shore. In their sound, he thought he heard voices—soft, sinister, promising blood.
The whispers grew louder.
Two nights after Salvatore's death, another body surfaced—this time in the narrow alleys of Ballarò, one of Palermo's oldest markets. The victim was Enzo Marino, a loyal driver who had served Vittorio for twenty years. His corpse was found slumped against a crumbling wall, his chest riddled with bullets, a playing card shoved into his mouth the King of Hearts.
When Alessandro arrived at the scene before dawn, the market was eerily quiet. Merchants had not yet opened their stalls, but the stench of death lingered like spoiled fruit. Police officers milled about nervously, pretending to investigate, but Alessandro knew half of them were already bought. He crouched beside Enzo's body, pulling the blood-soaked card from his lips.
A message. Not just to Vittorio, but to him.
The King of Hearts. A cruel symbol. Someone was mocking the Don's fading reign, reducing the "king" to nothing but a corpse in the street.
Luciano appeared at his side, face grim. "They're taunting us. And the men are terrified. They think the family is cursed."
"Not cursed," Alessandro muttered. "Hunted."
He pocketed the card, his jaw tight. Whoever orchestrated this wanted panic to spread, wanted loyalty to rot from the inside. Each death was a whisper made flesh, and now those whispers screamed louder than any gunshot.
Later that day, Alessandro returned to the villa. The Don sat in his chair, coughing into a handkerchief already stained with red. His body grew weaker by the hour, but his mind was sharp as ever.
"They killed Enzo," Alessandro said, placing the King of Hearts card on the table.
Vittorio stared at it, his face unreadable. Then he let out a bitter laugh that turned into a violent cough. "They mock me. They mock my crown."
Alessandro stepped closer. "Don, these deaths are not random. They are messages. Marco's allies want to prove you are powerless. They kill your men to show the world Palermo no longer belongs to you."
Vittorio's eyes darkened. "Marco… my own blood. He spits on me while I still breathe."
Alessandro hesitated. "Do you want me to act? To silence those whispers before they become war?"
The old Don studied him, his gaze sharp despite his frailty. "Not yet. If we strike now, we prove them right—that we are desperate. We must wait. But Alessandro…"
"Yes, Don?"
"If I die before Marco is ready, you must be the one to guide this family. Not as Don, but as the shadow behind the throne. Promise me again."
Alessandro felt the weight of his words like chains. "I promise."
That night, Alessandro met secretly with Giovanni Russo and Luciano Romano in the cellar of a church. Candles flickered against stone walls, casting long shadows that looked like specters of the dead.
"We can't keep ignoring this," Giovanni hissed. "Two men dead in three days, both loyal to the Don. If we do nothing, the rest will defect to Marco."
Luciano leaned forward. "Some already whisper that Marco paid for Enzo's death. That he gave permission for the Albanians to hunt us."
Alessandro's eyes narrowed. "Rumors are blades sharper than knives. They cut deeper because they strike the mind, not the flesh. We must control them."
"How?" Giovanni asked bitterly. "The men trust Marco more than they trust us."
Alessandro's voice hardened. "Then we give them a reason to remember who holds the true wisdom in this family. If whispers of death travel through the streets, we will answer with silence. Not panic. Not chaos. But silence that makes them fear us again."
The two capos exchanged uneasy glances.
"And if Marco challenges you directly?" Luciano asked.
Alessandro did not answer immediately. He thought of Don Vittorio's face, pale but burning with defiance, and of Marco's cruel smirk. He thought of the oath he had sworn.
"Then I will remind him," Alessandro said at last, "that even kings can be broken."
But the whispers did not fade.
The following week, more rumors spread—this time of betrayal within the villa itself. Servants spoke of strange visitors slipping into Marco's wing late at night, of documents exchanged, of foreign tongues muttering in hushed tones. Some claimed Marco had already signed agreements with the Russians, promising them docks and warehouses in exchange for their loyalty.
One evening, Alessandro confronted Marco in the villa's library. The younger man stood before a tall shelf, sipping wine, his tailored suit impeccable as ever.
"Busy night?" Alessandro asked coldly.
Marco smirked. "Always. Palermo doesn't sleep, and neither do I."
Alessandro stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "The city bleeds. Men die in alleys and markets. Do you know anything about that?"
Marco raised his glass, swirling the red liquid. "Men die every day. This is Sicily. Or have you forgotten?"
"This is not random," Alessandro snapped. "Salvatore. Enzo. They were loyal. Their deaths are whispers aimed at the Don. And you stand in the middle of those whispers."
Marco's smirk widened. "Careful, Padrino. People might think you're accusing me of something. And that would be… dangerous."
Alessandro's blood boiled, but he kept his voice calm, sharp as a blade. "Dangerous is pretending you are ready to wear your father's crown. Dangerous is inviting wolves into our city, thinking they will kneel to you instead of devouring you."
For the first time, Marco's smile faltered, a flicker of anger flashing in his eyes. But he quickly masked it with arrogance. "The world has no patience for old men and their old rules. You may whisper warnings in my father's ear, but when he is gone, your whispers will mean nothing."
Alessandro leaned close, his voice low, almost a growl. "Remember this, Marco I am the last consigliere. And my whispers… have buried men greater than you."
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken war.
That night, Alessandro could not sleep. He paced his chambers, the King of Hearts card resting on his desk like a curse. Outside, the wind howled through the olive trees, carrying with it faint echoes—whispers of death, chilling and relentless.
He poured himself a glass of wine but left it untouched, staring instead at the shadows flickering across his walls. The oath weighed heavy on his soul. Guide Marco if he could. Stop him if he must.
Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled midnight. And in that moment, Alessandro realized the whispers would not stop. They would only grow louder, until the night itself drowned in blood.
He extinguished the lamp, leaving only darkness.
And in the silence, he swore to himself if death came for the De Luca family, it would have to pass through him first.