The night was heavy with rain. Palermo's streets glistened under the dim glow of streetlamps, each puddle reflecting fragments of a city that never truly slept. The world above was restless, but deep beneath an abandoned chapel on Via Maqueda, silence reigned.
Alessandro De Santis was only twenty-four when he descended into those catacombs, led by men whose faces he did not yet know but whose reputations preceded them. His heart pounded with a mix of fear and anticipation, every step echoing against stone corridors that smelled of wax and damp earth.
The De Luca family was legend. To be invited into their inner circle was to embrace both privilege and peril. And yet, Alessandro had not been summoned as a soldier, nor as a foot soldier eager for blood. No—Don Vittorio himself had chosen him, not for muscle, but for his mind.
When he entered the chamber, the sight seared itself into his memory forever. Candles lined the walls in neat rows, their flames casting halos of light on the stone. At the center stood a long table draped with a black cloth. Upon it lay a dagger, a pistol, and a small crucifix. Symbols of power, death, and faith—all intertwined.
And at the head of the table sat Don Vittorio De Luca.
He was younger then, though his presence already filled the room like a storm. His dark hair was streaked with the first threads of silver, his eyes sharp as obsidian. When those eyes fixed on Alessandro, it was as if they pierced straight through to his soul.
"Alessandro De Santis," Vittorio said, his voice deep, steady, carrying the weight of command. "Do you know why you stand here?"
Alessandro swallowed, forcing his voice not to tremble. "To swear my loyalty, Don Vittorio. To the family. To you."
A small smile curved the Don's lips, though it held no warmth. "Loyalty. A word men throw around like cheap coins. But here, in this family, it is sacred. Once given, it cannot be taken back. Are you prepared for that?"
Alessandro nodded. "Yes, Don."
The Don gestured, and one of the capos—Giovanni Russo, broad-shouldered and stern—stepped forward with a folded slip of paper. He placed it before Alessandro, along with a lighter.
"Write your name," Vittorio commanded.
Alessandro obeyed, his hand trembling slightly as he scrawled Alessandro De Santis on the slip.
Giovanni lit the corner of the paper. The flame consumed the letters, curling the edges into black ash. When only embers remained, Vittorio leaned forward.
"This is what you are now," he said, his tone low but cutting. "Ash. Nothing without the family. If you betray us, your soul will burn as this paper burned. But if you serve, you will rise from that ash stronger, eternal. Do you understand?"
Alessandro's chest tightened, but he met Vittorio's gaze. "I understand."
The Don gestured again, and Giovanni brought forth a pin. He pricked Alessandro's finger, letting a drop of blood fall onto the crucifix.
"Repeat after me," Vittorio said, his voice solemn, almost ritualistic.
"I swear on my blood…"
"I swear on my blood," Alessandro echoed.
"…and on my soul…"
"…and on my soul…"
"…that I will serve the family, in silence, in loyalty, in death if called upon."
Alessandro repeated each word, his voice firm despite the storm inside him.
When the oath was complete, Vittorio rose from his chair and placed a hand on Alessandro's shoulder. His grip was iron, grounding, unyielding.
"From this night forward," Vittorio declared, "you are not just a man. You are my consigliere. The ear I trust. The voice I heed. Your counsel will shape this family's future. Betrayal is not an option. Silence is your shield. Wisdom your weapon. Are you ready, Alessandro?"
For a moment, Alessandro felt the full weight of destiny pressing upon him. His mind raced with doubt—could he truly bear such responsibility? Could he stand beside a man like Vittorio, whose shadow stretched across Palermo like a god's?
But then he remembered why he had accepted this path. His father, once a small-time accountant strangled by debt to lesser gangs, had died penniless and broken. Alessandro had vowed never to be powerless again.
"I am ready, Don," he said.
Vittorio studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded.
The other men in the room struck the table with their fists, a thunderous sound that echoed like gunfire. The ritual was complete. Alessandro was bound, not just by words, but by a covenant deeper than blood.
And in that silence, beneath the chapel's stone arches, the Silent Oath was born.
Years later, sitting by Vittorio's side as the old Don coughed blood into his handkerchief, Alessandro would remember that night. He would remember the burning paper, the blood on the crucifix, the weight of the Don's hand.
And he would wonder if the oath he swore was not to the family alone, but to a man—a man who had built an empire from shadows, yet who now sat dying in the flicker of his final days.
Rain continued to hammer against the villa's windows, each drop a drumbeat of memory. Alessandro sat in Vittorio's study, the same room where countless decisions had shaped Palermo's underworld. Before him, the Don rested in a high-backed chair, a blanket covering his frail body, eyes half-lidded but still sharp with fire.
"You remember that night, don't you?" Vittorio asked suddenly, voice hoarse but steady. "The chapel. The oath."
Alessandro's breath caught. He had not spoken of it in years, but the memory was etched into his soul. "I remember every word, Don. Every drop of blood, every flame."
Vittorio chuckled, though it ended in a fit of coughing. He dabbed at his mouth with a cloth stained crimson. "You were so young then. Too young, maybe. I saw doubt in your eyes, but also… resolve. That's why I chose you."
Alessandro leaned forward, his voice quiet. "I was honored. Still am. That oath… it made me who I am."
The Don studied him, gaze heavy with both pride and sorrow. "But oaths, Alessandro, they are not chains. They are burdens. And sometimes, they break men. Have they broken you?"
Alessandro's chest tightened. "No, Don. They've kept me whole."
But even as he spoke, he wondered if it was true. For years, silence had been his shield. Loyalty his compass. Yet now, as whispers of betrayal echoed in every corridor, he wondered if the oath had bound him too tightly—if his loyalty to Vittorio blinded him to the storm Marco prepared to unleash.
Later that evening, after Vittorio had been carried to his chambers by attendants, Alessandro wandered alone through the villa. His steps led him to the inner courtyard, where rainwater gathered in marble basins carved generations ago. The scent of wet earth filled the air.
There, he closed his eyes and drifted once more into memory.
He remembered the days that followed his oath. The men who had once eyed him with suspicion now tested him. Capos whispered in his ear, gauging whether he was merely the Don's puppet or something more. He quickly learned that being consigliere was not about issuing orders but about absorbing secrets.
One memory burned brightest his first true counsel to Vittorio.
It was a dispute between two families—an insult traded at a wedding that escalated into bloodshed. The Don wanted to send soldiers, to crush the insult with fire and bullets. But Alessandro, barely sworn, had argued for restraint.
"War will weaken us," he had said. "But patience will destroy them from within. Let their pride rot their alliances. We need only wait."
Vittorio had stared at him for a long moment before nodding. Weeks later, the rival family collapsed under its own arrogance, and Vittorio called Alessandro into his office.
"You were right," the Don said. "Wisdom is sharper than knives. From this day, you are not just my consigliere. You are my shadow."
That moment had sealed Alessandro's path.
In the courtyard, thunder rumbled across the Sicilian sky, dragging Alessandro back to the present. He opened his eyes, staring at his reflection in the rainwater. Older now, scarred by years of quiet battles and bloody secrets. Yet still bound by the oath he had sworn in that candlelit chamber.
Footsteps echoed behind him. Luciano appeared, carrying an umbrella though his suit was already damp.
"You shouldn't be out here," Luciano said. "You'll catch death in this weather."
Alessandro gave a faint smile. "Death will have to wait its turn. What is it?"
Luciano's jaw tightened. "Marco. He's meeting someone tonight, outside the villa. I don't know who. But the men are whispering again."
Whispers. Always whispers.
Alessandro straightened. "Follow him?"
Luciano shook his head. "I thought about it. But if he sees us, it'll confirm what he already believes—that we're watching, waiting to strike. No, Alessandro. This… this feels like something more. Something he doesn't want even you to know."
For a long moment, Alessandro said nothing. The rain fell harder, filling the silence.
Finally, he whispered, "When I swore that oath, I promised silence and loyalty. But loyalty to whom, Luciano? To the family? To Vittorio? Or to the truth?"
Luciano's eyes darkened. "Sometimes those aren't the same."
Alessandro nodded slowly, the words cutting deep.
Hours later, when the villa lay quiet and only the sound of rain remained, Alessandro returned to his chambers. On his desk lay a single object he had kept hidden for decades the crucifix from his oath. The drop of blood had long faded, but the memory had not.
He held it in his hands, closing his eyes.
"I swore to you, Vittorio," he murmured. "But I swore also to myself—to never let this family fall to betrayal. Even if betrayal comes from within."
The crucifix felt cold in his palm, heavy with meaning. He slipped it back into its case and locked it away.
Outside, thunder growled once more, as if the heavens themselves bore witness to his vow.
And Alessandro knew, in that moment, that the Silent Oath was not merely a memory. It was a warning. One that would demand a price in blood before it was fulfilled.