Rain fell in a relentless drizzle, washing the streets of Palermo in a sheen of gray sorrow. Black umbrellas dotted the road leading to the cathedral, where the bells tolled with somber weight. Inside, the scent of incense hung heavy, mingling with the faint salt of tears.
Don Vittorio De Luca, the Lion of Palermo, lay in a casket of dark mahogany, draped with white lilies and the family crest. His once-commanding presence had been reduced to silence, but the echoes of his reign lingered in every bowed head and whispered prayer.
Alessandro stood near the altar, dressed in a black suit that blended into the shadows of the cathedral. His face betrayed little, but his eyes carried the burden of decades—oaths sworn, secrets kept, wars fought in silence. He watched as mourners filed in, their movements deliberate, their gazes veiled.
Behind the solemnity, he felt it currents of ambition shifting beneath the surface. Funerals in Palermo were not only about grief—they were theaters of power.
Marco arrived last. Unlike the others, he did not lower his head or soften his stride. His suit gleamed, his hair immaculate, and his smirk was barely hidden beneath the guise of mourning. At his side walked Dritan and several Albanians, their foreign presence a sharp contrast to the old Sicilian faces filling the pews.
Whispers followed them like shadows. Why are outsiders here? Why during a Don's funeral?
Alessandro's jaw tightened. This was no show of grief. This was a declaration. Marco was staking his claim, parading his new allies through the heart of the family's sacred ceremony.
Luciano leaned toward Alessandro, whispering, "He's turning your Don's funeral into his coronation."
Alessandro's gaze never left Marco. "Then let him. A king's funeral reveals more about the heirs than the king."
The Mass began, Latin hymns rising like smoke into the vaulted ceiling. The priest spoke of life, death, and legacy, his words echoing through stone arches that had witnessed centuries of blood and faith.
Alessandro listened, but his mind wandered back to his oath. He had promised to protect Vittorio's family, to guide them through shadows. Yet now, with the Don gone, the shadows grew longer. Marco's recklessness was no longer tempered by his father's authority.
As the casket was blessed with holy water, Alessandro noticed subtle movements in the crowd. Men exchanging glances. Fingers twitching as if near concealed weapons. The tension was palpable, a silent war brewing beneath bowed heads.
Then he saw her—Isabella, Vittorio's widow, sitting in the front pew. Her veil hid most of her face, but Alessandro caught the sharp glint of her eyes. Cold. Calculating. She was not broken by grief. She was watching, weighing, deciding.
And when Marco approached her during the offering of peace, kissing her hand with exaggerated reverence, Alessandro saw it the flicker of satisfaction in her gaze.
Symbols. Always symbols. In Palermo, gestures spoke louder than words. Isabella's silence was not mourning—it was consent.
The procession moved from the cathedral to the cemetery, a sea of black flowing through narrow streets. Crowds gathered on balconies and sidewalks, murmuring prayers, but also gossip.
"The Lion is dead.""Who will rule now?""They say the son is a wild beast.""They say the consigliere holds the true power."
At the cemetery, under a gray Sicilian sky, Vittorio's casket was lowered into the earth. White roses fell onto the lid, each thud like a nail sealing more than just a grave—it sealed an era.
Marco stepped forward, his voice loud, meant for all to hear. "My father was a king among men. His legacy runs through my blood. And I swear, before his grave, that no one will ever diminish what he built. Palermo will remain ours, and those who betray us will be buried beside our enemies."
The Albanians clapped, a crude echo in a moment meant for silence. Others shifted uncomfortably, but no one dared challenge him openly.
Alessandro watched with cold detachment. The speech was not grief—it was a threat. And yet, woven into Marco's words, Alessandro sensed something more betrayal already taking root. Someone in the crowd had shifted allegiance. He could feel it, though the betrayer had not yet revealed their face.
As the last prayers were spoken, Alessandro slipped away from the crowd, moving toward the cemetery gates. He had no time for rituals. His war had already begun.
Behind him, the first raindrops of a new storm began to fall
Rain thickened into a downpour as mourners drifted from the cemetery, their umbrellas black sails in a stormy sea. Alessandro lingered by the gate, scanning faces, watching patterns. A consigliere's work was not in words but in reading silences, in seeing betrayals before they bloomed.
Through the curtain of rain, he caught sight of Giovanni Russo speaking hurriedly with two men he did not recognize. Their conversation was brief, their movements sharp, like knives meeting in shadows. When Giovanni noticed Alessandro watching, he gave a stiff nod and turned away too quickly.
Signs, Alessandro thought. Always signs.
Luciano approached, soaked to the bone but unflinching. "I don't like it," he muttered. "Marco's speech, Isabella's eyes, the Albanians in the front row. It felt less like a funeral and more like a coronation—one we didn't approve."
Alessandro lit a cigarette despite the rain, shielding the flame with his hand. Smoke curled upward, defiant against the storm. "Coronations built on spectacle are fragile. Marco thinks he's untouchable. That arrogance will be his undoing."
Luciano frowned. "And Giovanni?"
Alessandro exhaled smoke. "We watch. We listen. A single betrayal spreads like rot. Better to cut it early."
That evening, the villa hosted the traditional gathering after the funeral. Tables overflowed with food and wine, but the air was heavy, every laugh forced, every gesture calculated. Mourners spoke in whispers, measuring their words, as if the dead Don might still be listening.
Marco made his entrance like a conqueror. He wore no grief, only pride, as he raised a glass of red wine high above his head. "To my father!" he shouted. "May his enemies rot in hell, and may his strength live on in me!"
The Albanians cheered, banging their fists on the table. Some of the Sicilian capos exchanged uneasy glances but stayed silent. None wished to ignite a fire at the table of mourning.
Alessandro sat quietly at the far end, observing. He noticed how Isabella's veil had been lifted now, her face uncovered. She leaned close to Marco when he spoke, her hand occasionally resting on his arm. A widow too comfortable, too soon. The gesture was subtle, but in Sicily, subtleties screamed louder than proclamations.
Giovanni, meanwhile, toasted with forced enthusiasm, his glass trembling slightly in his hand.
Luciano leaned closer to Alessandro, whispering, "He's nervous. He's hiding something."
Alessandro gave the faintest nod. "Yes. But nervous men often reveal more than they intend."
Later that night, as the crowd thinned and the rain quieted, Alessandro stepped into the villa's courtyard. The fountain trickled softly, its water reflecting the dim glow of lanterns. He found Isabella there, standing alone, her black dress clinging to her figure like a second skin.
"You never liked me, Alessandro," she said before he spoke, her voice cool, her eyes sharp.
"I respected you," he answered. "That was enough."
She tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Respect is not loyalty. You were loyal to Vittorio, not to me. Now that he's gone, who holds your loyalty?"
Alessandro's expression did not waver. "The family."
"And Marco?" she pressed.
"Marco is reckless."
Her smile widened, though her eyes remained cold. "Reckless men often win wars. They move faster, strike harder. Perhaps it is time for recklessness."
Alessandro stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Recklessness does not build dynasties. It destroys them. Do not mistake fire for light."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the fountain's murmur. Then Isabella whispered, almost conspiratorial, "Be careful, consigliere. You are not the only one who listens to whispers in the dark."
She glided away, leaving Alessandro with the weight of her words.
Near midnight, Alessandro and Luciano retreated to the study. The air smelled of cigar smoke and wet earth. A map of Palermo lay unfolded on the desk, markers showing territories, alliances, debts.
Luciano slammed his fist against the table. "She's with him, isn't she? Isabella. Her silence, her gestures—it's too obvious."
Alessandro nodded slowly. "Yes. She was always more ambitious than she appeared. With Vittorio gone, she sees Marco not as a son, but as a weapon."
"And Giovanni?"
"Giovanni is hedging his bets. He fears Marco but sees opportunity in his chaos. Fear and greed often walk together."
Luciano leaned back, frustration burning in his eyes. "So we're surrounded. A widow who conspires, a son drunk on power, a capo sniffing betrayal. What do we do?"
Alessandro's gaze hardened. "We wait. A funeral buries more than a man. It buries truth, loyalty, fear. In the days that follow, the masks will slip. When they do, we will know who to strike—and how hard."
In his chambers, Marco poured himself another glass of whiskey, staring into the mirror. His reflection smirked back at him, arrogant, untamed. Dritan entered, his heavy boots echoing on the marble floor.
"Your father is in the ground," Dritan said bluntly. "Now you must act. Alessandro will never kneel. The old capos hesitate. Crush them, and Palermo is yours."
Marco drained his glass, eyes burning with ambition. "Yes. Tomorrow, the city will feel the weight of a new king. Tonight was a funeral. Tomorrow begins my reign."
Outside, thunder rumbled across the sea.
Inside the villa, betrayal took root.
And Alessandro, the last consigliere, prepared for a war that would not wait.