Morning light spilled into the villa through half-closed shutters, but it did little to dispel the heaviness that lingered after the funeral. The house, once alive with Vittorio's presence, now felt like a mausoleum. Every hallway carried echoes of footsteps that no longer walked, every room a reminder of authority now buried beneath Sicilian earth.
Alessandro sat at the long dining table, a place meant for strategy and family dinners alike. His coffee grew cold before him, untouched. Papers lay spread across the wood—ledgers, contracts, coded messages. But none of it felt stable anymore. Each number, each agreement, seemed written in sand.
Luciano entered, his face drawn. "The Russians demand compensation," he reported. "For the men Marco killed and the shipment he stole. They've given us forty-eight hours."
Alessandro finally lifted his cup, sipping the bitter liquid with deliberate calm. "And Marco?"
Luciano's lip curled. "He laughs. Says let them come. Says fear will bend them to his will."
Alessandro's gaze darkened. "Fear bends only until it breaks. And when it breaks, it destroys."
Silence stretched between them. For the first time, Alessandro felt the full weight of absence—Vittorio's voice no longer guided them, no longer commanded obedience with a mere look. The throne was empty, and emptiness attracted vultures.
Later that day, Alessandro convened a meeting in the villa's council room. Giovanni Russo arrived late, his excuses thin. Capos filled the seats, their faces tired, wary. The Albanians' presence at the funeral had not gone unnoticed, and suspicion churned beneath every word spoken.
Alessandro stood at the head of the table. Not the Don's chair—he would never presume—but close enough to command attention.
"Our foundation is cracking," he began. His voice was steady, carrying weight without force. "Business runs on trust, and trust is bleeding. Marco's actions threaten alliances built over decades. If we do not act with unity, we invite chaos."
One capo, Salvatore Greco, shifted uneasily. "The boy is his father's son. Perhaps he will learn."
"Perhaps," Alessandro said coolly, "but the grave teaches slower than the street. And the street is already watching."
Giovanni cleared his throat. "The Albanians bring strength. Fresh blood, new money. Maybe Marco is not wrong to bring them in."
The room tensed. Luciano glared. "New blood brings new knives. Do you want foreigners at our table, Giovanni? Men with no respect for our codes?"
Giovanni spread his hands. "I want survival. We cannot cling to the old ways forever."
Alessandro's eyes fixed on him, sharp as steel. "The old ways kept us alive. Break them, and you will not find survival—you will find betrayal."
The room fell silent. But silence was not agreement; it was hesitation. And hesitation was as dangerous as open rebellion.
That evening, Alessandro walked alone through the city. Palermo was restless. He saw it in the way shopkeepers closed earlier, in the wary glances exchanged in alleyways, in the graffiti scrawled on walls—messages of loyalty, threats, warnings.
He paused outside a church, its doors open, candles flickering inside. For a moment, he considered entering. Confession, perhaps. But what priest could absolve sins committed in the name of loyalty?
Instead, he lit a candle at the steps and whispered to himself, "For Vittorio. For the family."
Yet even as the flame flickered, doubt gnawed at him. How much longer could he hold a family that no longer believed in its own unity?
At the villa, Marco held his own gathering. Not a council, but a party. Music blared, glasses overflowed, women laughed too loudly. Dritan sat at his side, a predator at ease, while younger soldiers pledged loyalty with drunken oaths.
Marco raised his glass. "My father ruled with wisdom. I will rule with fire. Palermo will not whisper my name—they will shout it."
His men cheered, but in their eyes Alessandro saw something else when word of the party reached him—fear, yes, but also doubt. Marco's recklessness inspired awe, but awe was fickle.
Still, the cracks widened. And Alessandro knew an empty throne is never truly empty. Someone always sits, even if unworthy.
Night fell heavy. Alessandro returned to his chambers, exhaustion pressing on him like chains. He poured himself a glass of wine, staring out at the city's lights.
In the silence, he admitted what he had not dared speak aloud The family is breaking. The throne is empty, and the heir is a storm. I cannot hold both at once.
He clenched his fist around the glass until it nearly shattered.
The oath bound him still. But oaths did not mend cracks—they only delayed collapse.
Storm clouds gathered over Palermo the following evening, thunder echoing across the sea. Alessandro stood in Vittorio's old study, a room that smelled of leather, smoke, and memories. The Don's chair sat empty at the head of the desk, a silent monument to power lost.
He did not sit there. He never would. But every man who entered noticed the vacancy, and Alessandro knew what they whispered Who rules now?
Luciano entered carrying a folder. He dropped it onto the desk. "Reports from the street. Protection money isn't being collected in three districts. Some merchants refuse to pay, claiming Marco's soldiers already came and took double."
Alessandro's brow furrowed. "Double?"
"Yes. They claim it's the 'new order.'"
Alessandro exhaled sharply. "Extortion under Vittorio was business. Extortion under Marco is robbery."
Luciano's voice dropped lower. "It gets worse. A Russian lieutenant was found dead near the harbor. Shot twice in the chest, execution style."
Alessandro's silence was heavy. "Marco?"
Luciano nodded grimly. "Or one of his Albanians. Either way, it's being pinned on us."
The consigliere closed his eyes briefly. Every alliance Vittorio had built was cracking one by one. Each debt of honor, each fragile truce, broken by Marco's recklessness. The foundation was rotting.
In the courtyard that night, Alessandro met secretly with Salvatore Greco. Rain pattered on the stone, and the air smelled of wet earth.
"Marco has no discipline," Salvatore said bluntly. "He spits on tradition, invites foreigners into our blood. Men are afraid. Some talk of leaving, of seeking safer waters."
Alessandro studied him carefully. "And you? Do you still believe in the family?"
Salvatore's jaw tightened. "I believe in survival. And I believe survival is slipping away."
Alessandro leaned closer. His voice was low, sharp. "Then hear me, Salvatore. This family does not survive through noise and fire. It survives through loyalty, patience, and silence. If Marco breaks it, I will not let him bury us all. Do you understand?"
For a moment, the capo hesitated. Then he nodded. "I understand."
But Alessandro knew hesitation when he saw it. Loyalty frayed like old rope.
Inside the villa, Marco held court in Vittorio's empty chair. He sprawled like a prince, whiskey in hand, Dritan at his side.
Giovanni Russo entered, bowing slightly. "Don Marco."
The words tasted strange, but Marco's smirk widened. "Say it again."
Giovanni repeated, "Don Marco."
The Albanians laughed. Marco leaned forward. "You see? Even the old wolves bow now. My father's throne is mine."
But Giovanni's eyes betrayed something—calculation, not loyalty. Marco did not notice. Or perhaps he did not care.
Later, Alessandro walked the villa's dark corridors, passing portraits of De Luca ancestors. Their eyes seemed to follow him, judging. He paused before Vittorio's portrait—the lion, painted in his prime, gaze fierce and unyielding.
Alessandro whispered, "You left me a kingdom of shadows. And your son will burn it before he learns its worth."
He clenched the crucifix in his pocket, the symbol of his oath. Protect the family. Guide the heir. But what if protecting one meant destroying the other?
By midnight, the storm broke. Rain hammered the villa as Alessandro met with Luciano again in the study.
Luciano's face was grim. "It's begun. A message from the Russians—if we don't hand Marco over, they'll bring war to Palermo."
Alessandro's hand tightened on the desk. The empty throne loomed over them both, a void that threatened to swallow everything.
He spoke slowly, with iron in his voice. "Then perhaps it is time we decide. Does the throne remain empty… or do we fill it before Marco burns the city to ash?"
Luciano's eyes widened. "Are you saying—?"
Alessandro cut him off. "I am saying the family cannot endure a reckless heir. And if betrayal comes, I will meet it before it reaches our door."
Thunder shook the villa, rattling its windows. In that moment, Alessandro knew the cracks in the foundation were no longer just cracks. They were fractures, and soon the entire house would collapse.
And when it did, he would be forced to choose—between oath and survival.