Rain had barely dried from the streets of Palermo when the family gathered inside the cathedral. The air smelled of incense and gun oil, a mixture as sacred as it was profane. Candles flickered, casting long shadows across faces that hid secrets behind reverence.
Alessandro stood near the altar, eyes fixed on Marco. The young man's suit was black as night, his tie crimson, as though he had already baptized himself in blood. Dritan and his Albanian entourage flanked him like sentinels, their presence jarring amidst the holy silence.
A priest, one who had long ago sold pieces of his soul to the De Luca family, began the ceremony with solemn words. "Every kingdom has its crown, every family its leader. Today, blood binds us, as it always has."
Marco smirked slightly, as if the ritual was beneath him. Alessandro noticed. The boy who was supposed to be molded into a man of honor had grown into a brute thirsting for power.
One by one, capos approached the altar. Each kissed Marco's hand, swearing loyalty. Some did it with conviction, others with hesitation, but all did it. Fear was a crown heavier than gold.
Luciano leaned toward Alessandro. His whisper was sharp. "They bow because they must, not because they believe."
Alessandro's jaw clenched. "Loyalty by fear is loyalty that rots."
When Giovanni Russo stepped forward, the air thickened. He bowed low, kissed Marco's ring, but his eyes flicked briefly to Alessandro. It was a look that said I bend, but I do not break.
Marco seemed blind to it. He raised his chin proudly as if the world was his. "Today," he declared, voice echoing through the cathedral, "I wear my father's crown. His enemies will tremble, his friends will profit, and those who doubt me will bleed."
Applause erupted, though hollow. The words were not vows—they were threats.
After the ceremony, the family gathered for a banquet in the villa. Tables overflowed with wine and meat, yet the mood was uneasy. Marco sat at the head of the table, filling the throne Vittorio once commanded. His laughter was loud, his gestures grand, as if he believed excess could hide the emptiness behind his rule.
Dritan whispered into his ear, and Marco nodded, slamming his glass against the table. "Brothers," he boomed, "from this day forward, no man questions my will. Palermo is ours, but it will not be enough. We will expand—to Naples, to Rome, to wherever the weak cling to power. De Luca blood will mark every street."
The Albanians cheered. The Italians stayed quiet.
Salvatore Greco spoke carefully. "Expansion requires care, Don Marco. We must strengthen our hold here before—"
Marco slammed his fist down, silencing him. "Enough caution! My father wasted years on diplomacy. I will waste none."
The silence that followed was sharper than knives. Alessandro studied the faces around the table Salvatore's suppressed anger, Giovanni's cautious gaze, Luciano's weary patience. They were men bound by oath, but inside, each measured how long they could endure this new reign.
Alessandro raised his glass. "To the new Don. May his reign bring strength to the family."
The words were ritual, but his tone was steel. Marco smirked, pleased by what he thought was allegiance.
Yet Alessandro's eyes never left the crimson wine in his glass. It looked too much like blood.
Later, in the shadows of the courtyard, Alessandro confronted Marco. Rain drizzled lightly, tapping against stone.
"You speak of conquest as if it were a game," Alessandro said, voice low but firm. "Your father understood restraint. You must as well."
Marco's smirk twisted into a sneer. "You fear me, old man. That is good. Fear makes men loyal."
Alessandro stepped closer, his voice dropping to a growl. "Fear makes men betray."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, thunder growling in the distance. Then Marco chuckled, dismissive. "You forget yourself, Consigliere. You serve me now. And you will do as I say."
Alessandro's hand twitched toward his crucifix, the oath he had sworn years ago. He had vowed to protect the family, but not to protect a tyrant.
When Marco turned and walked away, Alessandro whispered to the rain, "Your crown drips with blood already, boy. And blood crowns do not last."
Moonlight spilled over the villa as the banquet dragged on into the small hours. Laughter and music filled the hall, but beneath it, whispers of dissent coiled like smoke. Alessandro moved silently among the tables, noting faces, gestures, every flicker of unease.
At one corner, Salvatore Greco sat rigid, speaking little. Across the room, Giovanni Russo leaned close to his lieutenant, whispering words Alessandro could not hear but could guess. Only Luciano stayed near Alessandro, his eyes sharp, his silence louder than celebration.
Marco, meanwhile, reveled like a king drunk on his own coronation. His hand rested lazily on a woman's thigh while his other hand raised glass after glass. Dritan remained glued to his side, ever watchful, his gaze daring anyone to approach with doubt.
Alessandro excused himself and stepped out onto the balcony. The cool night air cut through the stifling smoke of the hall. Below, the gardens glistened from earlier rain. He lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl into the darkness.
Luciano joined him. "They're restless," he muttered.
Alessandro nodded. "Restless men with guns are dangerous men."
Luciano leaned closer. "Some already speak of alternatives. They won't say it aloud, not yet. But I hear it. Marco's crown is heavy, and it rests on a broken head."
Alessandro flicked ash into the wind. "The family bends, Luciano. But if it breaks…" He didn't finish the thought. He didn't have to.
Hours later, as the celebration dwindled, Alessandro found himself in Vittorio's study once again. The empty chair stared at him, accusing. He poured a glass of whiskey and sat, not in the Don's chair, but across from it, as if Vittorio's ghost still occupied the throne.
He spoke softly into the silence. "Your son wears your crown, Vittorio. But he does not carry your weight. He does not hear the whispers that crawl through these walls. Perhaps he chooses not to."
The crucifix in his pocket felt heavier than the whiskey glass in his hand. An oath to the family. An oath to the Don. But what if the Don was the very threat to the family's survival?
A knock interrupted his thoughts. Giovanni Russo stepped inside, closing the door behind him. His voice was low. "Consigliere, we must speak plainly."
Alessandro gestured for him to continue.
"Marco cannot lead. He insults allies, he favors outsiders, he drenches every word in arrogance. If he continues, he'll drag us into war with Russians, Albanians, even our own men. Palermo will burn."
Alessandro studied Giovanni carefully. His eyes were steady, his voice controlled. This was not drunken rambling—it was deliberate.
"And what would you have me do?" Alessandro asked.
Giovanni hesitated, then answered, "Guide him if you can. Control him. If not… remove him."
The words fell like a blade onto the table. Alessandro's jaw tightened. "That is treason."
Giovanni met his gaze without flinching. "It is survival."
For a long moment, silence filled the room, heavy with unspoken truths. Then Alessandro dismissed him with a quiet wave. "Leave me."
When Giovanni was gone, Alessandro remained frozen, his thoughts spiraling. Already, the crown was cracking.
Near dawn, Marco stood at the head of the empty banquet hall, glass in hand, eyes bloodshot. He raised his voice for the last of the drunken soldiers and women.
"My father built this house with patience and fear," Marco declared, slurring slightly. "I will build it with fire and iron. To those who doubt me, remember this—De Luca blood flows in my veins. I am the crown, and I will drown Palermo in blood before I yield it."
The room erupted in uneasy cheers. Alessandro watched from the shadows, his cigarette burning low. He could see it clearly now—the boy was no king. He was a storm.
And storms did not rule. They destroyed.
When the last guests left and silence reclaimed the villa, Alessandro walked the empty corridors. Each step echoed against marble floors, each portrait of ancestors stared down in judgment.
He paused at Vittorio's painting again. The lion's eyes seemed alive, filled with both sorrow and accusation.
Alessandro whispered, "You asked me to protect your blood. But perhaps protecting your blood means ending it."
He pressed the crucifix to his lips, the oath burning like iron against his mouth. Guide the heir. Protect the family.
But as the first light of dawn bled across Palermo, Alessandro knew something had shifted. Marco was crowned, yes, but it was not a crown of honor. It was a crown forged in blood, fragile and cursed.
And one day soon, it would fall.