Shadows stretched long across Palermo's harbor as men gathered inside the villa's great hall. The atmosphere was thick, not with celebration, but with dread. Everyone sensed it—something sacred was about to be broken.
Marco stood at the head of the table, his posture restless, his expression caught between arrogance and fury. At his side, Dritan lingered like a guard dog, silent but radiating menace.
Salvatore Greco shifted uneasily in his chair before speaking. "Don Marco, this meeting was called in haste. Some of us still don't know why."
Marco's gaze swept the room. "You'll know now. For thirty years, our family has tolerated a pact with Naples. A pact that shackles us. The Camorra take their cut of our ports, our shipments, our blood. That ends tonight."
Murmurs rippled through the room. Luciano's brow furrowed. "Don Vittorio forged that pact after years of bloodshed. It wasn't weakness—it was survival. The balance kept Sicily safe."
Marco slammed his fist onto the table, rattling glasses. "Safe? Do you call bowing to Neapolitan thieves safety? They leech from us while we grow soft. I will not honor their deal. From this day forward, their pact is void."
The silence that followed was thick with disbelief.
Alessandro leaned forward, his voice calm but edged with steel. "Marco, listen carefully. That agreement is more than business—it is tradition. Break it, and you don't just spit on Naples. You spit on the foundation your father built."
Marco smirked. "And what has tradition given us? Respect? Power? No. It has given us chains. I am not my father. I will carve my own empire."
Eyes shifted again, first to Alessandro, then back to Marco. The consigliere's face betrayed nothing, but inside he felt the walls of the family cracking. Vittorio had built the house brick by brick, using patience as mortar. Marco swung at those walls with a hammer, blind to what would collapse with them.
Giovanni Russo spoke carefully, as if choosing each word could save his life. "If Naples hears of this, they will not remain silent. Their allies—Rome, Calabria—they will come for blood."
Marco leaned across the table, eyes burning. "Let them. I'll drown them all before I yield."
By nightfall, Marco's decree spread through Palermo like wildfire. His soldiers stormed the docks, seizing crates marked with Camorra sigils, beating merchants who protested, and proclaiming the new order.
Alessandro and Luciano watched from the shadows near the harbor.
"This is madness," Luciano muttered. "Business thrives on order. Marco brings chaos."
Alessandro's voice was low. "He mistakes recklessness for strength. The streets will not forgive this."
Across the water, ships idled—ships belonging to Naples, waiting, watching. Alessandro knew what they carried wasn't just cargo. It was a message.
Two nights later, that message arrived. A Camorra envoy landed in Palermo, a man seasoned by years of delicate negotiations with Vittorio. His name was Donato Caruso, and he requested a meeting.
Marco refused. Instead, he sent men to drag Caruso from his hotel, beat him bloody, and dump him at the cathedral steps.
When Alessandro heard, he clenched the crucifix in his pocket until it dug into his skin. This was no longer posturing. It was open war.
The chapel inside the villa was dimly lit when Alessandro entered that night. Candles flickered, their light barely touching the statues of saints who seemed to avert their gaze. He knelt, whispering as though Vittorio's spirit lingered in the shadows.
"You asked me to guide your son. But how does one guide a man who deafens himself with his own roar?"
Footsteps echoed softly. Giovanni Russo appeared, bowing his head before speaking. "It's begun, hasn't it?"
"Yes," Alessandro replied without turning. "Marco has broken the pact. Naples will not let this pass."
Giovanni's tone hardened. "Then men will start to talk. Some already whisper. They'll look to you, Consigliere."
Alessandro finally faced him. "Whispers are dangerous, Giovanni."
"Dangerous," Giovanni agreed, "but sometimes necessary."
Their eyes locked. Neither spoke further, but both knew the truth Marco's crown was fragile, and tradition was the only glue that had held it together. With tradition shattered, blood was the only future left.
Morning broke with gunfire in the streets of Palermo. Word spread quickly two De Luca soldiers had been found dead near the harbor, their throats slit, their bodies dumped in full view of the market. Naples had answered, not with words, but with blood.
Inside the villa, the capos gathered in haste. The hall was tense, voices low, eyes darting as though the walls themselves might betray them.
Salvatore Greco slammed his fist against the table. "This is the cost of breaking tradition! Naples has sent their message. Do we wait for them to burn the rest of us alive?"
Marco rose, eyes blazing with fury. "They killed my men, not because we broke tradition, but because they fear me. Fear is good. Fear makes enemies hesitate."
Alessandro leaned forward, his tone sharp. "No, Marco. Fear makes enemies unite. Naples is not alone—they will call on allies in Rome, Calabria, even across the sea. You think yourself untouchable, but you invite a storm we cannot contain."
Marco sneered. "You speak like an old man clinging to the past. I am the future. I will show them that Sicily bows to no one."
The room filled with uneasy murmurs. Some capos exchanged wary glances, others stared down at the table, unwilling to meet Alessandro's gaze. The fracture in loyalty was widening, and everyone felt it.
By nightfall, Palermo's streets burned. Camorra men had set fire to a warehouse owned by the De Lucas. Marco responded by sending Dritan's Albanians to gun down suspected Camorra associates in a bar near the port. Civilians died in the crossfire.
Alessandro walked among the smoking ruins hours later. The smell of charred wood and blood filled the air. A child cried in the distance, her voice cutting through the night like a blade. He stood still, the crucifix in his pocket heavy as lead.
Luciano approached, face pale. "This is no longer business. This is slaughter."
Alessandro's voice was low, almost bitter. "War was declared the moment Marco spat on tradition. Now every death will be written in his name."
Back at the villa, Marco celebrated the violence as if it were a victory. Wine flowed, music blared, his men cheered.
"To Palermo!" Marco roared, raising his glass. "To the city that will be mine, even if I must paint its streets red!"
Some cheered. Others forced smiles. Alessandro remained silent, his eyes scanning the room. He saw Salvatore's clenched jaw, Giovanni's calculating stare, Luciano's weary expression. He knew then loyalty was no longer united. Each man weighed his own survival.
Dritan leaned close to Marco, whispering something in his ear. Marco laughed loudly and slapped the Albanian's shoulder. "You see? Even the foreigners know strength when they see it. They follow me because I am not shackled by my father's weak traditions."
Alessandro finally spoke, his voice cutting through the noise. "Foreigners follow gold, not honor. When the gold runs out, so will they."
Marco's smile faltered for a moment, but he masked it quickly with another laugh. "Old man, your words bore me. Go pray to your saints if you must. I will build my empire without you."
Alessandro's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more.
That night, he walked alone through the villa's corridors. Portraits of De Luca ancestors loomed from the walls, their painted eyes filled with silent judgment. He stopped before Vittorio's portrait, staring into the face of the lion that had once held Sicily together.
Quietly, Alessandro whispered, "Your son has torn apart what you built. Tradition is dead, and soon, the family will follow. How much longer must I keep this oath, when it strangles everything it was meant to protect?"
His voice trembled slightly, but only the walls heard him.
A week later, the first major clash erupted. Dozens of De Luca soldiers were ambushed on the road to Naples. Bodies littered the countryside, left to rot as a warning. Naples had answered Marco's arrogance with blood, and more was coming.
Inside the villa, capos gathered once again. Their voices were louder now, more desperate.
Salvatore spoke openly. "Enough is enough. Marco drags us into ruin. Our businesses fail, our soldiers die, our allies abandon us. If this continues, there will be no family left to lead."
Giovanni Russo added, "Men whisper in the streets. They say Marco wears a crown of blood, not of honor. They say tradition is broken, and with it, our power."
Alessandro remained silent for a long moment before speaking, his voice low but carrying. "Tradition was our shield. Marco shattered it. Now we stand naked before our enemies. And naked men do not survive winter."
The room fell quiet. Each man knew what Alessandro had left unsaid a crown that destroys its house cannot remain.
Late that night, Alessandro returned once more to the chapel. He lit a single candle and sat in silence, the flame flickering like the last breath of a dying empire.
His thoughts echoed like confession. My oath binds me to the family, but the family rots under Marco's hand. Do I protect blood, or do I protect the legacy?
Outside, thunder rolled across the horizon. War was no longer a threat—it was here. And every broken tradition dripped with blood that would not wash away.