Blood pooled beneath the stone archway of an abandoned wine cellar on the outskirts of Palermo. The air reeked of damp earth, rusted iron, and fear. Chains clinked softly as a bound man shifted, his muffled cries echoing faintly against the cold walls.
Marco De Luca stood before him, eyes burning with a ruthless hunger. In his hand, a silver pistol gleamed under the flickering lightbulb that dangled from the ceiling.
Around them, a circle of soldiers watched—half eager, half unsettled. Dritan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Salvatore Greco, though loyal to tradition, said nothing; his silence was forced, a mask hiding disgust.
The man on the chair—Enzo Marino, a suspected informant—squirmed desperately. His lips trembled as he tried to speak through the gag. Sweat drenched his face, mixing with blood from a cut above his brow.
Marco smiled coldly. "Do you know why you are here, Enzo? Because whispers travel faster than bullets. And I cannot allow whispers to live."
He ripped the gag from the man's mouth. Enzo gasped for air, coughing violently. "Marco, please… I swear on my mother's grave, I never spoke to Naples! I am loyal. Always loyal!"
The words fell into silence. No one moved.
Marco tilted his head, studying him like a predator with wounded prey. "Loyal men don't keep secrets. Loyal men don't whisper with strangers in dark alleys." He pressed the pistol's barrel against Enzo's forehead. "Tell me, Enzo, what is loyalty worth when fear runs deeper?"
Enzo sobbed. "I have children—"
The crack of a gunshot silenced him forever. His body slumped, blood streaking down the chair legs.
Gasps broke from the younger soldiers, but Marco didn't flinch. He lowered the pistol, his jaw set in cold triumph. "This is loyalty," he declared to the room. "Obedience, silence, fear. Remember that. Anyone who doubts me will share his fate."
The cellar filled with uneasy murmurs. Some men nodded quickly, eager to appease their Don. Others averted their gaze, the seed of doubt growing deeper.
Later that night, Alessandro sat alone in the villa's chapel, the faint echoes of the execution replaying in his mind. He had not been present, but the details spread fast. Every man in the family had heard Marco's brutal display.
The consigliere traced the wooden beads of his rosary, his voice barely above a whisper. "Vittorio, your son has turned loyalty into fear. Where honor once stood, only violence remains. How long before this house crumbles under its own blood?"
His thoughts were interrupted by Luciano, who entered quietly and closed the door behind him. His young face was pale, his hands trembling slightly. "Alessandro… Marco killed Enzo Marino tonight. In front of everyone."
Alessandro nodded slowly, his expression heavy with resignation. "I heard."
Luciano clenched his fists. "This is madness. Enzo was no traitor. He was scared, yes, but loyal. Marco wanted a spectacle. He wanted blood."
The consigliere's voice carried a tired weight. "He wants fear. He believes fear will make men obey him. But fear is a fragile crown—it shatters when struck too hard."
Luciano leaned closer. "Some of the soldiers… they whisper already. They say Marco's not a Don, but a butcher. They say the family has no honor left."
Alessandro's eyes closed briefly, as though in prayer. "Whispers again. Always whispers. And every whisper Marco hears, he answers with violence. That is the path of ruin."
In the following days, the echoes of Enzo's execution rippled through Palermo. Shopkeepers closed their doors earlier, street corners emptied, and even allies grew cautious. The De Luca name, once spoken with reverence, now carried a stench of fear.
Marco, however, basked in it. He strutted through the city with armed guards, his presence a reminder of his power. To him, fear was victory. To Alessandro, it was the beginning of collapse.
One evening, during a meeting in the villa's grand hall, Marco stood before his capos, boasting of his control. "Naples dares not cross me now. Rome bows in silence. This city is mine, more than it ever was my father's."
Salvatore Greco finally spoke, his tone sharp. "At what cost? You spill blood where none is needed. Enzo's death brings no peace, only unrest. Do you not see the damage you inflict?"
Marco's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Watch your tongue, Salvatore. I am not my father, who tolerated weakness. Loyalty must be absolute."
Alessandro interjected calmly, his voice smooth yet piercing. "Loyalty must also be earned, Marco. Fear binds men only until they find someone stronger to fear. Then it breaks."
The tension in the hall thickened, soldiers shifting uneasily. Marco's glare locked with Alessandro's, a silent battle of wills that neither yielded.
At last, Marco smirked bitterly. "Perhaps you grow too old for this world of blood, consigliere. Pray all you like, but the family bends to me now."
Alessandro said nothing more. But as he left the hall, he knew the echoes of violence had only just begun.
Night deepened over Palermo, but inside the De Luca villa, the air was restless. Wine glasses clinked, soldiers laughed too loudly, and Marco reveled in the chaos he had created. Yet behind every laugh lingered unease, like a candle guttering in the wind.
Dritan entered quietly, dragging a battered man by the collar. His face was swollen, blood dripping from his split lip. He collapsed to the floor, groaning. Marco raised an eyebrow.
"Who is this?"
Dritan's voice was low. "Gennaro Russo. A courier from Naples. Caught him near the docks with a letter addressed to the Camorra. He says it was only business, but…" Dritan smirked. "You know how it is."
Gasps filled the room. The soldiers shifted, eyes darting to Marco, then to Alessandro, who had just entered. The consigliere's expression was grave, his steps slow as he approached.
Marco's lips curved into a wolfish grin. "A messenger of Naples, in my house? Fate is kind tonight."
Alessandro raised a hand. "Marco. Listen to me. If he carries a message, then he is only the mouth, not the hand. Killing a messenger is a declaration of total war."
But Marco ignored him. He crouched beside Gennaro, tilting his chin up with the barrel of his pistol. "Tell me, courier, what message do you carry? Words of peace? Or whispers of betrayal?"
Gennaro stammered, coughing blood. "Please… it was only money… a delivery… nothing more. I beg you…"
Marco chuckled darkly. "Begging does not erase your crime. You walked into my city carrying poison."
Alessandro stepped forward, voice firm. "Let him live. Send him back with his message, but marked with a warning. That is how a Don commands respect. With wisdom, not slaughter."
Marco turned sharply, eyes blazing. "Enough of your sermons, consigliere. I will not be my father, waiting for snakes to strike. I strike first."
Before Alessandro could move, Marco pulled the trigger. The shot echoed through the hall, and Gennaro crumpled lifeless onto the marble floor. Blood spread slowly, soaking into the cracks.
For a long moment, silence hung heavy. Then Marco raised his glass of wine and declared, "This is my answer to Naples. Let them choke on it."
The soldiers forced cheers, though many averted their eyes. Salvatore's fists clenched at his sides. Luciano bit his lip until it bled. Alessandro remained still, but inside, his heart weighed heavy.
Later that night, Alessandro found Salvatore outside in the courtyard, smoking furiously beneath the moonlight. The older capo's voice shook with rage.
"He is not a Don. He is a beast. Every tradition, every law, he tears apart as though it were nothing. This execution… it damns us all."
Alessandro spoke quietly. "He believes violence is power. But power without restraint burns faster than it builds."
Salvatore's eyes flicked toward him. "And when he burns us all, consigliere? Will you still honor your oath?"
The question struck deep. Alessandro did not answer.
News of Gennaro's death reached Naples within two days. Retaliation was swift. A De Luca gambling den was riddled with bullets in broad daylight, leaving civilians dead among the tables. Fear gripped Palermo tighter than ever.
In the villa, Marco raged like a storm. "They dare attack me? I will cut them down, family by family, street by street!"
Alessandro stepped forward, his patience thinning. "You killed their courier. You lit this fire yourself."
Marco slammed his glass against the wall, shards flying. "No—this is not my doing. This is weakness! Weak men fear Naples, but I will make them fear me more!"
Dritan smirked at Marco's side. "War makes money, Don. Blood fills coffers as well as graves."
Alessandro's stomach twisted. He saw it now with brutal clarity Marco's reign was not about honor, nor even survival. It was about hunger—endless, reckless hunger for power, for blood.
Two nights later, Marco staged another execution. This time, he invited not just soldiers, but local businessmen, corrupt officials, even priests who fed from the family's hand. He wanted Palermo to watch, to understand that mercy was gone.
The victim, a shopkeeper accused of shorting payments, was dragged to the villa courtyard. Lanterns flickered, shadows stretching across the stone as dozens watched. The man knelt, hands bound, sobbing for his life.
Marco raised his pistol high, his voice carrying. "This is what happens to those who cheat me. This is what happens to those who think tradition protects them. Tradition is dead. Only my law stands now!"
He fired a single shot to the back of the man's head. The body fell forward, blood staining the stones. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd, some crossing themselves, others looking away in disgust.
Alessandro's jaw tightened. He saw businessmen pale with fear, priests whisper prayers under their breath, soldiers staring at their Don not with respect, but with terror. The echoes of violence grew louder than any oath, louder than any prayer.
Later, in the silence of his study, Alessandro poured himself a glass of wine but did not drink. His hands trembled slightly as he stared into the crimson liquid, seeing only blood.
Luciano entered quietly, his young face shadowed with dread. "Consigliere… how much longer can this last?"
Alessandro's voice was soft, almost broken. "As long as men mistake fear for loyalty. As long as blood is mistaken for power."
He set the glass down, untouched. "But even echoes fade. And when they do, what remains is silence. A silence filled with ghosts."
Outside, Palermo trembled beneath Marco's reign of terror. But within Alessandro's heart, the first seeds of defiance began to take root.