Moonlight crept through the narrow windows of the villa's library, casting pale streaks across shelves lined with centuries of family history. Dust hung in the air like a veil, disturbed only by Alessandro's careful steps. He carried no lantern, relying on the silver glow of the night to guide him.
For weeks, unease gnawed at him. Don Vittorio's death had been mourned, buried, and accepted by all, yet something remained unsettled. Whispers had reached him—servants speaking of strange herbs in the Don's medicine, an unmarked vial hidden in the late Don's chamber. Alessandro had dismissed them at first, but the weight of Marco's reckless rise forced him to reconsider.
Tonight, he searched for answers.
He moved past leather-bound tomes and faded ledgers until his hand paused on a locked drawer built into the massive desk Vittorio once used. Its brass handle was tarnished, the lock stiff. Alessandro retrieved a small key from his own pocket—a key Vittorio had given him years ago with the words "For the day you must see what I could not say aloud."
The lock clicked open.
Inside lay a bundle of letters tied with black ribbon, edges yellowed with age. Alessandro's breath caught. He pulled them free, setting them gently on the desk. His hands trembled as he unfolded the first.
The handwriting was unmistakable—Vittorio's bold, deliberate strokes. Yet the content was darker than Alessandro had ever imagined.
"To my loyal friend in Rome,I fear poison has entered my house, not by blade but by trust. My heart weakens, yet the doctors say I am sound. I do not believe them. If I fall, know this death came not by God's hand but by betrayal within my blood. Watch Marco closely. He is too eager, too cruel. If I die suddenly, it is not nature—it is design."
Alessandro's chest tightened. He read the lines twice, then a third time. Vittorio had known. The great Don had sensed the shadows gathering within his own family.
Another letter slipped from the bundle. This one bore a broken seal, the wax still clinging faintly. It was addressed not to Rome but to someone closer—"To Alessandro, when the time comes."
With trembling hands, he unfolded it.
"My consigliere, if these words reach you, I am gone. You swore loyalty to me, but I beg you, let your loyalty not blind you to truth. Marco is ambitious, reckless, and he will not wait for my death to wear my crown. If I am struck down, it will be by his hand, or by those he commands. Protect the family, even from my own blood."
The words blurred as Alessandro's eyes stung with fury and grief. He gripped the paper tightly, his knuckles white. For years, he had defended Marco's ascension as his oath demanded, suppressing his doubts, enduring his arrogance. But here, written in Vittorio's hand, was the truth he had feared to admit Marco might not only be unfit—he might be a murderer.
A faint creak at the door startled him. Alessandro quickly slid the letters back into the drawer and turned the key just as Luciano entered.
"Consigliere?" the young man whispered. "I saw your light from the hall. What are you doing here at this hour?"
Alessandro studied him, searching for signs of suspicion, but Luciano's eyes were only curious, not accusing. He exhaled slowly. "Searching for wisdom in old words. This house has many secrets, Luciano. Some of them dangerous."
Luciano stepped closer, lowering his voice. "I hear more soldiers grumble each day. They say Marco bleeds Palermo dry. They say he kills faster than he thinks. Some wonder if Don Vittorio truly died as they told us."
Alessandro's gaze sharpened. "Do you wonder the same?"
Luciano hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. The Don was strong. He walked with fire in his eyes. Men like him don't vanish overnight without reason."
Alessandro placed a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Keep your doubts hidden. Speak of them to no one, not even in whispers. The walls have ears, and Marco feeds on suspicion."
Luciano swallowed hard but nodded. "I understand."
As the young soldier left, Alessandro remained in the library, staring at the locked drawer. The letters weighed on his soul, a burden he could not yet share. But he knew this discovery changed everything. His oath was no longer bound to loyalty alone—it was bound to truth.
At dawn, Marco summoned his men for another council in the grand hall. His voice thundered with arrogance as he announced plans to expand into Naples despite the blood already spilling in the streets.
"We will not hide like rats. Palermo belongs to me, and soon Naples will too. Their Don is weak, their allies cowards. I will strike them before they strike again."
Some cheered, others remained grim. Salvatore Greco leaned toward Alessandro, muttering under his breath. "Reckless. Each word from his mouth digs our grave deeper."
Alessandro did not answer. His mind was still in the library, on the letters, on Vittorio's warnings. He watched Marco stand where Vittorio once ruled, the crown of blood heavy on his brow.
And he thought Perhaps the lion's son did not inherit his father's throne by fate, but by poison.
Morning haze settled over Palermo when Alessandro returned to Vittorio's private chamber. The room had been untouched since the funeral, preserved as though the Don might step back through the door at any moment. Sunlight filtered through heavy drapes, illuminating dust that danced like restless spirits in the still air.
He moved with reverence, his fingers tracing the carved wooden bedpost, the old rosary hanging from the headboard, the silver ashtray filled with half-burned cigars. Each detail was a memory. Each scent reminded him of conversations whispered in this very room—Vittorio's advice, his warnings, his laughter.
At the bedside table, Alessandro knelt and pulled open the drawer. Amid the scattered papers and empty medicine bottles, one vial remained. Its glass was thin, almost translucent, and at the bottom clung the faintest residue of green powder.
Alessandro lifted it carefully, holding it up to the light. His heart pounded.
He remembered the whispers of servants—the Don's sudden illness, the strange herbs. This was no ordinary medicine.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. He slipped the vial into his coat just as the door opened. Dritan stepped inside, his presence like a shadow that swallowed the room.
"Strange place to wander, consigliere," the Albanian said with a smirk. "Do you miss the old man?"
Alessandro's face remained calm. "I honor him. Something you foreigners cannot understand."
Dritan's eyes narrowed, his smile never reaching them. "Perhaps. Or perhaps you dig too deep into graves better left closed." He lingered for a moment, then turned and left, his boots heavy against the stone floor.
Alessandro exhaled slowly. Dritan had been watching.
That evening, Alessandro sought out Father Giuliano, the family's confessor and longtime ally. They met in the old stone chapel on the edge of the estate, where flickering candles cast long shadows across cracked icons.
Alessandro placed the vial on the altar. "Tell me what this is."
The priest examined it, frowning. "I am no apothecary, but I have seen such powder before. Belladonna. Deadly in the wrong hands, subtle in the right dose. It can mimic a failing heart. Many a man has been buried while his killer walked free."
Alessandro's chest tightened. "So it is true. Vittorio was murdered."
Father Giuliano crossed himself. "God forgive whoever committed such a sin."
The consigliere's voice hardened. "God may forgive. I will not."
Back in the villa, Alessandro confronted Salvatore Greco privately. The old capo sat with a glass of grappa, his hands trembling slightly from age—or perhaps from the burden of what they all carried.
"Salvatore," Alessandro began, lowering his voice, "tell me truly. Did you ever doubt the Don's death?"
The old man's eyes flickered. "Doubt? I buried him with my own hands. I wept for him. But yes… I doubted. Vittorio was strong, even in age. He did not die like a man ready to go. He died like a man struck down."
Alessandro leaned closer. "I found proof. Poison."
Salvatore's face went pale, his grip tightening on the glass. "Madonna Santa… Then Marco—"
"We cannot accuse without certainty," Alessandro cut in. "But Vittorio's letters spoke of fear. Fear of his own blood."
The two men sat in silence, the weight of truth pressing upon them.
A week later, Alessandro's suspicions deepened. He discovered that in Vittorio's final days, Dritan had been seen delivering small packages to the Don's chamber. The servants whispered but dared not speak aloud.
One evening, Alessandro intercepted Dritan in the corridor. Their eyes met, cold steel against cold steel.
"You served my Don faithfully," Alessandro said evenly. "But I wonder—was your loyalty to him, or to his son?"
Dritan smirked. "Loyalty is to whoever holds the crown. The old lion was fading. The young one roared louder. That is all."
The admission struck Alessandro like a blade.
In his study, Alessandro unfolded Vittorio's final letter once more. "Protect the family, even from my own blood."
He poured himself a glass of wine but did not drink. His oath bound him still, but the weight of betrayal shifted its meaning. If Vittorio had been murdered, then loyalty to Marco was loyalty to a lie.
Luciano entered quietly, carrying news. "Consigliere, another body has been found at the harbor. A fisherman. They say he spoke out against Marco. His tongue was cut out."
Alessandro closed his eyes briefly. Marco's reign was no longer just reckless—it was monstrous. And if Vittorio's words were true, that monstrosity was born from murder.
That night, he returned to the chapel, placing the letters and the vial before the altar. He prayed not for peace, but for clarity.
"My Don, your blood calls for justice. I swore to protect this family. If your son is guilty, then my oath belongs not to him, but to you—and to the truth. Guide me, for the path ahead is darker than any I have walked."
Outside, thunder rolled across Palermo's skies. The storm gathering over Sicily mirrored the one rising within Alessandro's soul.
And in that storm, he knew the time was coming when oath and betrayal would collide, and only one could survive.