The vintage car, a sleek and ominous black shadow, purred to a stop before an imposing wrought-iron gate. Beyond it, the mansion stood silhouetted against the stormy sky, a monument to old-world opulence and new-world dread. Antonio, in his tiny, helpless state, craned his neck to take it all in. This wasn't just a house; it was a fortress. The mansion was a sprawling, three-story Italianate villa, its pale stone facade softened by years of rain and sun. Arched windows, framed by dark shutters, looked like a thousand unblinking eyes. A massive, carved wooden door with a brass lion's head knocker stood at the entrance, a promise of a world both grand and terrifying within.
A pang of bittersweet nostalgia hit him. In his previous life, visiting Italy had been a dream, a vacation he'd always put off for "just one more project." He had a hundred things he'd wanted to see—the Colosseum, the Uffizi Gallery, and now, he was here, in a version of Italy that felt both authentic and utterly wrong, his first moments shadowed by the very real possibility of a grim end. The regret was a fleeting flicker, quickly replaced by the cold, hard logic of survival. His past was gone. This new reality was all that mattered.
The car door opened, and the woman who had held him, a tense and silent figure, handed him over to a maid with a deferential bow. The maid, a young woman with a round, kind face and sharp, intelligent eyes, took him with a practiced ease.
"Get him ready," the woman said simply, her voice low. "The Captain wants him cleaned up."
The maid nodded, her expression unreadable, and vanished into the mansion's cool, cavernous interior. The hallways were a maze of dark, polished wood and intricate marble tiling. Priceless paintings adorned the walls, their subjects looking down with stoic indifference. As the maid carried him deeper into the house, Antonio's mind raced. What was this? A baptism? A ritual? The term "cleaned up" sounded terrifyingly final. He was a physicist, a man who dealt with logic and data. He had no frame of reference for this kind of theatrical, terrifying uncertainty. He was a baby, utterly powerless, and the terrifying knowledge that he was in the clutches of a merciless mobster named Capone Bege made his situation feel even more hopeless. He decided to do what he did best: observe. He would be a silent witness to his own fate, gathering as much data as he could before his "ticket was punched to heaven."
The maid led him to a magnificent bathroom, a symphony of white marble and gold fixtures. He was embarrassed, his adult mind mortified by the indignity of being stripped and bathed by a stranger. He closed his eyes and forced himself to focus on the sensation of the warm water, the gentle scent of soap. He was a body, not a person in this moment. A small vessel for a terrified soul. After the bath, she dried him and dressed him in a new set of baby clothes—a crisp white shirt and tiny trousers. Then, she offered him a bottle of milk formula. His body, ravenous after hours of stress and fear, took over. He gulped down the warm liquid, the sudden nourishment a shock to his system. He didn't realize how hungry he was until that first, glorious gulp.
Once he was fed, the maid carried him down a long, winding staircase and into what appeared to be a grand chapel. The air was thick with the scent of old wood, candle wax, and a faint, lingering hint of gun oil. The entire room was silent, save for the flickering of dozens of candles. Dozens of grim-faced men, Capone's crew, stood in the pews, their bodies stiff and their hands clasped. The atmosphere was so thick with tension you could cut it with a knife. Not a single person moved. It was a terrifying kind of quiet, the kind that precedes a storm.
Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors at the front of the chapel creaked open, and Capone Bege strode in, his silhouette framed by the light. He was flanked by the woman who had carried Antonio earlier and the imposing, scarred man who had first picked him up. The air seemed to grow even heavier with their presence. Capone, a hulking mass of a man in a pinstripe suit, walked with a deliberate, confident swagger that spoke of absolute power.
He approached the altar where an old, wizened priest waited. The old man, his face a roadmap of wrinkles, held a small, leather-bound bible. Capone gave him a curt nod.
"Start the ritual," he commanded, his voice a low growl that echoed in the silence.
The priest began to read from the bible, his ancient voice a monotonous drone. Then, he beckoned toward the maid, who carefully carried Antonio to the altar. Antonio's heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. The moment of truth. He steeled himself, his mind a fortress of cold, scientific logic. He wouldn't show fear. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
Capone took a small, silver knife from his coat pocket. It glinted ominously in the candlelight. Antonio watched, his tiny body trembling slightly, as Capone gently, almost reverently, took his small hand. The tip of the knife pricked his finger, a tiny pinpoint of pain. A single bead of bright red blood welled up, then another. Antonio watched, mesmerized, as Capone let the drops fall into a small, ornate container on the altar. The red liquid was so vibrant against the silver.
Next, the priest took the container and, with a silent prayer, submerged him in a small basin of what looked like holy water. The cold shock of the water was the final straw for his tiny, overstressed nervous system. A wail escaped his throat, the sound raw and desperate. He thrashed for a moment before the priest pulled him out, wrapping him in a soft linen cloth.
The priest then announced, his voice suddenly strong and clear, "The ritual is complete."
The woman who had first held him rushed forward and bandaged his tiny finger with a small piece of cloth. Capone, a rare look of something akin to pride on his face, took him into his arms. He held him high for all to see, his voice booming through the chapel.
"From now on, he is a member of our family! He is Antonio, my son!"
The announcement hung in the air like a final verdict. Antonio, who had been holding on by a thread of pure will, felt the last of his strength drain away. He was Antonio, Capone Bege's son. A mafioso. A pirate. The world spun. The chapel, the faces, the candles, all blurred into a hazy, dreamlike vortex. The last thing he felt was the strange, powerful warmth of Capone's arms before he finally, mercifully, drifted into unconsciousness.