Blood in the olive game

The car snaked up the narrow mountain road, hugging the edge of the cliff as if daring gravity to take it. Matteo De Luca leaned his forehead against the window, watching the olive trees flash past — gnarled old sentinels, their silver-green leaves trembling in the late afternoon sun. The air smelled of dust, salt, and something bitter he couldn’t name. Eight years. That’s how long it had been since he’d left Calabria. Eight years since the night he walked away from this world — from the family, the house, the business, the shadow of his father. Now, he was coming home in a black car with tinted windows, wearing a black suit, for a black event. The funeral of Don Antonio De Luca. As the car crested the hill, the villa came into view — a sprawling stone estate crouched on the hillside, its red-tiled roof weathered, its walls scarred by time and wind. The cypress trees flanking the drive were taller, darker, and the olive groves beyond them stretched farther than he remembered, shimmering under the sinking sun. Matteo’s chest tightened. The driver, a lean man with a shaved head and mirrored sunglasses, glanced at him in the rear view mirror. “Five minutes, Signore Matteo.” Matteo gave a silent nod. The courtyard was already crowded. Black-suited men clustered in quiet conversation, smoke curling from their cigarettes. Women, faces veiled or turned away, murmured prayers, rosaries slipping between their fingers. At the center, beneath the archway, stood Lucia De Luca — his mother — tall, slender, wrapped in black, her face a marble mask. As Matteo stepped out, the hum of conversation faltered. Heads turned. Lucia moved first, crossing the courtyard with measured grace. Her hand reached up, fingertips grazing his cheek, and for a moment, her eyes softened. “You came,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Mamma,” Matteo murmured, kissing both her cheeks. She smelled of lilies and cold stone. From behind her, a voice cut through — smooth, amused, sharp-edged. “Well, well. Look who the wind blew back.” Enzo. Matteo turned to see his cousin sauntering toward him, dark hair slicked back, a gold chain winking against his open collar. He spread his arms wide, a grin slicing across his face. “Matteo. The prodigal son returns.” Matteo extended a hand. “Enzo.” Enzo clasped it tightly, leaning in to slap his back. His voice dropped to a low murmur. “Careful, cousin. Long-lost sons tend to inherit trouble.” The coffin lay in the great hall, flanked by candles and wreaths, beneath a vast, peeling fresco of saints and angels. Don Antonio looked smaller in death, his face pale, waxen, lips pressed into a grim line as if holding back one final command. Matteo stood at the edge, watching as men knelt to kiss the old man’s ring. He felt like an intruder — or a ghost. Eyes followed him, calculating, appraising. Some with welcome, others with something colder. Beside him, Lucia’s voice was soft. “He was walking alone, early morning, as always. In the grove.” Matteo’s brow furrowed. “Alone?” Lucia’s fingers tightened on her rosary. “Your father feared no one.” But perhaps he should have. As night fell, Matteo walked alone into the olive grove. The earth was soft beneath his shoes, the scent of crushed leaves rising with each step. Crickets rasped in the grass. The trees stood like twisted old men, whispering secrets. He reached the old well — a weathered stone circle sunk into the earth. The ground here was dark, churned. His father’s blood had soaked this soil. Crouching, Matteo ran his fingers through the dirt, and something cold and hard brushed his skin. He pulled it free. A gold cufflink. His father’s. He turned it over in his palm, heart thudding. “Looking for something, cousin?” Matteo rose slowly, slipping the cufflink into his pocket. Enzo leaned against a tree, cigarette glowing between his fingers. “Just… thinking,” Matteo said. Enzo smiled, slow and sharp. “Careful. Too much thinking can get a man killed around here.” Back in his room, Matteo sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the cufflink. His hands trembled slightly. His mind ticked through memories — his father’s voice, the heavy silences at the dinner table, the lessons in loyalty, power, control. A knock rattled the door. Lucia. “Rest, my son,” she murmured. “Tomorrow, we bury him. And then… we see what the world has in store for you.” Late that night, a soft scrape woke Matteo. A folded paper slid under his door. He crossed the room, unfolded it, heart already pounding. You’re next.