Blood in the olive game

Chapter Four: Into the Fire

Night fell like a slow tide, swallowing the hills and coastline in a deep, inky blue. Rain arrived in whispers, hissing against the villa’s stone walls, trickling down the windows like silver threads. Inside the study, Matteo sat by the fire, his face lit in amber glow, the cufflinks heavy in his palm.

They were small, almost delicate — gold, engraved with the De Luca crest, smooth from years of use. Matteo had turned them over a hundred times already, but no matter how he studied them, no new truth revealed itself. Only the same chilling question:

Why were they at the murder scene?

The door creaked softly.

“Your mind is restless.”

Matteo looked up. Father Paolo stood in the doorway, his black cassock faintly damp from the rain, silver hair darkened at the temples. He moved with the quiet, steady grace of a man used to carrying heavy burdens.

“Come in, Father,” Matteo said, motioning to the empty chair.

Paolo settled carefully by the fire, hands clasped. His lined face softened in the flickering light.

“I’ve prayed over your father’s grave tonight,” he murmured. “And over yours.”

Matteo raised an eyebrow. “I’m not dead yet.”

“No.” Paolo’s eyes darkened. “But the graveyards here are filled with men who believed the same.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, the fire crackling softly.

“He came to me in the last weeks, you know,” Paolo said finally. “Your father.”

Matteo’s breath caught. “He never mentioned it.”

“He wanted advice, not confession. There’s a difference.”

Matteo leaned forward. “About what?”

Paolo’s eyes met his. “About you.”

The words hit Matteo harder than he expected.

“He feared you were the best part of him,” Paolo murmured. “And the part this life would destroy.”

The rain intensified, drumming against the old windows. Matteo stood, restless, pacing the study.

It was then Enzo stormed in — rain-drenched, wild-eyed, breath hot with whiskey.

“They hit the port again!” he roared, slamming his fist on the desk. “Twenty crates gone! Guns, liquor — everything!”

Matteo turned slowly. “Who?”

“Who do you think?” Enzo snarled, his dark hair slicked back, his face flushed. “Vitale. It’s always Vitale.”

He crossed the room in two strides, jabbing a finger in Matteo’s chest.

“You sit here with your priest, your cufflinks, your damned thoughtfulness while we’re bleeding out there.”

Matteo’s jaw clenched. “I’m trying to prevent a war.”

“Wake up, cousin.” Enzo’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “The war’s already here.”

Father Paolo rose quietly, his voice soft but firm.

“Peace, my sons.”

Enzo shot him a look sharp as broken glass. “Stay out of this, old man.”

Matteo’s voice cut through the air, cold and hard.

“Enough.”

Enzo stiffened. For a moment, it seemed he might lash out — then he smiled, slow and thin.

“You’re not your father,” Enzo murmured. “Remember that.”

He turned and stalked out, leaving the door swinging open in his wake.

Later that night, Matteo found himself in the olive grove, the rain falling soft and steady, soaking his hair, chilling his skin. The trees loomed, silvered by moonlight, their leaves whispering in the wind.

He crouched by the old well, fingers combing through the muddy earth.

Something sharp grazed his hand.

His breath caught.

He pulled it free — the second cufflink.

For a moment, Matteo just stared at it, heart hammering in his chest. Slowly, deliberately, he closed his fingers around it.

Two cufflinks. Both at the murder scene. Both left like a signature. Or a trap.

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

Matteo spun, his pulse leaping.

Enzo emerged from the trees, cigarette glowing between his fingers, rain dripping from his leather jacket.

“Could say the same to you,” Matteo murmured.

Enzo exhaled a long ribbon of smoke. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He approached slowly, eyes glinting in the dark.

“Funny thing about this grove,” Enzo said softly. “It hears everything. Deals made, lives taken… all of it soaked into the roots.”

Matteo slipped the cufflink into his pocket.

“Why are you really here, Enzo?”

His cousin gave a small, wolfish smile. “Maybe to remind you that you’re not the only one with ghosts to chase.”

The two men stood in the rain, the night folding tight around them.

Back inside, Matteo shed his wet clothes, changed into dry ones, and poured himself a whiskey. He stared at the glass, watched the way the amber liquid caught the firelight.

From his pocket, he pulled out both cufflinks, laying them side by side on the desk.

They gleamed like two small, cold promises.

Suddenly, the memory of Marco’s last word flared in his mind.

“Inside.”

Inside the family.

Inside the house.

Inside the heart.

Matteo leaned back in his father’s chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.

Someone inside wanted Antonio De Luca dead.

And now they wanted Matteo to follow.