Chapter Eight: Crossroads
927 Words
The villa was heavy with silence.
Matteo moved through the halls like a shadow, his footsteps quiet on the old marble floors. Outside, the moon hung low over the olive groves, casting long silver bars across the land. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked — sharp, urgent — and was swallowed by the night.
He paused outside the study door, his hand resting on the wood.
Inside, men waited.
The room smelled of tobacco, whiskey, and tension. Matteo stepped in, the door clicking softly behind him. Four men sat at the table — his most trusted lieutenants, or so they were called.
Antonio, sharp-eyed and wiry, a veteran of his father’s wars.
Raffaele, quiet and loyal, the kind of man who followed orders without question.
Luca, the youngest, eager and nervous, fingers drumming against the tabletop.
And Marco’s seat — empty.
The chair where Marco used to sit had been left untouched, a grim reminder.
Matteo sat at the head of the table, hands folded.
“We have a leak,” he said simply. “We’ve had one for weeks.”
A flicker of movement at the corner of his vision — Antonio’s hand tightening on his glass, Raffaele’s glance toward Luca, Luca’s sudden stillness.
“Last night, a shipment disappeared,” Matteo continued. “Three trucks. They were intercepted at the port. The only people who knew the route — are sitting in this room.”
A heavy pause.
Matteo’s voice dropped, quiet as a blade sliding from its sheath.
“You’re going to tell me who it was.”
An hour later, Matteo leaned against the window frame, his breath fogging the cold glass.
He had seen the guilt. He had smelled the fear.
And it all pointed to Luca.
The youngest.
The one they’d all thought was harmless.
Down in the courtyard, Matteo found Luca pacing near the fountain, a cigarette trembling between his fingers. His face was pale in the moonlight, his eyes darting to the darkened windows above.
“Luca,” Matteo called softly.
The young man froze.
Matteo approached slowly, hands in his pockets.
“You’ve been with us how long now?”
“F-Four years, Don Matteo,” Luca stammered.
“My father liked you.”
“I… I was loyal to Don Antonio.”
“And to me?”
Luca’s throat worked. His hand lifted the cigarette to his lips, but it never made it — Matteo’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist hard.
“Who bought you, Luca?” Matteo murmured.
Luca’s mouth opened — a soft gasp — and then the words came tumbling out.
Inside the study, Enzo poured another whiskey, watching from the window as Matteo spoke to Luca below.
Lucia entered quietly, her shawl brushing the floor.
“He’s learning,” Enzo said softly, without turning.
Lucia’s eyes never left Matteo’s figure in the courtyard. “He’s his father’s son.”
Enzo smiled faintly. “We’ll see how much.”
Luca cracked.
Tears, apologies, shaking hands — the full collapse. Sandro Vitale had paid him. Promised money, a ticket out, a chance to start over in Milan. Luca had fed details — truck routes, shipment times, guard rotations — directly to Vitale’s men.
Matteo’s voice remained calm.
“Did anyone else know?”
“No,” Luca sobbed. “No one— I swear.”
Matteo let him cry.
Then he said quietly, “Go upstairs. Pack a bag.”
Luca’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Don Matteo— I—”
“Someone will drive you to the train station.” Matteo’s voice sharpened. “And if you’re ever seen in Calabria again, you will not leave alive.”
Luca staggered back, chest heaving. He turned and ran.
In the library, Giulia waited, arms folded, watching Matteo as he came in.
“You let him live?” she asked, voice low.
Matteo poured himself a whiskey, his hands steady. “Yes.”
Giulia stepped closer, her eyes sharp.
“Your father wouldn’t have.”
Matteo looked at her over the rim of his glass. “My father’s dead.”
A long silence stretched between them.
Then Giulia spoke, her voice softer. “You’re walking a knife’s edge, Matteo. Every choice you make right now shapes what kind of man you become.”
Matteo’s smile was tired. “What if I don’t have a choice?”
Giulia shook her head. “There’s always a choice. You just have to live with it.”
That night, Matteo sat alone on the balcony, the revolver resting on the table beside him, the cold wind pulling at his shirt.
Below, the olive groves stretched like a dark sea. Somewhere among them, Enzo moved — Matteo could feel it. Not just as a cousin, not just as a rival, but as a storm gathering at his doorstep.
Lucia joined him quietly, sitting in the chair across from him, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
“When I married your father,” she murmured, “I was eighteen. I thought I was marrying a man. I didn’t know I was marrying a kingdom.”
Matteo smiled faintly. “And now?”
“Now,” Lucia said softly, “I’m watching you become the king.”
For a moment, mother and son sat in silence, the night heavy around them.
And somewhere deep in the grove, the first gunshot rang out — a sharp c***k that shattered the quiet, the warning shot before the storm.
Matteo’s eyes snapped to the trees, his body tense.
It had begun.
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