A throne of Ashes
1055 Words
Three days after Alessandro's death, silence ruled the Ricci compound.
The war was over.
But peace had not arrived.
Matteo stood in the grand hall, the air thick with memory. Shattered portraits lined the walls—his father’s face cracked under broken glass. A bloodstain still darkened the marble where Alessandro had once screamed loyalty. Now, there was only Matteo… and the ghosts.
Lena walked through the front door like a storm held in check. Black boots. Dark jeans. A pistol holstered at her hip. She had come from the safehouse alone, leaving her recovering father under Aria’s protection.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Matteo said.
“I didn’t come to play it safe.”
He turned to her. “There’s nothing left.”
She looked around the dusty, ruined room. “Exactly. Which means we can build something new.”
---
Later that day, Matteo met with the remaining Ricci council—five men who once served his father. Corrupt, cautious, and blood-soaked. He sat at the head of the long table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
“You’re not Don,” one of them sneered. “You have no claim.”
“I don’t want the title,” Matteo replied. “I want the truth.”
Another man laughed. “Truth? We run guns, drugs, and judges. Truth doesn’t make money.”
Lena stepped out from behind the curtain, leveling a gun at his temple. “Then maybe you should find a new line of work.”
Silence fell.
Matteo stood. “You have two choices. Dissolve the family now and walk away with your lives—or stay, and bury what’s left under another pile of bodies.”
They chose to walk.
The Ricci empire died that afternoon—not with a bang, but with a nod of surrender.
---
That night, Matteo stood on the rooftop of the compound. Lena joined him, arms folded, the wind tugging at her hair.
“It’s done,” he said. “The Riccis are gone.”
“And what are we now?”
He smiled faintly. “Free.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. “Feels strange, doesn’t it?”
“Like standing on the edge of a cliff with no wind left to push you.”
“Then maybe it’s time to fly.”
---
They left the city.
Took nothing but a duffel bag, the encrypted files, and their scars. Lena drove, music low, the hum of the tires soothing like a lullaby. Matteo watched the horizon, unsure what to call the ache in his chest.
Peace?
Regret?
Hope?
They reached a coastal town by dusk. Rented a small cottage with creaking wood floors and windows that caught the sea breeze just right. For the first time in months, they didn’t lock the doors.
For the first time in years, they slept without guns under their pillows.
---
In the mornings, Matteo made coffee. In the evenings, Lena painted. Slowly, the world softened around them.
Sometimes they read. Sometimes they didn’t speak for hours, the silence between them comfortable. Healing.
But healing was never linear.
One night, she woke up crying from a dream she couldn’t remember. He pulled her into his arms and whispered, “It’s over. I’ve got you.”
Another time, Matteo froze while slicing vegetables. Blood stained the knife—not from war, but from a slip. Yet his hands trembled as if under fire.
She kissed his shoulder. “You’re not there anymore.”
“I don’t know where I am,” he admitted.
“With me,” she said.
---
Trouble found them a week later.
A man with a snake tattoo on his neck approached them in the market. He recognized Matteo. Called him Ricci. Said Enzo had more children than anyone knew.
“You think you ended it,” the man whispered. “But some roots grow underground.”
Matteo grabbed him by the collar. “Who are you?”
But the man only smiled—and dropped a grenade.
Matteo threw Lena behind a fruit stand and covered her with his body. The blast rocked the street, shattering glass and setting fire to a nearby cart. Screams echoed. Smoke choked the air.
When the dust cleared, the man was gone.
Matteo was bleeding again.
And Lena’s eyes had gone dark.
---
Back at the cottage, Matteo paced the floor while Lena cleaned the cut on his side.
“I should’ve seen it coming,” he growled.
“You did. You saved me.”
“He said there are more. More Riccis.”
She paused. “Then we finish the job.”
Matteo looked at her. “You’re serious?”
“I didn’t bury my demons just for them to dig themselves up. If there are others, we find them. We end this. For good.”
He pulled her close. “It’s not the life I wanted for you.”
She kissed him. “But it’s the one I choose. With you.”
---
Two days later, they were back on the road.
Lena drove.
Matteo loaded the guns.
They passed burned-out cars and forgotten towns. Through it all, their hands found each other across the console. A silent promise. One they’d made before, in darker days.
That night, they camped by the ruins of a villa Matteo remembered from childhood. They slept in the car, rain tapping gently on the roof.
“I keep thinking it’s over,” Lena said.
“It’ll never be over,” Matteo replied. “Not for people like us.”
She looked at him. “Then let’s be something else.”
He turned to her. “What?”
“Cleaners. Finish what our families started—but make sure no one ever rises again. Not from the Riccis. Not from the Morettis.”
His brow furrowed. “Burn it all?”
“To the ground.”
---
A message came through a burner phone the next morning.
Florence. Warehouse 91. The heir lives.
No sender. Just the words.
Matteo stared at it.
“Florence,” Lena said. “You ready?”
He handed her a magazine clip. “Load up.”
She smirked. “Now you’re speaking my language.”
---
The warehouse waited beneath a red sunrise. And inside, someone was already watching them.
- Writer
