The Last Don

Chapter 1: The Meeting in Palermo Palermo, Italy. The city shone under a treacherous sun, and its narrow streets kept secrets that no tourist would ever see. The real power was not in the politicians or the police: it was in four families that ruled every corner of crime. The Grecos, the Vitales, the Carusos, and the feared Ferraro brothers. The Ferraros had struck a deal with the government: stop drug trafficking and smuggling, hand over 50% of their fortune, and serve eight years in prison. After serving their sentence, they would be allowed to walk free and create legitimate businesses with the other half of their money. But the Ferraros wanted more: for the other families to follow their example, handing over 50% of their fortune and sending their patriarchs to prison for eight years. Salvatore Greco, a 65-year-old patriarch, took a deep breath. He had built his legacy through decades of trafficking, smuggling, and illegal gambling. His son Alessandro, 24 years old, was beginning to move into the family business, hungry for power and with blood in his eyes. —Son —said Salvatore with a deep voice—, today you will do what we must do. Refuse the Ferraros’ proposal, but watch how the others react. Make it seem like you’re just starting out, that you cannot commit your investments. Every word counts. Alessandro nodded. He knew that every gesture could mean life or death. The meeting took place in an abandoned palace. Long tables, chandeliers covered in dust, and men with hard gazes who didn’t blink in front of the Ferraros. —We have made our proposal —said the older Ferraro brother, his voice cold as marble—. Each family hands over half its fortune, and its patriarchs will serve eight years in prison. It is the only thing that will guarantee peace in Palermo. Silence fell like a slab. Vitale and Caruso hesitated, but seemed to lean toward it. Salvatore frowned. Alessandro spoke up: —We cannot… we cannot hand over what has cost us our whole lives. I am only beginning to invest in legitimate businesses, and the trafficking we managed for years… It is not possible. The discussion intensified. Fists slammed against tables, hands clenched, eyes burning with fire. Salvatore stood up, pounding the wood with force. —We will not accept! —he shouted—. Let the other families decide, but not us. The Greco family withdrew. Outside, Palermo continued its normal rhythm, oblivious to the coming storm. Inside each man, the certainty that the war was only just beginning. Chapter 2: The m******e of Palermo The sea breeze caressed the terrace of the Greco beach house in Mondello. The family dined facing the sea: laughter, glasses of wine, and trivial conversations. For a moment, life seemed normal. Then, a roar of engines shattered the calm. Dark silhouettes descended from motorcycles, weapons in hand. It was the Ferraro army. —Alessandro, run! —shouted his father, as bullets began to rain down. The m******e began. Bullets pierced windows and walls. His mother fell without a scream, his sister barely had time to embrace him before a shot brought her down. Blood mixed with sand, and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. Not only in Mondello. In different corners of Palermo, the Ferraros left no trace. • In an elegant restaurant, the hitmen gunned down the clients and owners, leaving the place turned into a pool of death. • In a suburban home, a shootout wiped out the family of a Greco ally who was trying to escape. • In a downtown bar, men fell one after another while bottles exploded in the crossfire. The city burned in chaos. The roar of motorcycles and gunfire mixed with screams of terror. Every corner of Palermo seemed infected by the Ferraros’ violence. Alessandro, his heart racing a thousand beats per minute, leapt onto his motorcycle parked on the Mondello house terrace. Shots whistled around him, shattering wood and knocking down lampposts. Every maneuver, every turn, was an act of pure survival. As he escaped through narrow alleys, the smell of gunpowder and blood filled his lungs. Palermo’s lights reflected the destruction: shattered windows, burning cars, bodies lying on the streets. No one survived. No one was left alive. When he finally disappeared into the labyrinth of the city, covered in dust, blood, and rage, Alessandro knew one thing for certain: the Ferraros had destroyed everything he loved, and he would become their worst nightmare. With adrenaline still coursing through his veins, he revved the motorcycle and set course for Rome. The distance would be long, but vengeance could not wait. As the rain began to fall, his promise solidified: blood for blood, every Ferraro would pay for what they had done.