Chapter eleven
360 Words
The sound of distant sirens wove into the silence. Bruno, clutching his shoulder, was struggling to his feet. “Don Vittorio… we must go. Now.”
The title, spoken aloud in front of her, was the final hammer blow.
Vittorio looked at Sofia. He saw the understanding dawning in her eyes, followed by a horror so deep it seemed to fracture her. The lies, the art lectures, the kindly grandfather act—all of it crumbling to reveal the monstrous truth.
“Sofia…” he began, his voice rough.
She took a step back, then another, shaking her head, tears starting to stream down her face. Then she turned and ran, the yellow scarf a fading streak of colour through the door, into the normal world from which she had been violently exiled.
The loss that filled him then was more profound than any diagnosis. He had saved her life and destroyed her world in the same instant.
In the safe house—a bland apartment in Jersey—Vittorio tended to Bruno’s wound with steady hands. The old skills returning.
“The girl…” Bruno gritted out.
“She is safe. That is all that matters.” The words tasted like ash.
Gennaro arrived, his usual composure shattered. “Sokolov. He’s declared war. He calls it a pre-emptive strike. He says the Conti Family is a ghost, led by a corpse.”
Vittorio cleaned his gun, methodically. The grief and shock were being forged into a cold, purpose. The Don was back. Not the Chairman. The Boss.
“And my son?”
Gennaro looked away. “He has gathered his loyalists. He says you are unfit. He says he will deal with Sokolov. He plans a hit on the Russian’s mistress tonight. To draw him out.”
It was a move of stunning, suicidal stupidity. A woman. It broke every code, invited limitless retaliation. Marco was not just challenging him; he was burning the whole temple down.
Vittorio made his decision. The plan for a peaceful dissolution was ash. There was only one path left now, paved with the last of his strength and the last of his soul.
- Writer
