Chapter Two-The Executioner
1499 Words
There were men in Palermo whose names people knew.
And then there were men whose names people feared.
Enzo Francisco Vitale belonged to the second kind.
The Vitale family had been in Sicily for generations.
Long before Enzo was born, before his father had taken control of the organization, the Vitales had already built an empire.
It was old.
Organized.
Disciplined.
And ruthless.
Their influence stretched far beyond the streets of Palermo.
Businesses.
Construction companies.
Restaurants.
Shipping.
Real estate.
Nightclubs.
Private security.
Some were legitimate.
Some were not.
And some existed somewhere in between.
The Vitale organization had survived because it understood one simple rule:
Never put everything in one place.
The family had lawyers.
Accountants.
Politicians who owed favors.
Businessmen who knew better than to ask questions.
Men who handled the things that needed handling.
And at the center of it all stood the man currently known as the Don.
Massimo Vitale.
Enzo’s father.
Massimo had ruled for nearly three decades.
He was respected.
He was feared.
He was patient.
But even Massimo knew something that the rest of Sicily had begun to understand.
His son was becoming more dangerous than he had ever been.
Enzo Francisco Vitale was thirty-one years old.
And there wasn’t a man in the organization who didn’t know his name.
Some called him Il Principe Nero.
The Black Prince.
Others called him something else.
Something that had become almost a legend.
El Verdugo.
The Executioner.
The name had started among Spanish-speaking criminals who had worked with the Vitale organization years ago.
They had given him the name after witnessing how Enzo dealt with betrayal.
He never shouted.
He never threatened.
He simply decided.
And once Enzo made a decision, there was no changing it.
The nickname spread.
Soon, people throughout Palermo knew it.
Then Sicily.
Then Italy.
Eventually, even people outside the country had heard of the man they called the Executioner.
Enzo hated the nickname.
Not because it frightened him.
Because he didn’t need one.
His name was enough.
⸻
Enzo sat behind a large black desk inside his private office.
The room was almost completely dark.
Black leather.
Dark wood.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Palermo.
There were no unnecessary decorations.
No family photographs.
No sentimental objects.
Everything had a purpose.
Everything was controlled.
Enzo sat with his sleeves rolled slightly above his wrists, a black watch resting against his skin.
He wore black trousers.
A black shirt.
Black shoes.
Even the ring on his right hand was black.
Enzo wore black almost every day.
People joked that he dressed like a man attending his own funeral.
Nobody laughed when he was around.
He was reading through a file when someone knocked.
Three times.
Enzo didn’t look up.
“Come in.”
The door opened.
His right-hand man, Raffaele, entered.
He stopped several feet away from the desk.
“Boss.”
Enzo continued reading.
“Talk.”
“The shipment arrived.”
Enzo turned a page.
“And?”
“No problems.”
Enzo finally lifted his eyes.
They were dark.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
“Then why are you standing here?”
Raffaele swallowed.
“There was one problem.”
The room became silent.
Enzo closed the file.
Slowly.
“Explain.”
“One of the men at the port took money from another organization.”
Enzo leaned back.
“Who?”
“Carlo.”
A pause.
Enzo’s expression didn’t change.
“Bring him to me.”
Raffaele hesitated.
“Now?”
Enzo looked at him.
That was enough.
Raffaele nodded.
“Yes, Boss.”
He turned toward the door.
“Raffaele.”
The man stopped.
Enzo’s voice was quiet.
“Don’t kill him.”
Raffaele looked surprised.
Enzo picked up his pen.
“Not yet.”
“Yes, Boss.”
The door closed.
Enzo returned to his paperwork as though nothing had happened.
That was the thing people feared most about him.
His calm.
Enzo didn’t need to raise his voice.
He didn’t need to throw things.
He didn’t need to threaten anyone.
His silence was enough.
⸻
Enzo had been raised for this life.
His father had taught him everything.
How to negotiate.
How to read people.
How to recognize lies.
How to build alliances.
How to destroy enemies.
How to run an organization.
But Enzo had gone further than his father expected.
He understood the modern world.
He understood business.
Technology.
Investments.
International trade.
Finance.
He knew that the old ways alone would eventually destroy an organization.
So he built something bigger.
Cleaner.
Smarter.
The legitimate businesses became his greatest weapon.
Nobody questioned a successful businessman who owned hotels.
Nobody questioned a man who invested in construction.
Nobody questioned a young entrepreneur purchasing properties throughout Italy.
Nobody questioned a wealthy businessman attending charity events.
Enzo knew how to wear two faces.
Businessman by day.
Mafia heir by night.
Although, in truth, the distinction had disappeared years ago.
Everything Enzo touched became part of the empire.
He was twenty-three when he began taking over some of the businesses his father had considered too complicated.
By twenty-six, he had doubled their legitimate investments.
By twenty-eight, he had expanded their influence beyond Sicily.
By thirty, even his father had stopped treating him like a son who needed guidance.
Massimo treated him like his successor.
His heir.
The future Don.
And Enzo intended to earn the title.
⸻
He had a younger sister.
Isabella Vitale.
She was twenty-three.
Beautiful.
Intelligent.
And completely different from her brother.
Isabella hated the family business.
She hated the violence.
She hated the fear.
She wanted nothing to do with the organization.
Enzo understood.
Perhaps that was why he was fiercely protective of her.
Nobody touched Isabella.
Nobody threatened her.
Nobody even looked at her the wrong way.
Because everyone knew what would happen if they did.
Isabella was the only person who could walk into Enzo’s office without knocking.
The only person who could tell him he was being impossible.
The only person who could make him sigh instead of stare.
And perhaps the only person who still saw the little boy underneath the man everyone else called the Executioner.
⸻
That evening, Enzo stood in front of the enormous windows of his office.
Palermo stretched beneath him.
Beautiful.
Chaotic.
Alive.
The sun was disappearing over the city, painting the buildings gold.
His phone vibrated.
He looked at the screen.
A message from his father.
Come home. We need to talk.
Enzo stared at it for a moment.
Then slipped the phone into his pocket.
He walked out of the office.
Men stepped aside as he passed.
Nobody stopped him.
Nobody dared.
Even members of his father’s organization lowered their voices when Enzo walked past.
He didn’t demand respect.
He commanded it without asking.
Outside, his driver opened the car door.
Enzo got inside.
“Home.”
The car pulled away.
But halfway through the journey, Enzo’s phone rang.
He answered.
“What?”
His father’s voice came through.
“There’s a situation.”
Enzo’s expression hardened.
“What kind?”
“A problem near one of our properties.”
“Which property?”
There was a pause.
“A café.”
Enzo frowned.
“A café?”
“Yes.”
“Handle it.”
“I want you to handle it.”
Enzo stared out the window.
His father rarely asked him to deal with something personally.
“Why?”
“Because I think someone is using it as a meeting point.”
Enzo’s jaw tightened.
“Who?”
“We don’t know yet.”
He looked through the window.
The streets passed in a blur.
“What is the name of the café?”
His father answered.
“Il Forno di Azul.”
Enzo repeated the name quietly.
“Azul.”
He didn’t know why.
But something about the name stayed in his mind.
Azul.
His father continued speaking.
“I want you to go there tomorrow.”
Enzo was silent.
Then he said,
“Fine.”
He ended the call.
The car continued through Palermo.
Enzo looked out at the city again.
He had spent his entire life learning how to recognize danger.
He knew how to smell betrayal.
He knew how to see lies in someone’s eyes.
He knew how to destroy people before they became threats.
But there was one thing Enzo didn’t know.
He didn’t know that the little café his father had just sent him to investigate belonged to a twenty-four-year-old baker with long black hair and mismatched eyes.
A young man who couldn’t speak.
A young man who had spent fifteen years hiding from the world.
A young man who had no idea that the most feared man in Sicily was about to walk into his little café.
And when Enzo Vitale finally met Azul Bellini—
The Executioner would discover something far more dangerous than an enemy.
He would discover someone he couldn’t control.
Someone he couldn’t frighten.
Someone whose silence would become the loudest thing he had ever heard.
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