Chapter 6 - Resurrection
Vittorio Morelli stepped into the beam of light.
He walked slowly, deliberately, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous hall.
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the horrifying, suffocating silence of men looking at a ghost.
Isabella’s wine glass slipped from her fingers, shattering into a hundred pieces on the floor. All the blood rushed from her face, leaving her looking like a porcelain doll. "No..." she choked out. "I saw the car. I saw the explosion."
"You always loved my suits, Isabella," Vittorio said, his voice smooth, echoing off the vaulted ceilings. "It’s a shame we had to waste one on your driver."
Don Falcone jumped to his feet, knocking his chair backward. "Kill him!" he roared at his guards.
But before a single Sicilian could raise a weapon, the side doors burst open. Alessio stepped out of the shadows, flanked by dozens of heavily armed men. Countless red laser sights pierced the darkness, painting the chests and foreheads of every Palermo boss and bodyguard in the room.
Falcone froze, staring at the scarred man he had tried to assassinate two years prior. "Alessio..."
"Hello, old friend," Alessio smiled, leaning on his cane. "I heard you came to my funeral. How sweet of you."
Vittorio walked to the head of the table. He didn't shout. He didn't curse. He simply looked at the men who had come to dance on his grave.
"You sit at my table. You drink my wine. You scheme with my wife," Vittorio whispered. The softness of his voice made it infinitely more terrifying. "And you forgot the one rule of this country. Naples does not bow to Palermo."
He pulled a heavy, leather-bound document from his jacket and dropped it on the table in front of Falcone.
"You have two choices," Vittorio stated. "Sign over all your mainland shipping routes, your casinos, and your supply lines to my brother. You leave this city tonight with nothing but the clothes on your backs. Or you can join my false driver at the bottom of the Amalfi cliffs."
Falcone’s hands shook violently. He looked around the room, seeing the red dots resting squarely on the hearts of his entire command structure. Defeated, the old man reached into his jacket, pulled out a gold fountain pen, and signed the paper.
Vittorio turned his gaze to Isabella. She fell to her knees, crawling toward him, her hands reaching for his shoes. "Vittorio, amore, my love... please! They forced me! I didn't want to!"
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Vittorio looked down at her, his expression entirely devoid of pity.
"You broke the first rule of my house, Isabella," he said quietly. "You made a child afraid."
