“You came back to lead or to die, Matteo?”The question cut the air like a held breath. Matteo heard it as he watched the private jet descend through a curtain of rain, its lights like distant stars falling. He did not answer at once. He never did, not when the cost of speech could be measured in bullets or broken lives.Enzo stood at his shoulder while the hangar doors rumbled open, the cold wind slicing rain across their faces. “That’s Luca,” Enzo said, tone low. “He never learned how to ask lightly.”Matteo let the answer live in his chest. He had come back to take what had been taken from him. He had come to build something that would not be swallowed by fire. Yet every step toward a throne had the same weight: the possibility of falling.When the SUVs rolled up onto the wet tarmac, the men who stepped out smelled like the past that would not die. Luca walked first, rain like a crown on his shoulders. He looked older, yes, but the same in the way only brothers can be: the same gri

The rain didn’t stop for two days. It painted Naples in shades of silver and smoke, washing blood off cobblestones but not conscience. Matteo Rossi stood at the edge of the old pier, cigarette between his fingers, watching lightning split the harbor in two. The city looked like it was drowning in its own sins. “Boss,” said Rocco behind him, coat collar high against the cold. “They’re all here.” Matteo flicked the cigarette into the black water. “Let’s not keep kings waiting.” He followed Rocco back toward the warehouse—once an abandoned shipping depot, now their chosen arena. The Gathering wasn’t official; nothing like this ever was. It was a summit between devils pretending to be gentlemen. And tonight, for the first time in ten years, every major family in southern Italy would be in one room. Matteo wasn’t sure if that was peace… or a massacre waiting to happen. Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and ego. Tables were arranged in a wide circle, red velvet chairs surroun

“Tell me he’s not dead.”The voice cracked like dry glass. Enzo’s silhouette stood in the doorway of the Rossi estate, his coat dripping rain, his hands trembling from the cold or from disbelief.Matteo didn’t turn. He was sitting by the fireplace, still wearing the blood-stained shirt from the docks, staring at the faint reflection of flames in a glass of whiskey.“He’s gone,” Matteo said quietly.The words seemed to tear through the room like a blade.Enzo exhaled sharply, sinking into the leather chair opposite him. “Christ. Rocco? After everything?”Matteo didn’t look up. “He died saving me. Like an idiot.”Silence fell, heavy and hollow. The only sound was the crackle of fire and the slow tick of the old clock.Enzo rubbed a hand across his face. “The streets are already talking. They say Pier Nine was an accident. Gas leak. But I heard Petrov’s men saw something else. They think you walked out of hell alive.”Matteo’s gaze shifted toward the window. Beyond the glass, dawn crept

“You said war,” Enzo muttered, voice raw. “You never said it’d be suicide.” Matteo stood at the edge of the balcony, watching Naples burn. The horizon was lined with smoke — not from the factories or the ports, but from the ruins of everything that once bore his name. The Rossi estate, his club, his warehouses — gone. “War’s never clean,” Matteo said quietly. Enzo threw a folder onto the table. Photos spilled out — bodies, wreckage, fragments of the life they’d built. “You call this war? This is execution.” Matteo turned, eyes steady. “Then it’s time we stop defending ourselves.” “You mean—” “I mean we hit back.” He lit a cigarette, the flame trembling in the wind. “Every name tied to the Council, every soldier who swore against us — we find them. We make them bleed until they remember who built this city.” Enzo exhaled, shaking his head. “You’re talking about purging half of southern Italy.” Matteo’s tone didn’t change. “Then it’ll be cleaner when we’re done.” Two

“You killed your brother.”Enzo’s voice broke the silence, rough as gravel. He didn’t say it like an accusation. He said it like a fact.Matteo didn’t answer. He sat in the backseat of the black sedan, eyes locked on the rain-streaked window. Outside, Palermo was burning behind them — smoke rising, sirens wailing.“I didn’t kill my brother,” Matteo said finally. His voice was flat. “I killed what he became.”Enzo gripped the wheel tighter. “The city’s already whispering that the Ghost of Naples has lost his soul.”“Then they’re late,” Matteo muttered.The car cut through the storm, tires splashing through flooded streets. Every few seconds, lightning flashed over the ruins of warehouses and churches. The rain couldn’t wash the blood away.When they reached the outskirts of Naples, the air grew heavy. The people didn’t look up when the convoy passed. They knew better.Sofia waited at the safe house. The moment Matteo walked in, she slapped him across the face.“You were supposed to end