All Chapters of Requiem of The Godfather: Price of a Memory: Chapter 41
- Chapter 50
59 chapters
Ch 41. The Sark's Trap
The massive monitor screen in the command hall flickered, casting a cold blue glow across Eduardo’s rigid face. There, inside that digital frame, he saw his other world, the one he had built with blood and tears, being trampled. Claude “The Sark” lounged on Eduardo’s favorite leather sofa in the Upper North mansion. A crystal whiskey glass rested in his hand, while his polished dress shoes were propped casually on the marble coffee table. “You know, Ed? I’ve always wondered why you picked a dark brown sofa like this. Your taste is... kind of boring for someone who just got rich,” Claude said, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. His voice came through the hall’s audio system, clear and sharp. “Claude... I’m going to rip your throat out,” Eduardo hissed. His hands trembled violently, not from fear, but from a rage so intense it threatened to burst the veins in his eyes. “Hush, hush. Don’t be so crude in front of your wife and kid,” Claude replied, casually adjusting th
Ch 42. Racing Against Fate
The saltwater stung every open wound across Eduardo’s body. He coughed violently, expelling the last of the murky seawater from his lungs as his hands clamped onto the edge of Freya’s speedboat deck. His back felt like it had been smashed by a giant hammer from the shockwave of the Fort San Jago explosion. Behind him, the night sky still burned red, dotted with fireballs devouring the remains of the old fortress into ash. “Get up, Boss! Move it before those sharks smell your blood!” Gord shouted, yanking Eduardo up by the collar of his jacket with brute force. Eduardo collapsed onto the wet wooden deck, gasping for air. He looked toward Freya, who stood firmly at the helm. “Go… Freya, go now! To the Upper North private dock!” “I’m already pushing it to the max, Eduardo! This engine’s at its limit!” Freya shot back without turning, her hands skillfully steering around chunks of concrete falling into the sea like a meteor shower. Eduardo crawled toward the bow, his e
Ch 43. Negotiation in the Living Room
The sound of Eduardo’s shoes echoed softly along the long, silent corridor, blending with the sharp aroma of thirty-year-old Laphroaig evaporating into the air. Behind the living room door, tension was already waiting, hanging like a wire stretched to the breaking point. On the cold marble floor, Emily and Chloe were bound. Their hands and feet were tightly restrained, their bodies forced to endure the unfeeling chill beneath them. “You’re ten seconds late, Eduardo. I was just about to cut off one of your kid’s fingers to decorate this glass,” Claude said calmly. He took a sip of his whiskey, sighing in satisfaction as if there wasn’t a gun pointed straight at his head. “Let them go, Claude. Now. Or I’ll make sure this bullet goes through your eye before you can even blink,” Eduardo growled. His voice was hoarse, filled with raw, unfiltered threat. “Wow, our boss is feisty tonight,” Claude chuckled mockingly. He set his glass down on the cracked marble table, t
Ch 44. Equivalent Exchange: Rampage Mode
Thick red blood seeped between the cracks of the white marble, its warm vapor blending with the cold air from the mansion’s still-humming AC. Eduardo stared at his severed pinky finger lying a few inches from his knee. It no longer felt like pain, but a burning numbness, as if his nerves were hovering on the edge of a discordant death song. Claude flinched. He stepped back, the Glock in his hand trembling. “You… you’re seriously insane. Just because of one finger, you’re laughing like a damn demon? Huh?!” Eduardo didn’t answer with words. He slowly lifted his head. His sweat-soaked hair partially covered his eyes, which now glowed with a dim red light, a side effect of a system that had reached its boiling point. “Grandpa,” Eduardo whispered, his voice like the grinding of two rusted blades. “Take the rest of my lifespan. Take whatever’s left in my head. I want him capable. Now.” Inside his mind, Grandpa’s laughter no longer sounded mocking. It shifted into a deep,
Ch 45. A Hollow Victory
The metallic stench of blood spraying from Claude’s neck filled the entire living room, mixing with the lingering scent of gunpowder in the air. Eduardo stood rigid, his chest rising and falling with short, heated breaths. Thick red blood dripped from his chin, soaking into his white shirt, which was already torn in several places. At his feet, Claude the Sark, the man who had haunted his nightmares for months, was now nothing more than a lifeless heap of flesh, twitching faintly one last time before going completely still. Silence descended. A silence so deep it rang in the ears. “Ed... Eduardo?” Emily’s voice broke through it. Eduardo turned slowly. His eyes were red, not just from exhaustion, but from blood vessels pushed to the brink by maximum-level Time Dilatation. He saw Emily kneeling on the floor, her bound hands now soaked with Claude’s blood. “Untie me... Ed, untie me now! This smells disgusting, damn it! I’m gonna throw up!” Emily screamed, her voice sh
Ch 46. A Message from Rome
The metallic scent of still-warm blood filled every corner of the luxurious living room in Upper North. On top of a Persian rug worth as much as three mid-range apartments, Claude the Sark lay with his neck nearly severed. His eyes were still wide open, staring at the ceiling as if he could not believe his throne had fallen to a “dockside loser.” Eduardo stood frozen beside the corpse. His four-fingered hand still gripped the apple-peeling knife now drenched in blood. His breathing was heavy, hot vapor escaping his mouth despite the cold air conditioning that hummed relentlessly through the mansion. “So the dog finally died,” a voice with a thick Italian accent broke the silence. A tall man in a white silk suit stood by the shattered doorway. Luigi, Don Vladimir’s envoy, stepped inside with calm, measured movements. He covered his nose with a silk handkerchief embroidered with the letter “V,” then looked down at Claude’s body with disgust, as if it were nothing more th
Ch 47. The Great Purge
The city was screaming. From the second-floor window of the mansion, still reeking of rusted blood, Eduardo could hear police sirens clashing with distant bursts of small explosions. News of Claude the Sark’s death spread faster than a plague. In the narrow alleys, the street rats were crawling out of their holes, scrambling over the scraps of territory left behind by the king who had just been beheaded. “Chaos is opportunity, but if you let it sit too long, it turns into shit for us,” Gord said, wiping down the barrel of his assault rifle with an oily rag. “Small-time punks down at the south docks are already looting Claude’s logistics warehouses. Want me to pay them a visit now, Boss?” Eduardo didn’t turn. His eyes stayed fixed on the digital map Belerik had projected onto the marble table. “Belerik, where’s the list?” Belerik, now dressed in a far more expensive slim-fit suit after changing out of his vomit-stained shirt, slid his tablet forward. “Twelve key lie
Ch 48. New Palace, Old Problems
The black marble floor in the penthouse atop Sark Tower was so polished that Eduardo could see the reflection of his haggard face staring back at him. This room was the pinnacle of all the luxury this rotten city could offer. A six-meter-high ceiling, bulletproof glass walls presenting a view of the city as if the entire world lay beneath his feet, and a minimalist interior expensive enough to feed an entire harbor district for a year. Claude the Sark was no longer here. The scent of his expensive cigars had been replaced by the sterile smell of disinfectant and bland sandalwood air freshener. Yet to Eduardo, the place still felt like a lion’s den freshly cleared of a carcass. A palace too clean, too quiet, as if it were waiting for the next spill of blood to stain its floors again. “Damn... Ed! You seeing this?!” Emily’s voice rang out, echoing against the glass walls. She had just rushed out of the master bedroom, her face flushed with overflowing excitement. There w
Ch 49. The Empty Photo Album
The silence in the penthouse study felt suffocating, as if the oxygen had been drained by luxury that was too sterile. Eduardo sat behind a vast black teak desk large enough to hold three bodies at once. In front of him, a freshly opened bottle of Macallan 1926 released a sharp peat aroma. Yet Eduardo’s attention was not on the drink worth the price of a house. His gloved hand, hiding the missing pinky finger, slowly opened an old photo album with a worn leather cover. It was the only thing left from his past, the only item he had taken from the dockside shack before it was leveled to the ground. Eduardo stared at a photograph whose corners had begun to yellow. In it, a young man with a face still full of hope, himself, was holding a tiny baby wrapped in cheap swaddling cloth. Beside him, Emily smiled widely despite the exhaustion etched across her face. “Who are they, Ed?” The raspy voice of the Old Man appeared right beside his ear. Eduardo did not turn. He was a
Ch 50. Money Doesn't Smell
The aroma of expensive Arabica coffee lingered in the air, mixed with the scent of fresh paper and stiff leather upholstery. The meeting room on the top floor of Sark Tower no longer looked like a chaotic mafia den. Belerik had transformed it into a cold, efficient corporate office. The walls no longer displayed Claude’s vulgar paintings, replaced instead by rows of monitors showing stock charts and cryptocurrency movements. The atmosphere felt sharply contrasted with what this place used to be, as if past chaos had been polished into something lethally orderly. Eduardo sat in his executive chair, dressed in a three-piece charcoal gray suit. His black leather gloves tapped rhythmically against the teak desk. "Blood is hard to wash off with regular soap, Ed," Belerik began, placing his tablet in front of Eduardo. "But if you dip that blood into a charity account or an art gallery, the smell disappears instantly. Money doesn’t smell, especially after it’s passed through