CROWN OF ASHES

Chapter Five — The Weight of Ashes

The storm that had raged over Amalfi through the night left the city washed clean and raw. Streets shimmered with rain, reflecting the pale light of morning. Matteo Rossi watched the water slide down the balcony rail of his rented apartment, a cigarette hanging from his fingers, untouched. The smoke had long gone cold. He hadn’t slept.

Lucia’s words still replayed in his mind—Ask Marco.

The man he had trusted most. The one who pulled him from the flames, who patched his wounds, who whispered that the family was gone and survival was all that mattered. For seven years, Matteo had believed that debt bound them. Now, that bond felt like a chain.

His phone buzzed on the table. One message.

Warehouse 47. Noon. Come alone.

No signature. But he knew who it was.

He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray and reached for his jacket. The morning light cut across his face, painting deep lines of exhaustion beneath his eyes. He slipped a gun into his holster, buttoned the coat, and looked once more at the sea before leaving. It looked peaceful, like a liar.

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The warehouse sat at the edge of the old port, its windows shattered, its walls tagged by ghosts of the city’s underbelly. Matteo pushed the door open. The hinges screamed. Inside, the air smelled of rust and salt, and the faint echo of dripping water filled the silence.

Marco stood at the center of the room. No suit today. Just a dark sweater and gloves, his expression unreadable.

“You came alone,” Marco said.

“Like you asked.”

Marco’s eyes flicked to the shadows behind him. “I had to make sure. You don’t trust easily.”

“I learned from the best.”

The words hung between them, heavy and sharp. Matteo stepped closer. “Lucia told me to ask you about the night my father died.”

Marco’s face didn’t move, but something behind his eyes shifted. “She’s lying.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But I need to hear it from you.”

Marco looked down, rubbing a thumb over the scar on his knuckle. “Giancarlo was never going to let you inherit, Matteo. You were too much like him. Too dangerous. The Council wanted him gone before he could start another war. I tried to warn you.”

“You were there,” Matteo said quietly. “The night of the fire.”

“Yes.”

“And you let me believe it was an ambush.”

“I saved your life,” Marco snapped. “You were unconscious. The house was collapsing. I dragged you out. You’d have burned with him.”

Matteo’s voice dropped. “But you didn’t drag him out.”

Marco’s jaw tightened. “There wasn’t time.”

“There’s always time,” Matteo said. “Unless you don’t want to save him.”

Silence. Rain tapped against the tin roof. For a moment, Matteo saw something in Marco’s eyes—a flicker of guilt, maybe, or regret. It was enough.

“You made a choice,” Matteo said. “Don’t dress it in excuses.”

Marco took a step closer. “You think I wanted this? I lost everything too.”

“You lost nothing,” Matteo said. “You gained power. You gained their trust. You became what he used to be.”

Marco’s voice lowered. “And what are you now, Matteo? A ghost chasing ashes?”

“Maybe,” Matteo said. “But ghosts don’t stop until they find the living who made them.”

They stood inches apart, the storm outside echoing their breathing. Marco’s hand twitched toward his jacket. Matteo didn’t move. They had been brothers once; now the only thing binding them was the weight of a shared lie.

Finally, Marco exhaled. “The Council is watching both of us. You don’t know what you’re walking into. They’ll kill you if you dig any deeper.”

Matteo’s eyes hardened. “Then they’d better start digging my grave.”

He turned and walked out, the door slamming behind him. The rain swallowed his footsteps.

By evening, the city was alive again. Amalfi glowed under the neon pulse of its nightlife, bars humming,

car horns bleeding into the sea breeze. Matteo walked through the chaos like a shadow. He had a meeting

to keep.

The Rossi estate loomed ahead, lit like a fortress. Tonight, Lucia was hosting a dinner for investors

politicians, bankers, old allies turned opportunists. The kind of people who toasted to blood if it came with

profit.

He slipped past the gates. Two guards stood by the entrance; Matteo recognized them from the old days. He approached without hiding. One of them froze.

“Signor Rossi?”

“Keep your mouth shut,” Matteo said softly. “I was never here.”

The man nodded, stepping aside. Some loyalties, it seemed, hadn’t rotted completely.

Inside, the house glittered. Music drifted from the dining hall, string instruments, laughter, the clink of

crystal. Lucia sat at the head of the table, radiant and dangerous. For a moment, Matteo saw her the way

she used to be on barefoot in the garden, chasing their dog through the lemon trees. Then the illusion

died.

He watched from the balcony above as she raised her glass.

“To new beginnings,” she said.

“To the Rossi legacy,” someone answered.

Matteo’s voice cut through the air. “The legacy built on blood?”

Every head turned.

Lucia froze mid-toast. “Matteo.”

He descended the stairs slowly. “Don’t stop on my account. You were doing such a fine job rewriting history.”

Her composure didn’t crack, but the color drained from her face. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You’re right,” he said. “Neither should half of them. This house wasn’t built for strangers.”

Don Silvano rose. “Matteo, son—”

“Don’t call me that,” Matteo said. “You stood by while my father burned. You signed your deals with his

ashes.”

Lucia’s voice was low, warning. “Enough.”

He looked at her, eyes hard. “No. Not until the truth bleeds out.”

He tossed the folded letter onto the table. Giancarlo’s handwriting spread like veins across the paper. Lucia’s fingers trembled as she picked it up.

“What is this?” she whispered.

“The truth,” Matteo said. “He knew the empire was poisoned. He left us a choice—to burn it clean or drown in it. You chose to wear the crown anyway.”

Her voice cracked. “And you think you’re better? You think you can save this family by dragging it through fire again?”

“I don’t want to save it,” Matteo said. “I want to end it before it kills the rest of us.”

The room erupted. Voices shouted, chairs scraped, guards reached for guns. Matteo’s hand was steady as he raised his pistol and fired one shot into the chandelier. Crystal exploded. Silence fell.

“I’m not here to kill anyone,” he said. “But the next time you raise a glass to my father’s name, remember what it cost.”

He walked out through the smoke and broken glass, leaving them frozen in the flickering light.

Later that night, Matteo sat alone on the docks. The sea was calmer now, the sky a bruised purple. He

stared at the reflection of the city on the water—the lights rippling like ghosts.

He thought of Marco’s face, of Lucia’s shaking hands, of his father’s words: Burn what I built.

He lit a cigarette and watched the flame dance in the wind. The empire he had returned to reclaim was already collapsing. He could either let it bury him or rebuild it from the bones.

A voice behind him broke the silence. “You started a war tonight.”

He turned. Lucia stood there, hair loose, no makeup, no guards. Just his sister—the girl he used to protect.

“War was already here,” Matteo said. “I just stopped pretending not to see it.”

She walked closer, her eyes glassy. “I didn’t betray him, Matteo. Not like you think. I did what I had to. To survive.”

“Survival’s a poor excuse for betrayal.”

“Maybe,” she whispered. “But it’s the only one I have.”

He studied her face, the exhaustion, the fear. For a moment, he saw the sister he used to love, not the rival

he was forced to fight.

“You were always stronger than me,” she said. “You just never realized it.”

“I’m not strong,” he said quietly. “I’m just too angry to stay dead.”

She gave a faint, broken laugh. “Then maybe that’s what this family needs.”

Lightning flashed in the distance, reflecting in her eyes. She turned to leave, but stopped. “Be careful with

Marco. He’s not the man you think he is.”

“I know,” Matteo said. “He’s worse.”

When she was gone, Matteo dropped the cigarette into the water and watched the ember drown. The sea hissed, swallowing the last spark. He stood there until the wind carried the smoke away and only silence remained.

For the first time since returning, he felt the full weight of what he had inherited—not just an empire of crime and blood, but a legacy of betrayal carved into his bones. Every choice from now on would draw blood. His or theirs.

The dawn began to rise, pale and cold. Matteo turned his collar against the wind and started walking, his reflection fading from the water as the city woke.

Behind him, the horizon burned faintly orange—like fire remembering its shape.