CROWN OF ASHES

Chapter Four — Bloodlines and Betrayal

The Rossi estate sat on the cliffs of Amalfi like a crown made of shadows. From the sea below, it looked

eternal—white marble soaked in moonlight, the kind of beauty that hid its rot well. Inside, the walls

whispered in the dark. Every portrait, every gilded mirror still held the reflection of a family that pretended

it was immortal.

Matteo Rossi stood at the base of the grand staircase, staring up at his father’s portrait. Giancarlo Rossi.

The man who taught him how to survive and destroy, sometimes in the same breath. The old Don’s eyes

stared down through oil and varnish, heavy with judgment.

“Still watching me,” Matteo murmured.

He had returned after seven years of exile and silence. Seven years of ghosts. Seven years since the fire that

had burned away everything he thought he was. Now, he was here not to beg, but to reclaim.

A butler approached nervously. “The guests are waiting in the great hall, Signor Rossi.”

Matteo straightened the collar of his black shirt. “Let them wait. They’ve been eating from my family’s table

for too long.”

He walked through the hall, his footsteps slow, deliberate. His reflection trailed across the polished marble

like a shadow that didn’t belong to him. When he pushed open the doors to the great hall, conversation

stopped.

The table stretched like a serpent. At its head sat Lucia Rossi—his half-sister, draped in black silk, her hair

pinned with gold. The candlelight cut across her face, softening nothing. To her right sat Don Silvano, their

father’s oldest ally. The rest were men Matteo had known since childhood: Capos, smugglers, corrupt

politicians. They were family in title, parasites in truth.

Lucia looked up from her glass of red wine. “So it’s true. The ghost walks among us.”

Matteo didn’t blink. “You look good for someone who buried me.”

She smiled, slow and cold. “The sea buried you, not me.”

“Same difference,” he said, taking a seat at the far end of the table.

Don Silvano cleared his throat. “Matteo, boy, you were always too stubborn to die. What brings you back?”

“Home,” Matteo said simply. “Or what’s left of it.”

Lucia leaned back, her gold bracelet catching the light. “There’s nothing here for you anymore. Father’s

empire is being restructured. Times have changed.”

“I can see that.” Matteo’s eyes drifted across the table to the Ventresca brothers—Carlo and Domenico—

smiling like wolves fat on someone else’s kill. “Your new friends don’t even know how to hold a gun.”

Carlo laughed softly. “We prefer pens now. Less messy.”

Matteo’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Depends on what you’re signing.”

The air thickened. No one spoke. The chandelier above them flickered, the bulbs trembling in their sockets.

Lucia finally set her glass down. “Father left me in charge for a reason, Matteo. You always thought

leadership came from blood and violence. But real power is quieter now. You wouldn’t understand.”

He smiled faintly. “You’d be surprised what I understand.”

Her jaw tightened. “This isn’t your world anymore.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his tone low and controlled. “It’s still my name on the gates. And

the blood in your veins.”

Lucia’s eyes flashed. “Blood means nothing without loyalty.”

Matteo let the silence stretch. He could smell the faint bitterness in her wine—a trace of poison, perhaps.

Or paranoia. Either way, it suited the room.

Don Silvano finally spoke, breaking the tension. “Matteo, we all mourned your father. But his death left

fractures. You walking in here reopens them. If you want peace, leave the past buried.”

Matteo’s gaze fixed on the old man. “You don’t bury rot. You cut it out.”

The words lingered, sharp as broken glass. Lucia rose from her chair.

“This meeting is over.”

Matteo didn’t move. He just watched her walk away, her silhouette swallowed by the golden light at the

end of the hall. He caught a glimpse of something in her eyes as she turned—a flicker of pain, maybe. Or

memory. Then she was gone.

Outside, the sea wind bit at his face. The waves below crashed against the rocks with the rhythm of a

beating heart. Matteo lit a cigarette, the flame painting his features in amber.

He thought of his father again. Giancarlo’s voice still haunted him—calm, cold, almost prophetic.

“Blood is the sharpest weapon, Matteo. It cuts deeper than steel.”

He looked down at his hands, scarred and steady. “And it stains longer too.”

A car pulled up in the courtyard. Out stepped Marco DeSantis—his oldest ally, once his right hand in

Naples, now dressed like a banker. His arrival was silent, but Matteo had always been able to feel him

before he saw him.

Marco joined him by the balcony. “You’re stirring ghosts that don’t want to be seen.”

“I didn’t come to stir them,” Matteo said. “I came to finish what they started.”

Marco studied him. “You sure it isn’t revenge you’re chasing?”

Matteo exhaled smoke. “Revenge doesn’t build empires. Justice does.”

“Same coin, different face.”

They stood in silence, the ocean roaring beneath them.

“Lucia’s dangerous,” Marco said finally. “She has the council wrapped around her finger. Silvano, Ventresca,

even that banker from Milan—they all want her on the throne.”

“She’s a Rossi,” Matteo said quietly. “She learned from the best.”

“Then you know she’ll kill you if you stay.”

Matteo looked at him. “Let her try.”

That night, the mansion grew quiet. But Matteo’s mind didn’t rest. He walked the corridors like a ghost

retracing its last steps. Every room held echoes of his father’s voice, his mother’s laughter, Lucia’s

childhood smile before power had turned it into something else.

He found himself in his father’s office. Dust coated the shelves. The old desk still smelled of cigars and oak.

On it, a single drawer was locked. Matteo broke it open with a flick of his knife. Inside was an envelope,

yellowed with age. His name written across it in Giancarlo Rossi’s unmistakable hand.

He hesitated, then unfolded it.

“Matteo, if this finds you, then you have survived what I could not. The bloodline we built was poisoned

long before you were born. I tried to clean it with power. I failed. Do not inherit my sins. Burn them.”

Matteo read the words twice. His father—the man who had ruled Naples with an iron fist—had left him not

a blessing, but a confession.

“Your sister is not your enemy. She is your mirror. Do not fight her with hate. Fight her with truth. The

empire will consume you both if you let it.”

The paper shook slightly in his hand. He folded it, placed it back in the drawer, and whispered, “Too late for

that.”

A faint sound came from behind him. The click of a gun.

He turned slowly. Lucia stood in the doorway, her pistol aimed at his chest. Her eyes gleamed with

something caught between fury and heartbreak.

“You couldn’t just walk away,” she said. Her voice was low, trembling at the edges. “You had to come back

and tear down everything.”

“I came back because you turned our family into a business.”

“I saved it,” she snapped. “You were gone. Someone had to.”

“You saved yourself,” he said. “Father didn’t die for this.”

“Don’t you dare speak about him,” she hissed. “You weren’t there when he begged for his life.”

Matteo froze. “What did you say?”

Lucia’s lip quivered. “He didn’t die in his sleep, Matteo. He was betrayed. By someone he trusted.”

The air shifted. He could feel the walls closing in. “Who?”

Lucia lowered the gun, eyes burning. “Ask Marco.”

She turned and disappeared into the corridor before he could move.

Matteo stood there for a long moment, the words echoing inside him like gunfire. Betrayal. Marco. The fire.

It all connected now—the night his father died, the explosion that destroyed their home, the shadow that

dragged him out of the flames. He had always believed the betrayal came from outside the family. But

what if it hadn’t?

He walked to the window. The sea was restless tonight, waves clawing at the rocks like desperate hands.

He whispered to the darkness, “You always said blood betrays blood. You were right, old man.”

He crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe and turned toward the door, eyes cold, voice steady. “If Marco

played me, he’s going to wish I stayed dead.”

The portrait of Giancarlo Rossi loomed over him in the dim light, watching as Matteo walked out of the

office and back into the war he had been born for.

The storm outside broke, lightning cutting across the cliffs. Inside the house, one ghost finally came alive.