CROWN OF ASHES

Chapter Seven — The Lion’s Court

“In the jungle of men, mercy is just another word for weakness.”

The marble corridors of the Rossi estate echoed with the sound of shoes and whispered fear. It had been two days since Nico’s body was found floating in the bay. Two days since Matteo Rossi silenced another ghost from his past.

Now the city whispered his name again — not as a dead man, but as a storm.

Inside the grand hall, the air was thick with cigar smoke and tension. Every high-ranking figure in Naples’s underworld had come. The old dons from Calabria, the Sicilian smugglers, the Neapolitan financiers — men who built empires from blood and silence.

At the far end of the long table sat Don Vittorio Leone, the aging patriarch whose name had ruled Naples for thirty years. His presence was calm but heavy, like the weight of time itself.

Matteo walked in last.

The room turned.

He wore a black suit, no tie, the collar open just enough to show the scar near his throat. His eyes were cold, not from arrogance but from memory. Men who had seen war recognized that kind of stillness — the kind that came after losing everything.

“Matteo Rossi,” Don Vittorio said, his voice carrying through the hall. “The ghost who rose from his own ashes.”

Matteo stopped beside the table. “I came because you asked, Don Vittorio. Not because I bow.”

The older man smiled faintly. “You speak like a man who’s forgotten who built this city.”

Matteo met his gaze. “I haven’t forgotten. I just don’t believe it belongs to you anymore.”

Gasps rippled around the room. Carlo, standing near the door, instinctively reached for his gun, but Matteo raised a hand.

“I’m not here to start a war,” he said. “Not yet.”

Don Vittorio leaned back, smoke curling from his cigar. “Then what are you here for?”

Matteo’s voice was low. “To claim my seat at the table.”

The silence that followed was deep enough to choke on.

Finally, Don Vittorio laughed — not mockingly, but like a man impressed by someone too bold to fear him. “You’ve killed men who were loyal to me. You’ve broken alliances older than you’ve been alive. Why should I let you sit at my table?”

Matteo’s eyes didn’t move. “Because whether I sit here or not, every man in this room already fears what I’ll do next.”

The statement hung there. Raw. True.

Don Vittorio studied him for a long moment. Then he gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit, Matteo. Let’s see if the fire that forged you burns bright enough to last.”

Hours passed. Wine flowed. The room loosened, but the politics never stopped. Every word was a blade, every smile a lie. Matteo said little, but he listened.

He learned which men hated each other. Which ones were broke. Which ones secretly owed him favors from years past.

When the meeting ended, most of them had shaken his hand  not out of respect, but out of fear. And fear,

Matteo thought, was the beginning of loyalty.

Don Vittorio waited until the last man left. Then he stood, his cane tapping lightly against the marble floor.

“You remind me of myself when I was your age,” he said quietly. “But you’re not ready.”

“Maybe,” Matteo said. “Or maybe I’ve just had to learn faster than you did.”

The old man smiled without warmth. “You think killing Nico makes you a king? No. It makes you a survivor. A king doesn’t react. He commands.”

Matteo’s jaw tightened. “Then teach me.”

Vittorio looked at him for a long time. “You really think I’d teach a man who plans to take my throne?”

Matteo’s eyes didn’t waver. “You already know the answer.”

That night, the storm rolled over Naples. Lightning split the sky as Matteo stood alone on the balcony, rain soaking his shirt, the city glittering below like a million broken promises.

Inside, Carlo poured himself a drink. “You made an impression.”

“Good or bad?”

Carlo shrugged. “Depends who you ask. The old man respects you. The others fear you. Some of them are planning to move against you already.”

Matteo lit a cigarette. The flame flickered in the rain. “Then I’ll move first.”

Carlo gave a low laugh. “You really don’t stop, do you?”

Matteo looked out at the storm. “If I stop, I die.”

Two days later, he was in the south docks. Rainwater ran in rivers through the cracked concrete. Men

moved crates under flickering lights, their faces blurred by steam and exhaustion.

Matteo watched them silently, hands in his coat pockets. These were his people now,  the ones who built

their lives on sweat and crime, who didn’t believe in law or mercy. They didn’t fear police or rivals. They

feared hunger.

“Boss,” one of the men said, running up. “We caught someone snooping near the shipment.”

Matteo turned. “Who?”

The man dragged a young runner forward, face bruised, eyes wild. “He said he works for Leone.”

Matteo knelt in front of him. Rain dripped from his hair. “Don Vittorio’s man?”

The boy swallowed. “I—I was told to watch. Not to interfere.”

“Why?”

“He said… to see if you’d take what’s his.”

Matteo stood slowly. “Tell your Don I don’t take what’s his. I take what’s mine.”

He nodded to Carlo, who understood. The boy would leave alive — shaken, but breathing. Sometimes mercy was the loudest message of all.

That night, the Rossi penthouse became something else. The living room turned into a war room. Maps

spread across tables. Names written on paper, circled and crossed out. Allies. Enemies. Potential traitors.

Matteo stood in the center, hands on the map, staring at the empire he was trying to rebuild.

“You’re building faster than they expected,” Carlo said, pacing nearby. “But the old man’s not going to stay

friendly forever.”

“I don’t need his friendship,” Matteo said. “I need his crown.”

Carlo sighed. “And when you get it?”

Matteo looked up. “Then I’ll burn it and build my own.”

Carlo chuckled softly. “You’re insane.”

“No,” Matteo said. “I’m free.”

Later that night, Isabella returned. Her face was pale, eyes shadowed. “The police came to my restaurant,”

she said quietly. “They’re asking about you again.”

Matteo’s expression softened. “Did they threaten you?”

“They asked questions. Too many. You think you can fight everyone, Matteo — the cops, the dons, the

ghosts. But this isn’t just your war.”

“It was never mine alone,” he said. “It became yours the day they burned our house.”

Tears flashed briefly in her eyes. “Then what’s left of us when this is done?”

He stepped close, voice low. “If I win, you’ll never have to hide again. If I lose, none of it will matter.”

Isabella looked up at him, trembling. “You already lost, Matteo. You just haven’t buried yourself yet.”

She left before he could answer. The door clicked softly shut, leaving him with nothing but rain and silence

again.

Near midnight, his phone rang.

It was Don Vittorio.

“Rossi,” the old man said. “You’ve been busy.”

“Just business.”

“You let my spy live.”

“I’m not interested in killing children.”

“That’s good,” Vittorio said. “Because the men I’m sending next won’t be children. You want to be king? Then come to me tomorrow night. Bring no guns, no men. Just yourself. Let’s see if the fire inside you burns brighter than mine.”

The line went dead.

Matteo stood still for a long time. Then he smiled — not with joy, but with the kind of smile a soldier gives before his final war.

He poured himself a drink, raised it toward the city.

“To the Lion,” he murmured. “May the court see what a ghost can become.”

When morning came, the sun was blood-red over the sea. Matteo watched it rise, dressed in black again. C

arlo stood by the door, uneasy.

“You really going alone?”

Matteo nodded. “A king walks into his court alone.”

“Or to his execution,” Carlo said.

Matteo gave a faint smile. “We’ll find out which one by sunset.”

He left the penthouse, walked through the streets of Naples like a man walking to confession. Every corner,

every shadow watched him. The city that once tried to kill him now waited to see if he’d finally take its

throne.

And somewhere in that silence, Matteo could feel it — the pull of destiny, the scent of blood, the ghost of

the fire that made him.

Whatever waited at the Lion’s Court, he was ready.

Because ghosts don’t bow.

They rise.