CROWN OF ASHES

Chapter Six — A King Without a Throne

“Power doesn’t make you free. It just changes the size of your cage.”

The morning in Naples broke like an old scar reopening. Pale sunlight slipped between the curtains of Matteo Rossi’s penthouse, washing over marble floors and the half-empty glass of bourbon on the table. The city was already awake horns, sirens, a distant church bell but inside, there was only silence and smoke.

Matteo stood by the window, shirtless, his reflection staring back at him like a stranger. His body told a story his mouth refused to cuts, burns, and bruises that had healed wrong. Scars were the only honesty left in his life.

Carlo entered quietly, the smell of cigarettes following him. “You haven’t slept.”

“I don’t sleep,” Matteo said without turning.

Carlo walked closer, his boots echoing against marble. “You should. A man who doesn’t sleep starts making mistakes.”

Matteo turned now, eyes hollow but sharp. “Then I guess I’m long past saving.”

Carlo hesitated, then placed a file on the table. “We got a problem.”

“Another one?” Matteo’s tone was dry, almost amused.

“It’s Nico Bianchi,” Carlo said. “Word is he’s been meeting with the Spaniards. He’s offering them our routes, our ports, everything.”

The glass cracked slightly under Matteo’s grip. He put it down before it shattered.

“Where?”

“The docks, tonight. Same place you and Luca used to move shipments.”

Matteo nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. “Then that’s where I’ll end it.”

Carlo frowned. “You can’t walk in there alone.”

“I’m not alone.” Matteo’s voice dropped. “I’ve got the truth—and a bullet for anyone who forgets it.”

Carlo looked at him for a long second. “You really think this ends with one more body?”

Matteo turned away, staring at the skyline. “Nothing ends. Not in this city.”

By nightfall, the sky had turned to bruised violet. Matteo drove through the backstreets, the hum of the

engine blending with his thoughts. Every building he passed whispered a memory. Every turn reminded

him of who he used to be a man who took orders, not gave them.

The sea was visible from the highway now, dark and endless. He parked near the old docks, the air heavy with salt and rust.

Carlo handed him a pistol. “Last chance to walk away.”

Matteo checked the magazine and slid it in place. “If I walk away, I’ll be hunted. If I go in, at least I’m the one doing the hunting.”

He stepped out. The sound of the ocean met him like a low growl.

The warehouse stood ahead, abandoned years ago, its walls stained by oil and graffiti. A single light flickered inside. Matteo walked toward it slowly, the crunch of gravel beneath his boots loud in the silence.

He pushed the door open.

Nico Bianchi sat at a table with three men two of them Spaniards, young and reckless; the third was their

boss, Ramón Vega, a man known for smiling before he killed. Bottles and stacks of cash covered the table.

Nico’s smile froze when he saw Matteo. “Well, well. The ghost himself.”

Matteo walked closer, his eyes never leaving him. “You’ve been busy.”

“Business, Matteo,” Nico said quickly. “You’ve been pulling back. The men are nervous. Someone had to take charge.”

Matteo tilted his head. “By selling me out?”

“By surviving,” Nico snapped. “You think loyalty keeps the lights on? The world’s changing. The Rossi name doesn’t scare anyone anymore.”

Matteo stopped a few feet from him. His voice was calm, too calm. “Then let’s see what fear feels like.”

Ramón laughed, exhaling smoke. “You got nerve, Rossi. Walking in here like a king without a crown.”

Matteo looked at him. “I don’t need a crown. I just need my throne back.”

The room went quiet. Then Matteo moved. The gunshot was sharp, sudden. One Spaniard dropped instantly. The other went for his weapon, but Carlo who had slipped in through the side door—fired first.

Ramón reached for his pistol, but Matteo kicked the table over, sending money and liquor crashing to the floor.

“Stop!” Nico shouted, raising his hands. “Matteo, listen to me”

Matteo grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall. “I listened when you begged for food. When you had nothing. I gave you everything, Nico.”

“You gave me scraps!” Nico spat, face red. “You think this city owes you something? You’re just another ghost pretending to be a god.”

Matteo’s eyes darkened. “Maybe. But ghosts have a way of dragging the living to hell.”

The gun fired once. The sound echoed across the empty dock.

Nico slumped forward, eyes wide, blood blooming against his shirt. Matteo held him there for a second, staring at the life leaving his body.

Then he let go.

The night air outside was colder now. Matteo walked back to the car, his clothes streaked with blood. Carlo followed silently.

“You didn’t have to kill him,” Carlo said finally.

“Yes, I did.”

“He was your brother once.”

Matteo’s voice was quiet. “That’s why I pulled the trigger myself.”

They drove through the sleeping city. Streetlights flashed across Matteo’s face, carving shadows under his eyes. He didn’t look like a man who’d won anything. He looked like someone who’d lost the last piece of his soul.

–––

Back in the penthouse, Matteo poured himself another drink. The city stretched below him, beautiful and cruel. He stared at the skyline like it was an old enemy.

On the counter lay a photograph: his father, his mother, and him as a boy. His father’s hand rested on his shoulder. The picture was faded, edges curled, but the message still burned clear in Matteo’s head.

Family is forever. Until it’s not.

The door opened behind him. Isabella entered, her reflection catching in the glass.

“You didn’t come home,” she said softly.

“I was working.”

“Working?” She walked closer, stopping beside him. “Or killing?”

Matteo didn’t answer. The silence told her everything.

“You’re becoming him,” she whispered. “Our father. Cold. Ruthless. Alone.”

Matteo turned to her. His voice was low, almost broken. “I’m doing this for us.”

“For us?” she said bitterly. “You’re building an empire on bodies, Matteo. What’s left for us when it’s over?”

He stepped closer. “Survival.”

Her eyes filled with something like sorrow, or disgust. “Then maybe I don’t want to survive your way.”

She left. The door closed softly behind her.

Matteo stood alone again, the city’s hum seeping back into the room. He raised the glass to his lips but didn’t drink. He set it down instead, watching the bourbon tremble.

Later that night, his phone rang.

He answered. “Rossi.”

The voice on the other end was deep and measured. “Don Vittorio. I heard about Nico.”

Matteo didn’t speak.

Vittorio continued, “You did what you had to do. But it’s not over. The Spaniards will want blood. You need to move fast.”

“I’ll handle it.”

“There’s talk in the south,” Vittorio said. “A new player rising, calling himself Leone. He’s buying loyalty with gold. Men who used to fear you now whisper his name.”

Matteo stared out at the horizon. “Then I’ll give them something new to fear.”

Vittorio chuckled softly. “Be careful, Matteo. Every king builds his throne out of bones. The question is whether he can live long enough to sit on it.”

The line went dead.

Matteo set the phone down and leaned on the balcony rail, the wind tugging at his hair. Below him, Naples glittered like broken glass. Somewhere in those streets, a new war was already being born.

He whispered to the night, almost to himself, “A king without a throne is still a king.”

He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he saw the fire again—the night he should have died, the ashes that had birthed him. He’d crawled out of that inferno with nothing but rage and memory, and he’d built everything since with those same hands.

Now, the city would test what kind of king he really was.

Dawn crept across the horizon, pale and cold. Matteo finally moved from the balcony, picked up his jacket,

and slipped it on. He didn’t look back at the empty glass or the fading photograph.

The man who once wanted redemption was gone.

All that remained was the king who’d learned to wear his crown made of ashes.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath the calm and the scars, a single thought burned like an ember that refused to die:

The fire isn’t over.

It never was.