GHOST OF THE GODFATHER

CHAPTER 12: BENEATH THE OVERPASS

Dark and damp, the roar of tires striking the seams of asphalt above the overpass echoed like endless thunder. Down below, between towering concrete pillars covered in graffiti and moss, the world seemed to stand still. The stench of wet garbage, rusted metal, and thickened poverty became the air Vittorio Valdieri was forced to breathe.

His steps dragged, leaving a trail of blood quickly swallowed by pools of black water. His body felt as if it were being roasted over fire, yet his skin was ice cold.

“One more step. Don’t fall now, Valdieri,” he whispered, his voice nearly lost beneath the noise above.

His vision began to spin. The light filtering through gaps in the overpass stabbed at his eyes like blades. In a slightly drier corner, he saw a cluster of figures huddled beneath thick cardboard sheets.

“Hey, you!”

A sharp, high voice stopped him.

Vittorio turned with what little strength he had left. A boy, perhaps eight years old, his face smeared with soot and grime, stared at him with wide, wary eyes. The child gripped a piece of rusted metal.

“This is our place! Go find another hole, drunk!” the boy shouted, his voice trembling despite his attempt to sound fierce.

Vittorio tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace of pain. “I’m not looking for a place to stay, kid. I just need to sit for a while.”

“You’re bleeding,” the boy lowered the metal, his gaze fixed on Vittorio’s shoulder, soaked in dark red. “A lot.”

Vittorio sank down, resting his back against the cold concrete pillar. The pain from the torn stitches in his shoulder was now accompanied by a throbbing that signaled a severe infection. “Not your concern. Go away.”

The boy didn’t move. Instead, he stepped closer, his nose twitching at the smell of blood. “Do you have food? If you want to sit here, you have to pay rent.”

Vittorio reached into his jacket pocket with a violently trembling hand. He pulled out a half-crushed protein bar he had taken earlier from the hunting supply store. “Take this, and be quiet.”

The boy snatched the food with lightning speed. He didn’t eat it right away, instead splitting it into two pieces. “Thanks, Mister Bleeding. I’ll share this with Grandpa Silas.”

“Grandpa Silas?” Vittorio asked hoarsely.

“He looks after me here,” the boy pointed toward a dark shape behind a stack of old tires. “He says people like you usually bring big trouble.”

From the shadows, an old man emerged. His white hair was matted, one eye clouded by cataract. He wore a long, tattered coat, yet the way he carried himself hinted at buried military discipline.

“Pico, get back,” the old man ordered. His voice was deep and commanding, a stark contrast to his appearance.

“But Grandpa, he gave us food!” Pico protested.

“Get back. Now.”

Pico pouted but obeyed, disappearing into the darkness. Silas stepped forward, stopping three paces in front of Vittorio. His gaze studied Vittorio, or rather, the face of Leo Ravelli, with quiet intensity.

“The face of an addict, but the breath of a killer,” Silas murmured. “Who are you really? A cop? Or some unlucky corporate rat?”

Vittorio coughed, spitting a trace of blood. “Just a ghost passing through, old man. Don’t concern yourself with me.”

“Ghosts don’t bleed that fresh,” Silas crouched in front of him, examining the crude stitching on Vittorio’s shoulder. “Who did this? A butcher?”

“I did,” Vittorio replied, his eyes beginning to glaze with rising fever.

Silas paused. “Yourself? Without anesthetic?”

“Pain is a reminder that I’m not truly dead yet,” Vittorio struggled to steady his breath. “Do you have water? I’ll pay you.”

“Keep your coins. I don’t need a dead man’s money.” Silas took a plastic bottle filled with cloudy but drinkable water. “Drink. Then you leave. Men in black suits come here often looking for people like you.”

Vittorio drank greedily, though each swallow felt like gravel scraping his throat. “Men in black suits… The Circle?”

At the name, Silas’s hand trembled slightly. “You know too much for someone dying under a bridge. Who are you, kid?”

“My name doesn’t matter,” Vittorio leaned his head back, eyes closing. “But I owe a debt to someone long dead. And I intend to collect it, even if I have to crawl out of the grave to do it.”

Silas stared at him more closely. There was something familiar in the way this man spoke, something that stirred memories from fifty years ago. “Your tone reminds me of someone. Someone who should be buried beneath Roman concrete.”

Vittorio didn’t respond. His consciousness began slipping into the depths of fever. Shadows of the past flickered behind his eyelids. He saw Antonio’s face, saw the explosion of his car, saw the traitors who once kissed his hand.

“You’re burning up, kid,” Silas placed a hand on Vittorio’s forehead. “This infection is in your blood. Without strong antibiotics, you won’t see morning.”

“I prepared for it,” Vittorio murmured. He tried to reach for his bag, but his hand fell limp.

Silas opened Vittorio’s small backpack. Inside, he found the antibiotics purchased earlier from Health-Sync. “You have good medical supplies. You planned all this?”

“A Valdieri always has a contingency,” Vittorio whispered, his voice barely audible.

Silas froze. That name. Valdieri.

He grabbed Vittorio by the collar, forcing a closer look at his face under the dim light. “What did you say? Valdieri? Don’t joke with me, kid! Leo Ravelli is trash. He’s no Valdieri!”

Vittorio was no longer fully conscious. He drifted in delirium, his body trembling, sweat soaking his pale face.

“Six… seven… four…” he muttered.

Silas leaned closer. “What? What did you say?”

“Operation Lupo… in Rome,” Vittorio whispered again. “Code… Cenere e Sangue… Ash and Blood.”

Silas’s face drained of color. He staggered back and dropped onto the filthy ground, eyes wide with terror, as if witnessing a nightmare come to life.

“No, impossible,” he stammered, his voice shaking. “Only Don Vittorio knew that code. Only he led Operation Lupo in Rome before the betrayal.”

“Don Vittorio?” Pico reappeared from the shadows, confused by his grandfather’s fear.

“Pico! Get clean cloth and warm water, now!” Silas barked urgently.

“But Grandpa, he’s a stranger—”

“JUST DO IT!”

Silas rushed back to Vittorio, studying his face again, searching for traces of the man he had once served as a low-ranking soldier in Rome. The body was different. The age was different. But the authority radiating from him, even unconscious, could not be faked.

“Don… is that truly you?” Silas whispered, touching Vittorio’s shoulder with deep reverence. “Have you really returned for us?”

Vittorio did not answer. He continued murmuring the names of his fallen loyalists as the fever consumed him. Beneath the grim overpass, a secret buried for half a century had just erupted in the hands of an old vagrant.

Silas began cleaning Vittorio’s wound, his hands still trembling. He knew that from this night on, his quiet life beneath the overpass was over. If this ghost from the past had truly returned, then a storm of blood would soon sweep across the city.

“Rest, Don,” Silas whispered as he wrapped Vittorio’s shoulder with cleaner cloth. “I am here. What remains of the Valdieri soldiers are still loyal, even if we are nothing but street refuse now.”

Six hours passed in suffocating silence. Above them, the world moved on, unaware that beneath the asphalt, a ruler was gathering his strength once more, wrapped in wounds and a deadly fever.

Just as dawn began to break in the east, Vittorio opened his eyes. The fever had lessened, but thirst clawed at his throat. He saw Silas sitting beside him, keeping watch with an old knife in hand.

“You’re still here, old man?” Vittorio rasped.

Silas looked at him, then slowly set the knife aside and dropped to his knees on the dirty asphalt. His head bowed.

“Don, welcome back to the battlefield,” Silas said, his voice trembling with emotion.

Vittorio fell silent for a moment. He realized the code he had muttered in his delirium had opened the door to the past. “Silas? Is that you, the sniper from the Fourth Division?”

Silas lifted his head, his good eye glistening. “You remember me, Don. After fifty years, you still remember a lowly soldier like me.”

Vittorio gripped Silas’s shoulder. “A Valdieri never forgets those who have shed blood for him. Get up, Silas. We don’t have time for ceremony. Our enemy is celebrating their victory above us.”

In the distance, police sirens wailed again, but this time Silas did not fear them. He had a reason to fight once more. And Vittorio Valdieri, within the body of Leo Ravelli, had just gained his first ally.