GHOST OF THE GODFATHER

CHAPTER 4: THE BURIED LEGACY

Every breath felt like swallowing barbed wire. Leo Ravelli’s lungs, already ruined by chemical smoke, were now being forced to work far beyond their evolutionary limits. Vittorio Valdieri tore through the thorny underbrush, letting sharp branches rip across his cheeks and gaunt hands. The sting was the only thing keeping him conscious as the hallucinations grew increasingly savage.

“Keep moving, you piece of trash,” Vittorio cursed himself. His voice cracked, nearly swallowed by the roar of the storm wind. “One more step. Just one more step.”

Behind him, beams from tactical flashlights sliced through the forest fog. The heavy, rhythmic thud of boots echoed, a clear sign that his pursuers were professional soldiers trained in the hunt of human prey.

“Target moving toward the river cliff! Sector four, seal the exit!” The shouted command bounced through the trees, its radio frequency ricocheting through the forest.

Vittorio stopped for a moment, bracing himself against the trunk of a massive oak. His body shook violently. His teeth chattered, not only from the plummeting temperature but because hypothermia was beginning to creep into his fingertips.

“You think you can run, Leo?” A voice emerged from the darkness.

Vittorio spun around, his hand instinctively reaching for a dagger that was no longer there. Instead, he saw only his own reflection in a shallow puddle, the pitiful image of Leo Ravelli staring back at him.

“Don’t just stand there,” Vittorio muttered to the reflection. “Why did they want you dead so badly? What were you hiding, Leo?”

His trembling fingers searched every inch of the thin jacket he wore. He was looking for something more than cash or drugs. When his fingertips brushed the back collar, he felt something strange. A small, hard bump, hidden beneath stitching that was far too neat, far too precise for a sloppy addict.

“Interesting,” Vittorio whispered.

He bit into the seam and yanked hard until the fabric tore. A small black object dropped into his palm.

A micro SD card.

Vittorio stared at it with narrowed eyes. “So this is the Ouroboros they were talking about? You were clever for a foolish kid, Leo. You stitched your life into the collar of your own jacket.”

A flash of lightning illuminated the object, making it gleam like a fleck of gold in the mud. Vittorio realized that Leo Ravelli had not died merely as a victim. He had died as a rebel, trying to shake the very system that had crushed him.

“I underestimated you,” Vittorio said softly. “You had the nerve to steal from them. Now I’ll make sure this reaches where it’s meant to go.”

“Subject located! Fifty meters ahead, by the large oak!” one of the pursuers shouted.

Vittorio immediately slipped the micro SD card into his mouth, tucking it beneath his tongue, the safest place he knew if he had to fight or fall. He ran again, but now with purpose, toward the thunderous roar of the swollen river below the cliff.

“Stop or we will fire!” an authoritative baritone commanded.

Vittorio did not stop. He accelerated, ignoring the pain in his knees that felt ready to give out.

“Vane, he’s not stopping! Permission to shoot the leg?” one of the pursuers asked over the radio.

“Negative! We need him alive to locate the data! Use tranquilizer rounds if necessary!” replied the commander known as Vane.

Vittorio smirked as he ran. They need me alive. That’s their first mistake.

His footsteps carried him to the edge of the cliff. Below, the river that was usually calm had turned into a raging brown beast, smashing against rocks with the force of thousands of tons of water. Cold mist rose from its surface, greeting Vittorio with the promise of yet another death.

“Leo! Stop right there!” Vane emerged from the trees, assault rifle raised, its red laser dot dancing across Vittorio’s chest.

Vittorio slowly turned and raised his hands. Rain soaked his face, his hair clung to his forehead, but his eyes radiated an authority that made Vane hesitate.

“You’re not the Leo I know,” Vane said cautiously through his tactical mask. “Leo would be crying and begging for a dose right now. Who are you?”

“I’m the man you should have buried deeper, Vane,” Vittorio replied with disdain.

“How do you know my name?” Vane stepped forward, his finger tight on the trigger.

“I know many things about Antonio’s lapdogs,” Vittorio said. “Including the fact that you always tremble when you have to shoot someone who looks you in the eyes.”

Vane froze. The information was too personal, too precise. “Shut up. Hand over the micro SD and I might let you die quickly.”

“You want this?” Vittorio touched his jaw, indicating where the data was hidden. “Come and take it yourself at the bottom of this river.”

“Don’t be stupid, Leo! That water temperature will kill you in three minutes! You’ll go into thermal shock!” Vane shouted.

“Three minutes is a long time for a man who’s been dead for fifty years,” Vittorio replied.

Vittorio spotted a sniper in the distance, positioned higher up. He saw the faint glint of a scope lens beneath the cloud-covered moonlight.

“Vane, your sniper is getting impatient,” Vittorio said calmly.

“Hold fire, do not shoot!” Vane ordered into his radio.

But amid the howling storm, a miscommunication occurred. Or perhaps someone else truly wanted Leo Ravelli erased without a trace.

Pfft.

The muted hiss of a suppressed rifle cut through the air.

Vittorio felt a searing heat tear across his right shoulder. The bullet grazed skin and muscle, shredding his thin jacket. The impact, combined with his weakened state, caused him to lose balance on the slick cliff edge.

“No!” Vane shouted.

Vittorio did not fight gravity. He gave his legs one final push and fell backward, plunging into the raging darkness of the river below.

“Leo!” Vane rushed to the edge, shining his flashlight downward, but saw only white foam and endless black water. “Damn it! Dive team, move downstream now! I don’t care how, find the body or don’t come back at all!”

Underwater, Vittorio slammed into something like a concrete wall. The cold instantly numbed his nerves. His lungs convulsed, desperate for air but finding only churning water.

Don’t give up, Valdieri. You haven’t killed Antonio yet.

He let the current take him, conserving what little energy he had left. His head struck something hard, rock or driftwood, and his consciousness began to fade. The last thing he felt before total darkness claimed him was the solid shape of the micro SD card beneath his tongue.

This legacy will not be buried with me, he thought, before everything went silent.

The river carried him away, far beyond the reach of Black Ops flashlights, toward the outskirts of the city filled with cheap neon lights and the promise of new suffering. Vittorio Valdieri had escaped the forest, only to enter a concrete jungle far more deadly.