GHOST OF THE GODFATHER

CHAPTER 5: NEON AND DEATH

The ice cold river water had nearly stopped Leo Ravelli’s already fragile heart. Vittorio Valdieri vomited murky water as his trembling hands clutched the roots of a tree on the edge of the old industrial district. His body was numb, yet the fire of rage in his soul refused to die.

Two hours. That was how long it took him to crawl from the riverbank, through abandoned warehouses, and into the city’s marginal zone, where the law was nothing more than a suggestion people chose to ignore.

Pink and electric blue neon lights from low class bars flickered, reflecting in rain puddles mixed with oil. A sharp stench of urine and steam rising from sewer grates greeted him. To Vittorio, it was a pitiful sight compared to the luxury of his Rome in the past, but here, it was the perfect hiding place.

“Hey, Bum! Don’t die in front of my shop!” a middle aged man shouted, wearing a filthy tank top as he pulled down the metal shutter of his storefront.

Vittorio stopped. He turned slowly, fixing the man with a look that made the shop owner take a step back.

“I don’t plan on dying today, Friend,” Vittorio said. His voice scraped like metal, heavy with menace.

“You… you’re bleeding, Kid. You get robbed or something?” the man asked, his tone softening slightly out of fear.

Vittorio did not answer. He kept moving, dragging his feet toward a building with a flickering sign, several letters already dead.

THE RUSTY KEY MOTEL.

He stopped in the dark alley before the entrance. He removed his mud soaked left boot. Beneath the loose sole, he found three crisp one hundred dollar bills, Leo Ravelli’s last emergency reserve.

“You had a bit of a brain in that addict head of yours, Leo,” Vittorio muttered.

He entered the narrow motel lobby. The air smelled of cheap cigarettes and discount floor cleaner. An old man with thick glasses sat behind a plywood reception desk, reading a newspaper.

“One room. End of the hall. Ground floor,” Vittorio said, placing a single hundred dollar bill on the counter.

The clerk lowered his paper and looked Vittorio up and down. “Room 108. Thirty a night. But looking at you, there’s an extra cleaning f*e. Fifty dollars.”

Vittorio leaned forward. Blood from his shoulder dripped onto the wooden counter. “You will give me that key right now, or I will make sure you never read a newspaper again for the rest of your life.”

“Listen, Kid. I don’t want trouble with the police—”

“There will be no police,” Vittorio cut in sharply. “Just a man who needs a shower and sleep. You take the hundred, consider the extra fifty payment for keeping that filthy mouth of yours shut. Understood?”

The clerk swallowed hard. He saw an authority that made no sense in the eyes of this man who looked like a homeless junkie. He quickly took the money and slid over a tarnished brass key.

“Room 108. End of the left hall. Try not to bleed all over the sheets,” the old man muttered, hiding once more behind his newspaper.

Vittorio walked down the dim hallway. Every step was a battle against gravity. Once inside room 108, the first thing he did was lock the door and secure the safety chain.

The room was small and suffocating, with an old tube television in the corner. Vittorio stepped toward the cracked mirror above a rusted sink.

He froze.

For the first time, he truly saw the face of Leo Ravelli under the neon light leaking through the window crack. The face was gaunt, sharp cheekbones jutting out. His eyes were sunken, ringed by deep black circles from years of addiction. His skin was pale, almost translucent, blue veins pulsing restlessly beneath it.

“Disgusting,” Vittorio hissed, touching his own face. “You let yourself become this, Leo? You let them destroy this body until it was nothing but trash?”

He stared deeper into the mirror. Behind the dull gaze, something new flickered. The gleam of a Don. The gaze of a man who once ruled with an iron fist.

“But this body is mine now,” Vittorio continued. “And I will forge this trash into a weapon that will destroy them all.”

He stripped off the ruined jacket and shirt. As the fabric peeled away from his skin, Vittorio winced. His right shoulder was swollen, dark purple and black. The small sniper wound from the forest looked grotesque, the flesh around it already beginning to rot from filthy river water.

“Damn it,” Vittorio cursed. “Infection has already started.”

Suddenly, a wave of unbearable pain crashed through his nervous system. Not just from the bullet wound, but from his cells screaming for fentanyl. Tremors seized his hands. Cold sweat drenched his body within seconds.

“Not now… not now!” Vittorio gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white.

In the mirror, Leo’s shadow seemed to laugh at him. You can’t survive without the drug, Don. This body doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to pain.

“Shut up!” Vittorio smashed his fist into the mirror.

Crash.

Shards of glass fell into the sink. Vittorio picked up the sharpest fragment and stared at his reflection in it.

“I am Vittorio Valdieri,” he said, his voice unshakable. “I survived two wars, three assassination attempts, and betrayal by the man I trusted most. You think a little pain like this can stop me?”

He dragged his weakening body toward the bed. He knew he did not have much time. The bullet had to come out before he passed out from sepsis or withdrawal shock.

Vittorio sat on the edge of the hard mattress. He could feel the bullet lodged deep in his deltoid muscle. Every movement sent electric pain racing up his spine.

“Leo, do you have a phone?” Vittorio searched the pockets of his jeans. Empty. Kalen’s shattered phone was gone, swallowed by the river.

He looked at the closed door. Outside, he could hear the laughter of other addicts and the distant thump of cheap techno music. This modern world felt foreign to him, yet frighteningly fragile.

“They think I’m dead,” Vittorio whispered, staring at his shoulder. “That’s my greatest advantage.”

He rummaged through the jacket he had thrown on the floor. He found the lighter taken from Kalen’s body and several sewing needles, likely used by Leo for his drugs.

Vittorio took a long breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He knew this would be brutal. No anesthesia, no proper medical tools, and a body already dying from withdrawal.

“This will be my liturgy of pain,” he murmured.

He stood long enough to turn off the room’s light, leaving only the red neon glow from outside the window. Red. The same color as the blood now running down his arm.

Just as he was about to begin, a loud knock thundered at the door.

“Hey, New Kid! I saw that hundred dollar bill you had earlier!” a hoarse voice shouted from outside. “Open up! We can share some fun tonight!”

Vittorio froze. His eyes narrowed. Rage flared at the interruption. He grabbed the sharp glass shard from the sink.

“Go away, or you’ll regret it,” Vittorio said coldly.

“Oh, look at little Leo trying to act tough!” the man outside laughed louder. “Open the door now or I’ll kick it in!”

Vittorio stood, ignoring the agony tearing through his shoulder. He walked to the door with silent, ghostlike steps. The pain brought him a strange clarity.

Bam!

The door shuddered from a kick.

Vittorio did not wait for a second strike. He unlocked the door in one swift motion and yanked it open. A large man covered in tattoos stumbled forward, losing his balance.

Without a word, Vittorio grabbed the man’s hair and slammed his face into the hard wooden doorframe.

The man’s nose broke instantly. Before he could scream, Vittorio pressed the glass shard under his chin.

“Listen carefully, Trash,” Vittorio whispered into his ear. “I am not in the mood to play. If you or your friends knock on this door again, I will cut out your tongue and make you swallow it. Do you understand?”

The man shook violently, eyes wide with terror at the intensity in Vittorio’s gaze. He nodded frantically.

“Go. Now,” Vittorio ordered.

The man scrambled away down the motel hallway as if he had just seen a demon.

Vittorio shut the door and locked it again. He returned to the edge of the bed, breathing hard. The small victory drained what little strength he had left. He collapsed into a sitting position, his vision blurring.

“Enough games,” Vittorio muttered, staring at his shoulder.

He flicked the lighter, heating the tip of a needle and the shard of glass. The small blue flame reflected in his cold eyes. He knew that if he passed out before the bullet came out, he would never wake up again.

“Let’s see how strong you really are, Leo Ravelli,” Vittorio challenged his new body.

He drove the shard of glass into the bullet wound.

“ARGHH!”

His scream died in his throat as he bit down hard on the pillow fabric. Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision, but Vittorio Valdieri refused to surrender to it. Not now. Not until Antonio felt what he felt.