GHOST OF THE GODFATHER

CHAPTER 9: THE SHOPPING GHOST

The morning air on the outskirts of the city felt like a mixture of leftover exhaust fumes and the sour smell of stale bread. Vittorio Valdieri stepped out of the narrow alley beside The Rusty Key motel, wearing a black shirt that was slightly too large and a pair of fabric trousers he had taken from the receptionist’s pile of old clothes. Cheap as they were, the way Vittorio carried himself, back straight and chin lifted, made it seem as if he were dressed in a bespoke suit from the finest tailor in Milan.

Beneath that surface, however, Leo Ravelli’s body was still rebelling. The tremor in his hands had not faded, and the fresh stitches in his shoulder throbbed every time he moved his right arm.

“Stop staring at me like that, old man,” Vittorio said without turning as he passed a newspaper stand at the end of the block.

The vendor, an elderly man in a worn baseball cap, choked on his coffee. “I’m not staring, kid. I’m just wondering how an addict like you can look like a bank executive who just went bankrupt.”

Vittorio paused and fixed the man with a cold stare that silenced him. “Surprise is the only luxury left in this world. Where is the nearest medical supply store that doesn’t ask too many questions?”

“A medical store? You look like you need a hospital, not a shop,” the vendor replied, nodding toward Vittorio’s shoulder, where blood had begun to seep through the fabric. “But if you’ve got money, go to Health-Sync, two blocks from here. The owner, Marcus, would sell his own kidney if the price was right.”

“Thank you,” Vittorio said curtly, then walked on.

His steps were steady, but his eyes never stopped moving. He studied every corner, every small black box perched on utility poles, surveillance cameras. To him, the modern world was a glass prison. In his era, watching someone required ten informants on every street corner. Now, a single lens could do it all.

He reached a shop with a flickering neon sign that read Health-Sync. As soon as he entered, the sharp smell of antiseptic greeted him.

“Can I help you?” asked a thin man with greasy hair behind the counter. His eyes went straight to the bloodstain on Vittorio’s black shirt.

“I need surgical bandages, saline solution, broad spectrum antibiotics, and non opioid painkillers,” Vittorio said in an authoritative tone.

Marcus, the shop owner, gave a thin grin. “Very specific choices for someone who looks like he just crawled out of a gutter. Got a prescription?”

Vittorio placed a one hundred dollar bill on the glass counter. “That’s the prescription.”

Marcus glanced at the money, then back at Vittorio. “That covers the bandages. What about the antibiotics? Those are hard to get without medical records.”

Vittorio placed a second hundred dollar bill on the counter. “This is for your discretion.”

Marcus quickly swept the money beneath the counter. “Of course. Give me a moment.”

While Marcus gathered the supplies, Vittorio noticed the monitor behind the counter showing a live feed from the CCTV camera outside the shop. Suddenly, he saw a police patrol car slow to a stop directly in front of the store.

“Damn it,” Vittorio muttered.

“Problem?” Marcus asked, returning with a brown paper bag containing Vittorio’s order.

“Turn off that monitor,” Vittorio ordered.

“What? Why?”

“Just do it if you don’t want this place searched in five minutes.”

Vittorio moved quickly to the back of the shop, hiding behind tall shelves of vitamins. Through a gap in the side window, he saw two police officers step out of the car. One of them was holding a digital tablet.

“Excuse me,” one officer called as he entered the shop. “We’re looking for someone. Leo Ravelli. Last seen around this district. Has anyone come in matching a thin build, sunken eyes, and possibly injured?”

Vittorio held his breath. He could feel Leo’s heart pounding, triggering the tremor in his hands. He pressed his palms against the shelf to steady them.

“Leo?” Marcus’s voice sounded uncertain. “That name sounds familiar. But it’s been quiet today. Just a few seniors looking for arthritis medication.”

“Don’t lie, Marcus,” the second officer said, his voice sharper. “We know he’s a regular in this area. His father, Councilman Ravelli, is very eager to find him. There’s a reward for anyone who provides information.”

“A reward?” Marcus hesitated. Vittorio knew exactly what the greedy man was thinking.

“Yes, enough of a reward to renovate this dump of a shop,” the officer continued.

Vittorio grabbed a glass bottle of liquid calcium from the shelf. He was ready to crack Marcus’s skull open if the man opened his mouth.

“I… I really haven’t seen him today,” Marcus said at last. “But if he shows up, I’ll contact you immediately.”

“Good. Here’s my card. Call my personal number if you see him,” the officer said.

Footsteps moved away, followed by the chime of the doorbell. Vittorio waited a full minute before stepping out of the shadows.

“A smart choice, Marcus,” Vittorio said, taking his brown paper bag.

Marcus was sweating. “They’ll be back. Your father… I mean, Councilman Ravelli… he’s mobilized half the city police to look for you.”

“My father isn’t looking for me to save me,” Vittorio replied coldly. “He’s looking for me to make sure I don’t talk. Where’s the hunting supply store?”

“One block south. The Iron Sight. But Leo, you won’t get past the cameras at that intersection. They’ve got facial recognition now,” Marcus whispered.

Vittorio looked out the window. A garbage truck had just stopped at a red light. “I don’t need to pass them if I can become part of the scenery.”

He exited through the back door and moved with measured speed, avoiding open areas. He used building shadows and construction tarps to travel unseen. When the garbage truck started moving, Vittorio jumped and clung to its side, hidden from the main intersection camera.

Two minutes later, he dropped down into the alley beside The Iron Sight. It was an urban guerrilla tactic he had learned in Naples decades earlier, vanishing in plain sight by exploiting infrastructure blind spots.

Inside the hunting supply store, he ignored the large rifles. Leo’s body would not be able to handle the recoil of heavy weapons. His eyes settled on a compact tactical pistol with an integrated suppressor and a black carbon folding knife.

“You got a permit for that?” asked the shop owner, a muscular man with a Marine Corps tattoo on his arm.

“I don’t need a permit to protect myself in a city that’s gone insane,” Vittorio replied. This time, he did not use hundred dollar bills. He produced a pure gold coin from a small pocket, one of the relics he had found hidden inside Leo’s jacket.

The shop owner’s eyes widened. “That coin… that’s pure gold. You know it could buy everything in this shop.”

“Take one coin. Give me the gun, extra ammunition, and the lightest bulletproof vest you have,” Vittorio said. “And keep the rest as payment for never remembering my face.”

The man swallowed, then nodded quickly. “Fair deal.”

Vittorio left the shop with a small backpack. He felt more prepared, but he still needed something beyond medical supplies and modern weapons. He needed something from his past.

He headed toward the old city district, where stone buildings still stood among glass skyscrapers. He stopped in front of a dusty antique watch shop with lettering on the window that read, Orologio d’Oro, Est. 1952.

This shop belonged to the Moretti family. The owner’s grandfather had once been the most loyal informant of the Valdieri family.

Vittorio stepped inside. The ticking of hundreds of wall clocks created an uncanny atmosphere, as if time itself had stopped here. A young man with thick glasses was repairing a pocket watch beneath a desk lamp.

“We’re closed for repairs,” the young man said without looking up.

Vittorio walked to the old wooden counter. He did not look at the young man, but at a small drawer on the right corner of the counter, carved with a tiny rose.

“Moretti never closes his door to an old friend,” Vittorio’s voice echoed through the quiet room.

The young man looked up, confused. “Who are you? My father died five years ago. I don’t know you.”

Vittorio did not answer. He extended his hand and pressed the rose carving in a precise pattern, two short taps, one long tap.

Click.

A hidden compartment beneath the drawer opened. The young man jumped to his feet, dropping his small screwdriver. “How… how do you know that mechanism? Only my father knew!”

Vittorio reached into the compartment and pulled out a small black wooden box. Inside lay a legendary pistol, its surface a deep matte black, with a cobra engraved on the grip.

The Black Mamba. Vittorio Valdieri’s personal weapon, entrusted here before his “death” fifty years ago.

“Your grandfather was a man who honored his word,” Vittorio whispered, stroking the weapon. “It seems he guarded this well.”