Mafia Prosecutor De Luca Blood Oath

Chapter 10: The Rise of the Shadow Sovereign

Darkness was no longer an enemy to Matteo De Luca; darkness had become an ally, a shield, and his new identity.

Under the dim streetlights of Florence, reflecting off the wet cobblestone streets, Matteo stood in the shadows of an ancient pillar, directly across from a small cafe named Caffè Gilli. He wore a casual charcoal suit designed to absorb light, completed by a silk scarf covering the left half of his ruined face. A thin wireless communication device whispered static in his ear.

"Target in sight, Maestro," Vincenzo's voice sounded in his earpiece, slightly trembling but full of concentration. "Man with the brown leather attaché case. His name is Beppe, the main courier for the Northern district. He's carrying the weekly ledger."

Matteo didn't respond. His sharp eyes—one clear, the other holding the fire of vengeance—were fixed on Beppe, who had just emerged from the black sedan. Beppe wasn't a frontline soldier; he was a field accountant who felt secure in his status as a Volkov operative.

"Nico, where are you?" Matteo whispered, his voice now more like a hissing wind than a human sound.

"I'm on the opposite rooftop. Area clear. No additional guards. Volkov is too arrogant to waste security on a paper-pusher," Nico replied flatly. "Don't kill him unless absolutely necessary. We need him to report that he was 'robbed by a civilian,' not by a ghost."

Matteo stepped out of the shadows. He no longer walked with the authority of a prosecutor. His steps were now silent, light on the balls of his feet, a technique Nico had taught him to minimise vibration. He slipped into the remaining crowd of tourists, becoming part of the city's noise.

As Beppe paused to light a cigarette near a narrow alley, Matteo made his move.

It took just three seconds.

Matteo collided with Beppe with the precision of a rugby tackle, yet with the finesse of an expert pickpocket. As their bodies came into contact, Matteo's right hand—trained thousands of times—disarmed Beppe's wrist, while his strong left hand gripped the man's jaw, pressing a nerve point below the ear.

"Don't scream if you still want to see your wife in Milan," Matteo whispered into Beppe's ear.

Beppe gasped, his eyes widening in terror when he glimpsed Matteo's cold eye behind the scarf. The strength in Matteo's hand was no longer the strength of a man who worked behind a desk; it was raw power forged by pain. Matteo pulled the bag with a single powerful tug, then pushed Beppe onto a pile of rubbish bags, sending him tumbling, dizzy and disoriented.

Before Beppe could even register what had happened, Matteo had vanished back into the mist of Florence.

Thirty minutes later, in the basement of the Il Silenzioso bookstore, a table lamp illuminated the contents of Beppe's attaché case. Vincenzo Moretti, wearing latex gloves, meticulously removed a stack of documents and an encrypted flash drive.

"Good work, Maestro," Nico muttered from the corner of the room, cleaning his dagger. "Fast, efficient, and no unnecessary bloodshed."

Vincenzo plugged the flash drive into his laptop, which was equipped with multiple layers of firewall protection. His fingers danced across the keyboard, dissecting layers of code built by Volkov's IT specialists.

"Let's see what the Serpent's hiding," Vincenzo said.

Data began streaming onto the screen. A list of narcotics shipments, warehouse coordinates at Livorno port, and the names of public officials who had recently joined Volkov's payroll. Matteo stood behind Vincenzo, his eyes scanning every line of information with the speed of a prosecutor searching for loopholes.

However, his hand suddenly clenched the back of Vincenzo's chair as a folder named 'Viper Monitoring - Florence' appeared on the screen.

"Open it," Matteo ordered, his voice trembling with dread.

Vincenzo opened the folder. The contents were a collection of photos and daily intelligence reports. Matteo felt his heart stop as he saw the images inside. Photos of Isabella Rossi eating at a trattoria. Photos of Isabella talking to an informant at the port. And most terrifyingly... a distant photo of Isabella standing in front of this very bookstore only a few hours ago.

"She's under surveillance," Matteo whispered.

Vincenzo scrolled down further, finding a red-tagged digital memo from Ivan, the snake-tattooed assassin.

'Subject: Isabella Rossi. Status: Medium-level disturbance. Her pro-bono investigation is touching Vipera Holdings in Prato. Order: Silent elimination. Time: Tonight, 23:00. Location: Hotel L’Orologio.'

Matteo glanced at the old wall clock. 22:45.

His blood ran cold. The next second, an anger hotter than the fire that destroyed his apartment exploded in his chest.

"They're going to kill her," Matteo snarled. He grabbed his tactical jacket and weapons belt, which held his throwing knives and a suppressed semi-automatic pistol.

"Matteo, wait!" Nico blocked his path. "If you go there now, you'll expose yourself! You'll destroy everything we've built over the last six months! Leave her; she's a variable we can't save without taking enormous risks."

Matteo grabbed Nico by the collar, his eyes blazing with a terrifying madness. "You don't understand, Nico! She's here because of me! She's searching for the truth about my death! If I let her die just to cover my tracks, then I truly am exactly the same monster as Elias!"

Nico stared at Matteo, searching for doubt, but finding only unshakeable determination. He slowly let go of Matteo's collar.

"Use my motorcycle in the back warehouse," Nico said curtly. "And Maestro... if you have to kill, ensure there are no witnesses. Florence cannot know that the ghost of Matteo De Luca has returned."

Matteo sped his black Ducati through Florence's narrow streets, ignoring all traffic laws. The night wind bit at his burn scars, but he didn't feel it. His mind was focused on one name: Isabella.

He remembered the final moments of Chapter 9—the red laser dot dancing on Isabella's apartment wall. He had to be faster than the bullet.

Arriving near Hotel L’Orologio, Matteo parked his bike two blocks away. He climbed the drainpipe on the building's rear with terrifying agility, his scarred fingers gripping every concrete crevice with inhuman strength. He reached the third-floor balcony. The glass door to room 302—Isabella’s room—was slightly ajar.

Inside, Isabella sat in front of her laptop, her back to the window. She looked exhausted, wiping away tears that streamed down her cheeks. On her desk, an old photo of Matteo lay forgotten.

Matteo saw it. Fifty metres away, on the opposite rooftop, a sniper was aiming. The red laser dot was now on Isabella’s nape, just above the collar of her coat.

"Duck, Isabella!" Matteo screamed internally.

Without wasting a second, Matteo pulled a throwing knife from his belt. He didn't aim at the sniper—too far for a blade. Instead, he targeted the table lamp directly next to Isabella.

ZING! CRASH!

The lamp shattered, plunging the room into darkness. Isabella cried out in surprise and instinctively dropped to the floor, her reaction honed from years as a criminal defense lawyer.

PUFF!

The hiss of the suppressed bullet tore through the air, striking the wooden chair where Isabella had been sitting moments before, shattering it into splinters.

Matteo leaped into the room from the balcony. He moved like a shadow, seamlessly blending into the darkness. Before Isabella could scream, Matteo was behind her, clamping a hand in a tactical glove over her mouth.

"Ssh... don't make a sound if you want to live," Matteo whispered in her ear.

Isabella struggled, but when she caught the faint scent of a perfume—a mix of hospital antiseptic and the sandalwood Matteo used to wear—her body froze instantly. She knew this embrace. She recognized the heat from this body.

"Matteo?" Isabella whispered, her voice barely audible, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks once more.

Matteo didn't answer. He dragged Isabella to the darkest corner of the room, away from the window's view. His eyes remained fixed on the building opposite. He saw the sniper preparing for a second shot.

"Stay here. Don't move a muscle," Matteo commanded.

Matteo stood, grabbing his silenced pistol. He didn't hesitate. He took aim at the lens flare on the opposite rooftop.

PHUT! PHUT!

Two bullets tore through the night. Across the way, the man's figure tumbled backward, his rifle clattering onto the concrete roof. A life taken to save the one most precious to him.

Matteo turned back to Isabella. The moonlight through the window illuminated half his face. Isabella stared at him, filled with horror and longing. She saw the scars—a map of suffering that had transformed her lover into something else entirely.

"You're alive..." Isabella crawled closer, her hands trembling as she reached to touch his face. "Matteo, what happened to you?"

Matteo took a step back, his face disappearing into the shadows once more. "The man you knew died in Milan, Isabella. Don't look for me again. Get out of Florence tonight, or you'll end up in a coffin."

"No! I won't leave without you!"

"You don't have a choice!" Matteo snapped, his voice broken and filled with anguish. "Elias Volkov won't stop. If you stay here, you'll only be a liability in his war."

Matteo heard the sound of police sirens in the distance. Someone must have reported the commotion.

"Goodbye, Isabella. Just consider this your last nightmare," Matteo said.

Before Isabella could reply, Matteo had leaped back onto the balcony and vanished into the night, leaving Isabella sitting weakly on the floor of the ruined room, clutching an old photo of Matteo to her chest.

At the Volkov Clan headquarters, Ivan entered Elias's study with a pale face.

"Sir... our shooter in Florence failed. He was found dead with two bullets to the head. Isabella Rossi survived, and Beppe's courier reported she was robbed by someone who 'has no face'."

Elias Volkov rose from his chair, his eyes gleaming with quiet, deadly rage. He squeezed the gold coin in his hand until his knuckles turned white.

"Someone who has no face?" Elias whispered, a malevolent grin spreading across his face. "So, The Maestro begins to play his tune. Excellent. I was growing tired of easily crushed opponents."

Elias turned toward the map of Italy on his wall. "Summon all units in the North. I want Florence burned to the ground if necessary. I want this 'Maestro's' head on my desk before dawn."

In a dark alley, Matteo removed his scarf, revealing a horrifying grin on his ruined face. He had just sent an anonymous message to all major media outlets in Italy: a link containing a list of corrupt officials from Volkov's ledger. The war was officially underway, and this time, The Maestro wouldn't stop until the final symphony was complete.