Mafia Prosecutor De Luca Blood Oath

Chapter 8: The Cold-Blooded Librarian

The vibrations of the Frecciarossa train speeding towards Florence felt like an unsynchronised heartbeat beneath Matteo’s feet. In the dimly lit corner of the carriage, he pulled his jacket hood deeper, hiding the left side of his face in the darkness created by his own shadow. The laptop on his lap cast a pale blue light, displaying rows of numbers and names he had stolen from Volkov's data vault.

However, his focus was interrupted. Not by the complex encryption, but by a sensation he had honed over years as a prosecutor: the feeling of being watched.

Through the reflection in the dark window, Matteo saw her. A woman sat two rows ahead, slightly angled. Her neatly tied brown hair and large glasses frames contrasted with the carriage atmosphere dominated by weary businesspeople. The woman held a folder, but her eyes weren't focused on the papers in her hand. Her eyes were fixed on Matteo's reflection in the glass.

Isabella Rossi.

Matteo’s heart hammered against his ribs, which still felt bruised. Why was she here? Is she following me? No, that’s impossible. To her, I am dead. Matteo quickly closed his laptop. He couldn't risk it. If Isabella recognised him, the entire plan would be ruined before it began. Isabella's presence on the same train, carrying documents with Volkov's shell company logo, wasn't a coincidence. It was a tangled thread of destiny.

"Matteo, what's wrong?" whispered Vincenzo, seated beside him, noting his partner's tension.

"Quiet," Matteo hissed without turning his head. "Keep your head down. We're getting off at the next station, not the main Santa Maria Novella station. We'll take a taxi from Rifredi."

Florence welcomed them with drier air, yet it still held a strong, heavy aroma of history. After making sure no one followed them from the station, Matteo and Vincenzo walked through the narrow alleys of the Oltrarno district. Here, behind the magnificence of Pitti Palace, were quieter streets where old secrets were buried.

They stopped in front of a shop with a wooden facade blackened by age. There was no conspicuous sign, just faded gold writing on the window: Il Silenzioso. Inside, stacks of old books piled up to the ceiling, creating a paper labyrinth that smelled musty and of dry ink.

The sound of the bell above the door rang out lonely as they stepped inside.

"We are not accepting used books today," the voice was heavy, flat, and came from behind the tall philosophy bookshelf.

A man emerged. He wore a grey wool waistcoat over a white shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hair was completely white, combed neatly back, and his eyes were as blue as Arctic ice. He held a small book, but the way his fingers rested on the cover suggested he was ready to release it instantly to grab something more deadly.

Nico "Il Silenzioso" Santoro.

Vincenzo stepped forward, his voice trembling from a combination of fear and respect. "Nico... it's me. Vincenzo Moretti."

The old man narrowed his eyes. He looked at Vincenzo for a moment, then his gaze shifted to the tall figure beside him, who was still wearing a hood. "Vincenzo. I thought you died in the Venice sewers ten years ago. And who is this? Your new bodyguard?"

Matteo stepped forward, directly under the dim light of the chandelier. He said nothing. With slow movements, he lowered his jacket hood.

The lamplight shone on his face. The right side still retained the aristocratic good looks of the De Luca family, and the left side—a monument of melted flesh, red scar tissue climbing from jaw to temple, and eyes that no longer held a human spark.

Nico stiffened. For a moment, his mask of calm cracked. He placed his book on the table with a heavy thud. "Lorenzo..." he murmured quietly. "You look like your father's ghost, having just crawled out of hell's roasting pit."

"My father died by a bullet, Nico," Matteo's voice was hoarse, sounding like grinding stone. "Elias Volkov let me live to see what it feels like to become ashes. But I refuse to stay ashes."

Nico walked closer, his steps making no sound on the wooden floor. He stopped directly in front of Matteo, staring at the burn scars without revulsion. "So, the prosecutor finally realises that the law is just ink on paper, very easy to burn?"

"I'm not here to debate the law," Matteo replied sharply. "Vincenzo says you hold my father's oath of loyalty. I have The Ghost Ledger. I have Volkov's financial data. But I don't have the hands to choke him. I need you, Nico."

Nico was silent for a long time. He turned, walked to his wooden table, and poured two small glasses of grappa from a crystal bottle hidden beneath the counter. "My loyalty is buried with Lorenzo, Matteo. I'm retired. I prefer dealing with book dust over human blood."

"Volkov is wiping out every trace of De Luca," Matteo interrupted, raising his voice. "He didn't just kill me. He will hunt Vincenzo, he will hunt every person who ever ate at my father's table. And you think this little bookshop will protect you when he decides to level Florence?"

Nico sipped his drink, his eyes fixed on Matteo. "You want me to help you? You think with that damaged face you automatically become a soldier? You still smell like a courtroom and hospital morphine."

Suddenly, with a speed that was nonsensical for a man his age, Nico moved. His hand snatched a paper knife from the table and swung it toward Matteo's throat.

Matteo flinched back, but his movement was too late. The cold metal point stopped exactly one millimeter from his Adam's apple. Matteo could feel the coldness of the steel.

"You're slow," Nico hissed. "You have anger, but you don't have instinct. If I were Volkov's assassin, your head would already be rolling among these books."

Matteo didn't blink. Although his heart raced, he looked directly into Nico's blue eyes. "That's why I'm here. Teach me. Turn these remnants of flesh into a weapon. I've already lost my face, Nico. I don't mind losing my soul if it means I can drag Elias to the grave with me."

Nico stared into Matteo's eyes, searching for doubt, but finding only bottomless darkness. He slowly lowered the knife.

"Follow me," Nico said shortly.

He led them to the back of the shop, past heavy history bookshelves, toward a large cabinet that looked like an encyclopedia display. Nico pulled a specific book, and the cabinet shifted with a smooth hydraulic mechanism sound, revealing concrete steps leading down into the darkness.

Below, they didn't find a book storage room. It was a hundred-square-meter room equipped with physical training equipment, worn-out punching bags, and a wooden wall covered with various firearms and knives.

"To kill a monster, you have to be ready to become a monster, even worse than them," Nico said, throwing a pair of boxing gloves and a rubber training knife towards Matteo. "But that doesn't mean you have to let go of yourself completely. What separates us from them is who holds control over that darkness."

Nico stood in the middle of the room, removing his wool waistcoat, revealing arms filled with old scars and still-hard muscle.

"Attack me," Nico commanded. "Use your anger. Use your pain."

"If you can't land a single blow on me in ten minutes, you and that old accountant can get out of here and wait for your respective deaths."

Matteo stripped off his jacket, revealing parts of his body wrapped in bandages. He lunged forward with a wild scream, throwing punches fuelled by months of hatred. Nico easily dodged, spun Matteo around, and delivered a precise kick straight to his recently healed ribs.

Matteo stumbled to the ground, groaning in agony as his lungs felt like they were collapsing.

"Get up, Prosecutor!" Nico yelled. "Volkov won't wait for you to catch your breath!"

Matteo crawled back up, blood beginning to seep from the wound on his lip. He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand, his eyes now glittering with a cold madness. He no longer saw Nico as a mentor; he saw Nico as the embodiment of an obstacle he had to crush.

For the next hour, the basement filled with the sound of flesh hitting flesh and ragged breaths. Matteo was beaten relentlessly, his body once again becoming a canvas for pain. But each time he fell, he rose faster.

Nico finally stopped, his breathing slightly laboured. He watched Matteo kneeling on the floor, soaked in sweat and blood, yet still struggling to hold his training knife in trembling hands.

"Enough," said Nico.

He walked towards Matteo and extended his hand. Matteo grabbed the hand and was pulled to his feet.

"You have the resilience of a martyr," Nico murmured, wiping a smear of blood from Matteo's lip with his thumb. "It's a good start. But martyrs usually die at the end of the story. I'll teach you how to be a winner who stays alive long enough to spit on his enemy's grave."

Nico turned to Vincenzo, who had been watching with a pale face. "Vincenzo, prepare a room upstairs. From tomorrow, there is no more Matteo De Luca. There is only my student."

Nico looked back at Matteo, his gaze now as deep as the ocean. "From now on, you are 'Maestro'. Because you will conduct the symphony of death for the Volkov clan. But remember my question... Can you maintain control when the darkness begins to swallow you whole?"

Matteo did not answer with words. He only stared at his bloody hands, then clenched them tightly.

Upstairs, in front of the locked bookstore door, a woman in large glasses stood still. Isabella Rossi stared at the symbol of Il Silenzioso, her hands trembling. Inside her bag, she held an old photograph of Lorenzo De Luca and a younger man who bore a striking resemblance to the man she had just followed from the train.

"I know it's you, Matteo," she whispered into the cold Florence wind. "And if you're still alive, then I won't let you fall into darkness alone."