Mafia Prosecutor De Luca Blood Oath

Chapter 9: Sharpening the Fangs

Florence at dawn was a cold grey canvas. The fog from the Arno crept through the gaps in the stone streets, carrying a damp chill that bit to the bone. In the basement of the Il Silenzioso bookshop, there was no morning tranquillity. Only the sound of ragged breaths, the heavy thud of flesh against the punching bag, and Nico Santoro's cold voice dissecting every error.

"Again, Maestro. You attack like an amateur brawler in a pub fight," Nico hissed. He stood with his arms crossed, his eyes as cold as ice, showing not a hint of mercy as he watched Matteo crumple for the fifth time that morning.

Matteo hauled himself back up. Sweat soaked his body, making the bandages still wrapped around his wounds feel heavy and itchy. The pain in his previously broken ribs felt like a knife thrust with every deep breath. The mangled left side of his face throbbed in time with his racing heart.

"Anger is poor fuel for a precision machine," Nico continued, circling Matteo like a wolf around wounded prey. "If you go after Volkov driven by emotion like this, he won't even need to dirty his own hands. He'll simply wait until you're exhausted before slitting your throat."

"Then... what... must I do?" Matteo asked hoarsely. He wiped blood from the corner of his lip—a wound intentionally inflicted by Nico during training.

"Calm your heart. Turn that pain into an instrument, not a burden," Nico said, stopping directly in front of Matteo. "You were a prosecutor. You know how to tear down witnesses in a courtroom until they're mentally broken. Apply that same logic here. In the underworld, violence is only the final language. Before you reach that point, you must dismantle their foundations."

For the following weeks, Matteo's curriculum changed dramatically. Nico didn't just teach him how to kill with his bare hands or wield a knife with terrifying efficiency. The old man taught him the ethics of the 'Old World'—a nearly extinct mafia code where honour and silence were everything.

Matteo learned how to vanish in a crowd, how to read a person's intent from the movement of their pupils alone, and how to interrogate without needing to draw a single drop of blood. Upstairs, among the dusty bookshelves, Vincenzo Moretti assisted him with a different aspect of his education.

"Lorenzo wasn't just a feared Don, Matteo. He was a skeptical visionary," Vincenzo remarked one night, gesturing toward a laptop with military-grade encryption. "He didn't trust banks. He hid most of his personal assets in crypto and shadow accounts accessible only with the key in that metal box."

Matteo stared at the rows of figures on the screen. Millions of Euros in Bitcoin and Monero lay dormant there, waiting to be deployed. "Volkov doesn't know about this?"

"He's too arrogant to delve that deeply into digital technology," Vincenzo gave a dry chuckle. "For him, power means land and ports. He doesn't realise that in the modern world, whoever controls the data controls everything."

Matteo began to use his legal intelligence to map Volkov's weaknesses. He wasn't seeking evidence to put the man in jail; he was looking for loopholes to bankrupt him, isolate his allies, and sow paranoia within his organisation. He began crafting his new identity as Maestro—a shadowy conspirator who was never seen but whose influence seeped into every crack of power.

However, in the midst of this transformation, a threat from the past appeared at the door.

One afternoon, the bookshop bell chimed. Nico, dusting the front shelves, looked up. A woman in a brown coat and large glasses entered. Her face showed deep fatigue, yet her eyes radiated a very familiar determination.

Isabella Rossi.

Matteo, who was behind the curtain leading to the basement, froze. His heart pounded so fiercely he feared Isabella might hear it. Through the gap in the curtain, he saw the woman who had once nearly become part of his life—the woman who had mourned his "death" in Milan.

"Can I help you, miss?" Nico asked in a polite but cold tone.

Isabella didn't answer immediately. She placed an old photograph on the counter. It showed a young Lorenzo De Luca with Nico, and behind them, a smiling young boy. "I'm looking for the man in this picture. His name is Nico Santoro."

Nico didn't change his expression. "Many people search for the past, Miss. But the past rarely wants to be found."

"I'm a lawyer," Isabella lowered her voice, her eyes carefully scanning the shop. "My colleague... Matteo De Luca... died in an explosion. But something doesn't add up. I found asset transfer trails leading to Florence. I know the Volkov clan is behind all this, and I'm certain Matteo was investigating something connected to this shop before he... disappeared."

Matteo clenched his fists behind the curtain. His fingernails dug into his palms until they drew blood. He wanted to step out, to embrace Isabella, to tell her he survived. But he saw the reflection of his face in a small mirror hanging near the door—the face of a ruined monster. If he revealed himself, Isabella would be dragged into the hell he was building. She would become Volkov's primary target.

"Matteo De Luca is dead, miss. The whole world knows it," Nico said flatly. "And if you want to stay alive to continue practicing law, my advice would be to stop digging up other people's graves. Florence is a beautiful city for tourists, but very cruel to those who are too curious."

Isabella stared sharply at Nico, then her gaze drifted towards the curtain where Matteo was hidden. She paused for a moment, as if her instinct sensed a presence there. "He wouldn't stop just because he's dead, Mr Santoro. Because people like Matteo... they never truly leave until justice is served."

Isabella turned and exited the store, leaving behind a suffocating silence.

Nico walked over to the curtain and pulled it back. He looked at Matteo, who was still frozen rigid. "She's clever. Too clever for her own good. If you don't take control of this situation soon, the Volkov clan will find her before you can even launch your first strike."

Matteo looked up, his previously dim eyes now glinting with a new darkness. "She must not be harmed, Nico. Whatever the cost."

"Then stop training like a student, and start acting like a ruler," Nico said, walking over to the wooden wall in the basement and pulling away a covering cloth. Displayed there was a large map of Italy covered in red markings, black threads, and photographs of key individuals.

"This is Volkov's empire," Nico said, pointing to a photo of a man with a snake tattoo on his hand—Ivan, the assassin. "And this is the first fang you must extract."

Nico handed Matteo an authentic dagger. Its weight felt perfect in his hand. Cold, sharp, and ready to drink blood.

"Maestro," Nico said formally. "It's time for you to emerge from the shadows and create your first symphony. Ivan will be making a large shipment at Livorno port in three days. He thinks he's untouchable. Prove him wrong."

Matteo took the dagger, staring at the reflection of his single eye in the gleaming steel blade. He felt the remnants of "Prosecutor De Luca" fading within him, replaced by something far more primal and lethal.

"Livorno," Matteo whispered, his voice now sounding like the whisper of death carried on the night wind.

"I'm going to give Ivan a farewell he will never forget."

In a hotel not far from the bookstore, Isabella Rossi sat in front of her laptop. On her screen, a satellite image of the Il Silenzioso bookstore was visible. She muttered something while marking a man's silhouette captured by surveillance cameras as he exited the train in Florence. "It's you, Matteo. I know that shoulder movement. Whatever you're planning... you won't be doing it alone." However, unbeknownst to her, a red dot from a laser sight was dancing on the wall of her room, directly behind her head.