The Silent Commander ( God of War)

Chapter 3: The Mafia Princess and the Warlord

The next morning dawned cold and brittle, sunlight sliding pale and uncertain through the tall windows of the Vitale estate. The storm had passed, but the air still smelled of thunder.

Elena Vitale stood at her mirror, brushing her hair with mechanical precision. Her reflection was flawless—always flawless—but beneath the perfect poise lingered exhaustion. Her mind replayed the night before, the way the courtyard had glowed, the fear that had crawled under her skin when Ethan told her she should be scared.

He wasn’t the man she thought he was.

He wasn’t just the husband she’d been forced to marry to cement a fragile alliance.

There was something ancient burning behind those gray eyes now—something that looked at her like it remembered a thousand lives before this one.

A knock broke her thoughts.

“Elena,” came a voice. Matteo. Her cousin, the Vitale enforcer. “Your father’s waiting. Council meeting.”

“Coming.”

She set the brush down, her fingers trembling once before she steadied them. She slid on her ring—heavy gold set with the Vitale crest—and went downstairs.

The council chamber was already tense when she entered. The Don sat at the head of the long table, cigar unlit between his fingers. Around him, the lieutenants whispered in tight voices. Maps of Blackridge’s southern docks and the trade routes spread before them.

Ethan stood apart, near the window, arms crossed. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, veins and scars tracing the strength in his forearms. He hadn’t slept either, she realized.

“Sit,” Don Vitale said. His voice carried the edge of sleepless anger.

Elena obeyed.

The Don gestured to the maps. “Last night’s ambush wasn’t random. Someone leaked our shipment route. Someone inside.”

Murmurs rippled around the table.

“Falcone’s men took the opportunity,” Matteo said grimly. “But they had help. The sniper wasn’t Falcone-trained.”

“Then who?”

No one spoke.

The Don’s gaze flicked toward Ethan. “Maybe the new husband has something to share.”

Every eye in the room turned.

Ethan didn’t move. “I saved your daughter’s life.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I don’t answer questions asked with a gun under the table,” Ethan said calmly.

A few of the lieutenants stiffened, and indeed, one of them—a bald man named Rocco—slowly pulled his hand back from beneath the table, revealing the pistol he’d been hiding there.

“Cute trick,” Rocco sneered. “You got eyes in your skull?”

Ethan’s lips twitched in something almost like amusement. “Something like that.”

Elena’s heart pounded. The tension in the room was sharp enough to bleed.

Don Vitale finally leaned back. “You don’t belong in this family, Cross. You were a convenience. A peace offering. But I’m starting to think you’re a liability.”

“Then release me,” Ethan said.

The Don laughed. “No one leaves the Vitale family, boy. Not alive.”

That was when it happened.

The chandelier overhead flickered. Every flame in the room danced violently, as though the air itself had turned electric.

Ethan’s pupils flared gold.

Before anyone could react, Rocco drew his gun and aimed. But the trigger never reached the click.

Ethan moved—too fast to see. The gun shattered in Rocco’s hand, pieces scattering across the marble floor. He screamed, clutching his wrist.

Then silence.

Ethan stood at the hea of the table now, palm flat on the wood. His eyes were still glowing faintly, not with light but with something alive. The temperature dropped several degrees.

“No one threatens me again,” he said quietly. “Not in this house. Not while I still breathe.”

Even the Don didn’t speak.

The lights steadied, the gold fading from Ethan’s eyes. He stepped back, voice even again. “Now. If we’re done posturing, we can discuss who really wants your empire to fall.”

When the meeting finally broke, the Don stayed behind with his lieutenants. Elena followed Ethan out into the corridor.

“Ethan—wait.”

He stopped but didn’t turn.

“What was that?” she demanded. “You can’t just—glow—and move like lightning and expect no one to notice!”

He finally faced her. “I didn’t plan to.”

“You broke a gun with your hand.”

“It broke itself,” he said softly.

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t play riddles with me.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You want the truth? I don’t know what’s happening. I only know something inside me woke up last night, and it’s not human.”

A chill skated down her spine. “Then what are you?”

For a heartbeat, his expression faltered—sadness, guilt, longing. Then he whispered, “Something that shouldn’t exist anymore.”

She stared at him, searching his face for a lie. There wasn’t one.

Before she could speak again, Matteo appeared down the corridor, gun holstered, expression dark. “Elena. Don wants you in his office.”

Ethan’s jaw clenched. “She’s not your messenger.”

Matteo smirked. “And you’re not her husband in this house, dog. You’re just a leash she wears to keep the Falcone wolves at bay.”

Ethan didn’t respond. But his hand brushed the wall as Matteo passed—and the marble beneath his fingers blackened, hairline cracks spidering outward in silence.

Matteo didn’t notice. Elena did.

When he was gone, she whispered, “Ethan…”

But he was already walking away.

That night, Elena went looking for him.

The mansion was asleep, save for the guards outside. She found Ethan in the old chapel at the edge of the property—a relic of the days when the Vitales pretended at piety

Candles flickered at the altar, their light painting his face in gold. He knelt before the cracked marble, head bowed, palms pressed together.

“What are you doing?” she asked softly.

“Trying to remember a prayer I haven’t spoken in a thousand years,” he murmured

She froze. “You’re serious.

He turned to her. The look in his eyes was both fierce and weary, like a soldier remembering too many wars.

“When I was a boy,” he said quietly, “I used to dream of fire. Not hellfire—something older. Sacred. It burned through everything false. Every time I woke, I’d find blood on my hands.”

He looked down at them now, at the faint golden veins pulsing beneath his skin. “Last night, when that mark appeared, I realized the fire never left. It was only sleeping

“Ethan…”

He stood slowly, taking a step toward her. “You don’t believe in gods, do you?

“I believe in men who think they are gods.”

He almost smiled. “Then you’ll hate what I’m becoming.”

She shook her head. “No. I’m just… scared of losing you.”

He stopped inches away. The scent of him—smoke and rain—filled her lungs. His gaze softened. “You can’t lose what was never truly yours, Elena.”

Her breath hitched. “Then tell me what you are.”

For a moment, the truth hovered between them, burning behind his teeth. Then he whispered, “Once, long ago, I was called Aurelian—the God of War.”

The candles shuddered. The chapel seemed to breathe.

Elena’s lips parted, but no words came.

He turned away, voice raw. “Now I’m trapped in mortal skin, married to a woman who was never meant to love me, in a world that’s forgotten the gods. Maybe that’s punishment. Maybe it’s mercy. I can’t tell anymore.”

She reached out, fingers trembling, and touched his arm. His skin burned—literally burned—with warmth that wasn’t human.

“Then what happens now?” she whispered.

Ethan looked down at her hand. “Now?” His tone was soft, almost broken. “Now the ones who buried me will come looking. And when they find me… they’ll burn this world to ash to keep me buried.”

Her heart stuttered.

Outside, thunder rumbled again.

And for the first time, Elena Vitale realized the truth: her husband wasn’t the danger. He was the warning.