Chapter 5
A Temporary Refuge
The farmhouse loomed ahead, a weathered relic of another time.Its stone walls, once sturdy and proud, now bore the scars of neglect, their surfaces pockmarked and crumbling. The green wooden shutters hung askew, their paint peeling away to reveal the gray, splintered wood beneath. Vines crept up the sides of the structure, as if nature itself were reclaiming the land.
Yet, despite its dilapidated appearance, the farmhouse wasn’t entirely abandoned. The faint prints of tire tracks in the damp earth suggested recent activity. Someone had been here, and not long ago.
Matteo slowed his pace as they approached, his breath still uneven from the run. His ribs ached with every inhale, and a dull throb pulsed at the base of his skull. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his eyes scanning the property for any signs of movement. The silence was unnerving, broken only by the distant call of a crow and the rustle of leaves in the breeze.
Aldo, a step behind him, moved with the precision of a predator. His gun was drawn, his grip firm, and his sharp eyes darted across the landscape, searching for threats. His suit, once immaculate, was now torn and filthy, the fabric clinging to him in the heat. The cut above his eyebrow had stopped bleeding, but the dried blood gave him a fierce, almost feral appearance.
“We go in careful,” Aldo murmured, his voice low and steady. “Could be someone inside.”
Matteo nodded, his jaw tightening as he stepped lightly toward the door. The wooden planks groaned under his weight, the hinges rusted and stiff. He gave the door a single hard push, and it creaked open, revealing a dim interior.
Dust motes danced in the thin slants of light that streamed through gaps in the roof, illuminating the space in a hazy, golden glow. The air was thick with the scent of old wood, hay, and the faint, lingering traces of barbeque. Someone had been here recently, but now the farmhouse was eerily empty.
Aldo moved ahead; his gun raised as he swept the room. The main living area was sparse, its furnishings worn and mismatched. An old wooden table sat in the center, its surface scarred with knife marks and stains. Chairs were scattered around it, some overturned, as if the occupants had left in a hurry.
A rusted stove occupied one corner; its iron surface blackened from years of use. Shelves lined the walls, though they were mostly bare, save for a few chipped plates and a jar of preserves that had long since spoiled.
Against the far wall, a small cot was tucked into the corner, its sheets rumpled but unoccupied. A threadbare blanket was draped over the edge, and a single pillow lay askew.
“Clear,” Aldo said after a moment, lowering his weapon. He shut the door behind them and slid the bolt into place, though the mechanism was rusted and loose. “We won’t be safe for long, but it’s better than nothing.”
Matteo dropped into one of the chairs, exhaling sharply as the weight of the day settled over him. His body ached from the crash, the chase, the endless fight for survival. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion.
Aldo, on the other hand, was restless. He paced the room, his movements sharp and deliberate, as if he couldn’t afford to stop moving for even a moment. His eyes continued to scan their surroundings, his mind clearly working through their next steps. After a moment, he crouched by a forgotten crate in the corner, rummaging through its contents. He pulled out a half-empty bottle of water, its label faded and peeling.
He took a swig, the water dripping down his chin, before tossing the bottle to Matteo. “Drink,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Matteo caught the bottle with a grunt, unscrewing the cap and taking a long drink. The water was warm and tasted faintly of plastic, but it was enough to soothe his parched throat. He set the bottle on the table; his eyes meeting Aldo’s across the room.
“We can’t stay here,” Matteo said, his voice quiet but firm. “They’ll find us eventually.”
Aldo nodded; his expression grim. “I know. But we need a plan. And we need to figure out who’s behind this.”
Matteo leaned back in the chair, his mind racing. The farmhouse was a temporary reprieve, but it wouldn’t last. Somewhere out there, their enemies were closing in. And if they didn’t act soon, they wouldn’t make it out of Sicily alive.
???
The farmhouse was dimly lit, the flickering candle casting long shadows against the cracked stone walls. The air inside was thick with the scent of dust, aged wood, and faint traces of ash from the long-abandoned fireplace. The silence between the two men was weighted, punctuated only by the distant howl of the wind through the gaps in the shutters.
“We need to figure out who set this up,” Aldo said, his voice steady but low. He leaned back against the rickety wooden chair, arms crossed over his chest. “The attack at the villa wasn’t random. It was too clean, too well-planned.”
Matteo exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face as he let the tension settle in his muscles. “We’ve got enemies. A lot of them,” he admitted. “But one name is most likely.”
Aldo’s jaw tightened, his fingers drumming against the table. “Vincenzo Russo.”
Matteo leaned forward, the candlelight catching the hard edge of his expression. “He’s had it out for both our families for years. If anyone had the resources and the motive, it’s him.”
Aldo let out a dry chuckle, devoid of humor. “And here I thought I was the only one Russo hated.”
Matteo’s expression darkened. “This isn’t just about you or me. If he orchestrated this, then he’s making a move to wipe the slate clean.”
Aldo’s gaze flicked toward the door as if expecting it to burst open at any moment. He tapped his fingers against the table, deep in thought.
A heavy silence fell between them, each man lost in his own thoughts. The past had taught them both that trust was a dangerous currency, but right now, survival demanded a temporary investment.
Aldo was the first to break the silence. “If he thinks we’re dead, we might have a chance to turn this around. But we need intel, weapons, and a plan.”
Matteo’s fingers tapped against the table as he thought. “We start by finding someone who knows what Russo’s been up to. Someone close to him but loose-lipped.”
Aldo’s smirk returned, sharper now. “I think I know someone.”
Matteo studied him for a moment, weighing the risk. “Great, but first we need to get out of here. They must be searching for us, and it won’t be long before they find this place.” He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. “My family has a safe house in Sicily, but it’s not close. We’ll have to walk a good distance.”
Aldo regarded him carefully, his sharp mind undoubtedly calculating the risks of trusting Matteo’s word. After a long pause, he finally gave a short nod. “Fine. We go there.”
The farmhouse remained still except for the wind rattling the shutters. For now, they had a moment to breathe. But both men knew that their fragile truce would only last as long as their common enemy remained a threat. And in the world they lived in, betrayal was never far away.