Chapter 18
The Villa
The decision had been made. There was no turning back now.
Matteo sat on the edge of the couch, his fingers gripping the burner phone so tightly his knuckles turned white. His wound throbbed, a deep, insistent ache that pulsed in time with his heartbeat, but he barely registered the pain over the weight of what was to come.
Across the dimly lit room, Aldo leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. The tension from their earlier moment still lingered in the air like the lingering heat of a dying flame, unspoken but undeniable. But there was no time to dwell on it now.
The line rang twice before Don Vittorio’s deep, gravelly voice cut through the silence.
"Moretti."
"We have Russo," Matteo said without preamble. "Alive."
A pause. Then, "I assume you’re calling to rectify that."
Matteo’s grip tightened on the phone. "We’re bringing him to you," he confirmed. "He’s yours to deal with."
Another brief silence stretched between them. Then, the Don sighed, the sound heavy with something Matteo couldn’t quite place. "Good. I’ll send a car. The meeting will be held where this all started."
Matteo exhaled slowly. "The villa?"
"Yes. You should see what you’ve left behind."
The line clicked dead before Matteo could respond. The silence that followed felt heavier than before, pressing against his chest. He lowered the phone, his pulse pounding in his ears.
Aldo pushed off the wall. "So?"
Matteo’s voice was steady, but there was something else beneath it, something sharp-edged. "They’re sending a car. We’re meeting him at the villa."
Aldo’s jaw clenched slightly, the muscle twitching. "Fitting."
Neither of them spoke as they prepared to leave. Matteo carefully peeled away the old bandages around his side, revealing the angry, raw wound beneath. He hissed at the sting as he rewrapped it, the fresh gauze pressing against tender flesh.
Aldo busied himself checking Russo’s restraints, securing them even tighter than before. The man had barely spoken since they had dragged him from the compound, but his cold, calculating gaze never left them. He wasn’t broken. He was waiting; waiting for an opportunity, a single misstep. And they both knew it.
The low rumble of an approaching car broke the quiet. When the black sedan pulled up outside, its windows tinted so dark that they gave no hint of who was inside, Aldo reached down and hauled Russo roughly to his feet.
"Try anything, and I’ll break your legs before we even get there," Aldo muttered into his ear, shoving him forward with enough force to make him stumble.
Russo smirked slightly, though it was more a ghost of amusement than anything real. "Always so charming, De Luca."
Aldo ignored him, forcing him into the backseat. Matteo slid in beside him, his gun resting casually, but deliberately, on his thigh, a silent promise of what would happen if Russo so much as twitched the wrong way.
Aldo got in last, his eyes flicking up to the driver, who gave a slight nod before pulling away from the hideout.
The city lights blurred as they drove, shadows stretching long across the streets.
The silence was deafening, tension thick in the confined space of the car. Matteo stared out the window, watching the familiar roads pass by, his mind drifting to memories of the day everything had unraveled.
The last time they’d been at the villa, it had been filled with life; men in expensive suits laughing over whiskey, business being conducted in hushed tones, deals being made with handshakes and threats. Then the gunfire had started. Blood had spilled over the polished marble floors, staining the elegance with chaos.
When the car finally rolled through the iron gates, Matteo felt his stomach twist.
The mansion was unrecognizable.
The once-pristine facade was marred with bullet holes, the large windows shattered and boarded up in places. Scorch marks darkened parts of the stone walls where fires had raged unchecked.
The grand entrance, once a place of power and opulence, was now eerily silent, the heavy doors standing ajar as if waiting for ghosts to return. Statues that once lined the courtyard were now chipped or toppled; remnants of their destruction scattered across the cracked pavement.
The scent of burnt wood and old blood lingered in the air, thick and cloying, a haunting reminder of the massacre that had taken place here.
The fountain in the center of the courtyard, which had once been a symbol of wealth and refinement, was now dry, its basin stained with dark streaks that had long since dried but refused to fade. The remnants of shattered glass crunched beneath their boots as they stepped out of the car.
“Looks like hell,” Aldo muttered, his voice low.
Matteo swallowed. “It is hell.”
A gust of wind swept through the ruins, making the doors creak on their hinges. Shadows stretched long in the dimming light, adding an eerie quality to the already desolate scene.
Footsteps echoed from inside. Don Vittorio appeared in the doorway, his sharp gaze landing first on them, then on the man they dragged between them. His expression remained unreadable, but there was a glint in his eyes; something like satisfaction.
“Welcome back,” he said smoothly.
The two men dragged Russo forward without ceremony, their grip unyielding as they shoved him toward one of Don Vittorio’s waiting men. The enforcer, a burly figure with a cold, expressionless face, yanked Russo away from them without a word.
There was no struggle, no protests from the captive; only a knowing smirk that flickered across his bruised lips before he was hauled deeper into the villa’s ruins. The look sent a ripple of unease down Matteo’s spine. That smirk; it wasn’t fear, it wasn’t even defiance. It was the look of a man who knew something they didn’t.
Aldo and Matteo exchanged a glance before following Don Vittorio inside, their steps cautious as the scent of smoke and decay thickened around them.
If the outside of the villa had been unrecognizable, the interior was worse; a graveyard of destruction frozen in time.
The once-grand entrance hall, a place where power had been displayed in every opulent detail, now lay in ruins. Chandeliers that had once bathed the room in golden light now hung broken, their crystals shattered and scattered across the floor like fallen stars.
Bloodstains marred the marble, dried and darkened with time, ghostly reminders of the men who had perished here. The scent of charred wood and gunpowder still clung to the air, mingling with the sickly, metallic tang of old blood. It was the smell of death, lingering long after the bodies had been removed.
Columns that had stood tall and proud were now cracked and chipped, the intricate carvings along the walls marred with bullet holes and deep scorch marks. The grand staircase at the far end of the hall sagged slightly, its railing barely holding together where explosions had rattled the foundation.
The remnants of overturned furniture lay in splintered heaps, expensive rugs soaked through with what had once been spilled wine and now was indistinguishable from blood. Shadows flickered in the dim candlelight, stretching along the ruined walls like specters of the past, whispering of the violence that had taken place.
Despite the devastation, Don Vittorio moved through the ruins with an air of quiet authority, his polished shoes crunching over debris as though he hardly noticed it. There was something unsettling about the ease with which he navigated the destruction, like a king surveying his crumbling empire, unaffected by the ghosts that lingered.
Matteo kept his gun within reach, his senses sharp, but something gnawed at him; something beyond the destruction around him. A feeling he couldn’t quite place.
Vittorio led them toward the far end of the villa, where a pair of heavy wooden doors remained intact, untouched by the chaos that had consumed the rest of the estate.
Vittorio’s office.
The only room that had survived.
Matteo’s unease deepened as they stepped inside.
The contrast was jarring. Unlike the destruction outside, the office was pristine. Shelves of leather-bound books lined the walls, their spines unblemished, untouched by the flames that had licked at the rest of the villa.
An antique globe sat in the corner, a silent testament to a world beyond the bloodstained walls. The desk was immaculate, every paper in place, the crystal decanter gleaming under the low light of the desk lamp. Not a single bullet hole marred the rich wooden paneling.
It was as though nothing had happened here, as if the massacre beyond those doors had never reached this space.
Vittorio moved to the bar with an unhurried grace, his fingers trailing along the edge of the crystal decanter before he poured three generous glasses of deep amber liquid. The scent of aged whiskey filled the air, rich and smoky, mingling with the lingering acrid bite of burnt wood and blood that clung to the villa’s ruins. He lifted his own glass, his dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable as he gestured for them to take theirs.
Aldo hesitated, his sharp gaze flickering between Vittorio and Matteo, his fingers hovering just above the glass. Matteo felt it too; the strange, creeping sensation that something was wrong. Still, he reached for his drink, the cool weight of the crystal heavy in his palm. The liquid sloshed slightly, and he swallowed against the unease curling in his gut.
“A toast,” Vittorio said smoothly, his voice as polished as ever. “We are here today not as rivals, but as allies. The world is changing, and we must change with it. To unity among the families.… and to survival.”
The words slid into the room like a knife against silk, soft but razor-sharp. Matteo’s fingers curled tighter around his glass as a sick feeling twisted inside him. His pulse throbbed in his ears, drowning out the crackling of distant embers from the ruined parts of the villa.
It was familiar. Too familiar.
The same toast.
The very same words Vittorio had spoken the night before the villa had been attacked.
A cold dread settled in Matteo’s stomach, heavy as lead even as he drained the glass. He felt the weight of the glass in his grip, felt the press of Aldo’s presence beside him. His instincts screamed at him to move, to do something, but before he could act, the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps echoed from the doorway.
“Well, well,” a voice drawled, laced with amusement and venom. “Look who made it out alive.”
The blood in Matteo’s veins turned to ice.
The voice was unmistakable.
Slowly, he and Aldo turned, their bodies tensing, every muscle coiling as their eyes landed on the woman standing in the doorway.
Sofia.
Her dark eyes glittered with satisfaction, a smirk playing on her lips as she leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed like she had all the time in the world. The sight of her sent a jolt of rage and betrayal through Matteo’s chest, but before he could even think, a sudden wave of dizziness crashed over him.
The room tilted.
The edges of his vision blurred.
His breath hitched as a strange numbness spread through his limbs. The glass in his hand felt impossibly heavy, and his fingers trembled against the cool crystal. He blinked rapidly, trying to fight against the slow, suffocating fog creeping into his mind.
The drink.
His heart pounded as he forced his gaze to Aldo, whose expression mirrored his own horror. Aldo’s grip on his glass loosened, the sound of it slipping from his fingers barely registering as Matteo’s knees buckled beneath him.
The world tilted violently.
A rush of static filled his ears, drowning out everything else. Matteo barely registered the sensation of falling before the darkness swallowed him whole.