Chapter Two – Vieri
The gate clanks behind me, and the world changes.
No more steel, no more stone walls pressing in. Just air—cold, unfamiliar—and the scent of asphalt and eucalyptus drifting on the breeze. I squint against the sun. It feels wrong on my skin.
The coat they gave back to me hangs limp over my shoulders—creased, faded, stained near the collar.
The shirt underneath still carries sweat and confinement. I tug it once, but it clings like a second skin.
At the curb, the car waits.
A black Maserati Quattroporte. It doesn’t belong here, outside these rusted gates. Chrome trims, dark-tinted windows, the Tavano crest stitched discreetly into the headrests.
The back door opens.
Alfio is the first to step out—clean-cut in a tailored suit, sleeves rolled up, gold cufflinks glinting under the sun. His jaw tightens as he looks at me, like he’s trying to make sense of the man walking toward him.
Enzo follows, tossing his cigarette aside with a flick of his fingers. “Dio mio,” he mutters under his breath. “You look like hell.”
I keep walking toward them.
“You missed me,” I say quietly.
“Ma certo,” he says with a grin. “Like I miss food poisoning.”
Still, there’s a softness in his eyes. Omero leans against the passenger door, arms folded, eyes shaded behind thin wire-frame glasses. His suit’s neat, black on black, but there’s a smudge of ink on his wrist—probably from scribbling notes again.
Then Riccardo steps out last, closing the car door with a sharp click. He’s built heavier now—broader than I remember—and his face has hardened with something colder than time. He says nothing. Doesn’t even nod. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, mouth set in that permanent scowl he was born with.
The wind moves but no one else does.
Then Alfio steps forward.
He pulls me into a firm hug—one hand gripping the back of my neck, the other slapping my shoulder like he’s knocking something loose from my spine.
“Bentornato, fratello,” he says roughly against my ear. “Welcome home.”
“About time,” I murmur.
Enzo crashes into me next, arms tight, knuckles pressing hard into my back.
“Don’t get soft on us,” he mutters, voice gruff, hiding the catch in it with sarcasm. “We’ve barely held this circus together without you.”
Omero offers a pat on the shoulder—brief, awkward, almost reluctant.
But his hand lingers half a second longer than it should.
Even Riccardo steps forward.
Not to hug. But to look me in the eye. He studies my face, slow and deliberate.
“You’re thinner,” he says.
“You’re uglier,” I reply.
His lip twitches. Almost a smile. We slide into the car, the leather interior still warm from sunlight. Alfio climbs in beside me. Enzo takes the front passenger seat, already fiddling with the stereo. Omero and Riccardo sit behind us, silent as the doors shut.
The driver pulls away, tires gliding over the road like silk.
I settle back into the seat, eyes drifting to the city rising ahead. Towering buildings, glass facades, marble pillars, gated villas—our world.
Everything looks the same.
But I’ve changed.
The boys miss me. I can feel it in their glances, in the way no one breathes easily yet. But no one says it.
The mansion rises like a sleeping beast behind the iron gates—stone, shadow, and eeriness, the black wrought-iron gate splitting open with a slow mechanical groan. Beyond the drive, cameras swivel soundlessly on the corners of the walls. Another guard watches from the balcony, hand resting near the grip of his weapon.
The car rolls up the curved drive and halts at the front steps. Even after all these years, the sight of it still feels like a punch to the chest—stone lions flanking the front doors, marble columns weathered by time, vines creeping up the sides like ivy trying to soften its edges.
Enzo hops out first, stretching his arms like he’s just finished a nap.
“Home sweet fucking home,” he mutters.
Omero opens my door. Alfio is already waiting on the steps, glancing toward the front entrance where two more guards stand watch.
I step out slowly, my boots hitting the gravel path.
Inside, the walls stretch high, paneled in dark wood. The floors gleam from a recent polish. But there’s a quiet stillness to the air. A kind of emptiness that settles in long after grief stops being spoken aloud.
The rooms feel lived-in and abandoned at the same time. Like people pass through, but never stay.
Enzo slaps my back as we walk through the corridor. “We kept your room ready, you know. Alfio wouldn’t let anyone touch it.”
“It’s true,” Alfio says over his shoulder. “Even the cleaners had to ask for permission.”
I raise a brow. “Have you always been this thoughtful?”
“No,” he says simply. “But you’re still my brother.”
They lead me upstairs, past the study, past the library, to the corner wing.
The door is closed.
Alfio pushes it open, and I step inside.
The room is exactly how I left it. Dark walls, charcoal bedding, black leather chair near the window. The scent of cedar oil lingers faintly in the air, probably from one of Nonna’s old habits. Everything is clean, dustless, perfectly still.
There’s a suit laid out across the bed—crisp, tailored, newer than anything I’ve worn in years.
Alfio nods toward it. “We figured you’d want something decent before dinner.”
“We’ll wait for you downstairs,” Omero adds. His voice is quiet, but steady. “We thought we’d eat together. Like before.”
I nod once.
They leave without another word, the door clicking shut behind them.
And I’m alone again.
I stand in the middle of the room for a long moment, eyes tracing the edges of everything that stayed the same while I didn’t.
Then I strip off my clothes—rough fabric, loose seams, stiff from too many washes. I toss them straight into the bin. I step into the bathroom, flick on the light, and turn the shower dial to cold.
The spray hits me hard, a shock against skin too used to recycled air and rationed heat. But I stay under it, letting the chill sink deep. Letting it wash away months—years—of sweat, grime, and confinement
I start to scrub slowly. Every inch of skin. Fingernails, shoulders, back, arms. I lather until my chest stings from friction, as if I could scrape away the years in layers of foam.
Prison leaves a texture behind. Not just grime—something deeper. Something that clings to the way your muscles hold tension. The way your spine stays straight even when no one’s watching.
I press my palms flat over my face. Then I lift my head under the water, letting it pour across my scalp and soak the overgrown mess of hair.
I step out of the shower, still dripping, and I stare at myself in the mirror.
Too long. Matted in places. Unkempt. My beard is uneven, thicker near the jaw, patchy near the cheeks. I’ve looked worse. But not much.
I grab the scissors from the drawer.
I start with the back—short, slow snips at first. Then higher along the sides. It falls in damp clumps into the sink. I work through the top, trimming in layers, shaping the edges. It’s uneven at first, but I find rhythm. Clean lines. Sharp angles. Something more familiar.
It feels like shedding skin.
I wipe the steam from the mirror with a towel and pick up the razor next.
The blade glides against my jaw in careful, even strokes. The lather smells of sandalwood—comforting in a way I didn’t expect. I take my time. Rinse the blade after every pass. I’ve waited four years for a decent shave. I’m not rushing it now.
My eyes stay locked on the reflection.
Little by little, the man beneath emerges again.
When I finish, I trim my brows, clip my nails, even buff down the hardened skin at my knuckles. I smooth pomade through my newly cut hair, combing it back into place.
Finally, I stand still, looking at myself.
The angles of my face are sharper now. Eyes darker. There are lines I don’t remember having. A tiredness in the gaze that didn’t exist before.
I rest my hands on the sink edge, eyes locked on the reflection.
Four years spent in prison. Not because I got caught. Because I let them catch me.
It was the only move left.
We had an operation running through pharmaceutical imports. Legitimate cargo routes. Clean licenses. Except we weren’t moving meds—we were moving hormone-enhanced street pills, coded under research materials.
Synthetic G-series dopamine inhibitors—worth millions on the underground market. A chemist we paid off was custom-coding the product under untraceable strings.
But someone started leaking information to the authorities. I never figured out who it was but it was too clean of a tip off to be from an outsider. A federal investigation was forming—and the deeper they looked, the closer they’d get to the core of it all. My father. Our network. Our front corporations.
I needed to throw them off course.
So I let them catch me—on a cocaine handoff. Something loud, dirty, flashy and, most of all, cheap. It was the dryest stash worth nothing in comparison to the real deal I needed to cover up.
Enough to make headlines. Enough to satisfy bloodthirsty prosecutors.
I staged it. Gave them the show they wanted.
Distribution of cocaine—first offense, high volume. The courts slapped me with a ten-year sentence. The kind that makes papers look legitimate. The kind that says “big fish caught.”
But with the right lawyer and the right money passed under the right tables… I served just four.
Then I was released on parole.
Their eyes shifted off the operation. The investigation fizzled. Mission accomplished. The new mission is to find the rat who snitched.
I wrap a towel around my waist and step out into the bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare down at my hands. Rougher now. A few new scars. My knuckles ache faintly from old fights. The thought creeps in quietly, uninvited.
My father.
He died while I was in there. I wasn’t at the funeral. Didn’t even see his body. The official report said heart attack. Alfio said it happened fast—one minute he was in the office, next minute he was on the floor.
It never sat right with me. I sigh. There is so much to do. I push myself up to my feet and I open my closet to search for some clothes.
I pull on a plain black shirt, soft cotton against freshly scrubbed skin, then slide into charcoal sweatpants. The suit stays untouched on the bed. It can wait.
I towel off the last dampness from my hair, running a comb through the shorter strands I’d cut clean only moments ago. My jaw is raw from the shave—closer than I’ve had in four years—but it feels good.
I head downstairs, barefoot, the wood floor cool beneath my feet. I follow the soft clatter of cutlery and the hum of low voices until I reach the dining room.
The chandelier glows low overhead, warm gold against polished silver. The long table is already set—simple, understated, but familiar. Plates of roasted lamb, bowls of seasoned vegetables, two bottles of red uncorked and breathing.
Alfio looks up first, nods once in approval. Enzo slouches in the seat beside him, rolling a glass between his palms, already halfway through his first pour.
Omero sits farther down, posture straight, one leg crossed over the other. He’s slicing his food with surgeon-like precision.
Riccardo sits at the end, as always—arms folded.
Enzo grins when he sees me. “Thought you’d come down in that horrid jumpsuit.”
“Have the maid burn it,” I say, pulling out the empty chair beside Alfio and sinking into it.
“Good,” he says, raising his glass. “It looked like it was stitched with cigarette ash and shame.”
I reach for the wine bottle, filling my glass halfway. Alfio lifts his next.
“To freedom,” he says quietly.
Enzo lifts his too. “To freedom, and to finally not having to read your depressing letters.”
“Libertà,” Omero echoes, clinking his glass lightly with Riccardo’s.
I raise mine, nodding once before taking a sip.
The wine is good.
For a few minutes, we just eat—chewing, passing bread, salt, and wine. No pressure to talk. Just movement, rhythm, the comfort of habits built over decades.
Enzo flicks a piece of bread crust at Alfio, who swats it off without looking up.
Riccardo clears his throat, voice flat. “You’re not twelve.”
“Oh please, let me live, man.”
Alfio rolls his eyes. “Can we go five minutes without you two bickering?”
“It’s called brotherly love,” Enzo says.
Riccardo grunts. “It’s called noise.”
I let the exchange wash over me like background music.
I set my wine down. “So,” I say, calmly. “How did our father really die?”
Everything stills.
Alfio lowers his fork, just slightly. Enzo shifts in his seat. Omero glances at me, then away. Riccardo's eyes narrow as he stops eating.
“We told you,” Alfio says carefully. “Heart attack.”
“You told me what the doctor wrote,” I say. “That’s not the same.”
Enzo sighs, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Look… it happened fast. He was in his office. Next minute, he was on the floor.”
“Bellandi was the last one to see him,” Riccardo says, tone clipped. “It was him, I know it but they won’t listen to me.”
Bellandi is our uncle, and his relationship with our family was less than ideal. None of us trusted him, not even our father but he was a necessary evil.
Alfio tenses beside me. “You know nothing. We don’t have proof.”
“We don’t need proof to smell a rat,” Riccardo replies.
I sit back, absorbing each word without blinking.
“Bring me father’s call logs. Emails. Internal meeting notes. I want everything he’s touched in the last six months.”
Alfio meets my gaze. “You really think he killed—”
“I want it,” I say. “Tomorrow.”
Enzo exhales. “God, you’re not even sleeping first?”
“There’s time for sleep when things stop shifting under our feet.”
Riccardo smirks faintly. “Good to have you back.”
“Don’t get cute,” I say dryly. “We don’t know anything yet.”
Omero tilts his head. “You sure you don’t want to ease back in?”
“You all look like hell, worry about yourselves,” I say after a moment, slicing into the lamb.
“Speak for yourself,” Enzo grins. “You look like a born-again hitman.”
The air settles again, softened by the clatter of cutlery and the scent of roasted garlic and wine.
But I am not done yet.
“What’s happening with the business?”
Alfio is the first to respond.
“Southbank’s stable for now,” he says, chewing slower. “But we’ve lost three crews in the west side over the last two months. Two to rival recruitment, one to burnout.”
“Who’s been sniffing around?”
“I have no idea.”
“Bellandi,” Riccardo hums, looking away.
“I am not certain, Riccardo, don’t make me punch you,” Alfio snaps.
I nod. “Rotate crew leads. Bring in new drivers under dummy contracts and stagger their onboarding. Don’t let anyone get too comfortable with their team for a while. Keep things shifting.”
Alfio gives a small nod and goes back to his plate.
“Nightlife’s bleeding,” Enzo cuts in, leaning on his elbow. “Ferri’s crew’s undercutting the liquor imports again. Cheap knockoff stuff flooding clubs—some venues are flipping, others are watching us lose ground.”
“Start buying up the lower-end stock under a shell company,” I say. “Push the price up artificially. Then flood the market with our own supply at just under their cost.”
Enzo lets out a low whistle, impressed. “You haven’t lost your touch.”
“I’ve been thinking for four years. That’s a lot of time to sharpen the blade.”
Omero clears his throat softly. “We’ve had signal disruptions at the east docks. Not often, but precise. Drone activity, possibly infrared scrambling.”
“Do we have visual confirmation?”
“Nothing clear. But there’s a pattern.”
“Flag every spike from the last three months. Filter out interference. Run the anomalies against recent security crew rotations. I want to know if we have a leak.”
Omero nods once, already mentally processing.
I turn to Riccardo next. “And?”
He shrugs, chewing slowly before replying. “Collections are slowing. Street-level discipline’s slipping. Some of the younger capos are getting sloppy. They’re too comfortable.”
“Remind them who built the road they’re walking on,” I say. “Quietly. Pick one of them—preferably one with a mouth—and make an example.”
Riccardo’s eyes gleam slightly, satisfaction in them.
“I’ll handle it.”
“Do it clean,” I add. “I’m not cleaning up egos right now.”
An eeriness settles again—not uncomfortable, just thoughtful. The kind that comes when everyone knows what needs to be done.
I lean back in my chair, wiping my mouth with a cloth napkin. “Have the files ready by tomorrow.”
Alfio glances up. “Which ones?”
“Operations Ledger, Surveillance Reports, Internal Account Audits, and I want crew rotation schedules, logistics manifests, and the last six months of encrypted comms from front managers.”
“Anything else?” Enzo mutters, half-smiling. “Would you like us to handwrite it on parchment?”
“Only if you have time after sweeping the rats out of the clubs,” I say, and the corners of his mouth twitch wider.
“Va bene, boss,” he chuckles. “I’ll send it all by morning.”
Alfio studies me for a moment. “You sure you don’t want a day to rest?”
“I’ve been resting for four years.”
None of them argue again.
But I see it in their eyes—they are relieved I’m back.
Even Riccardo, who’s trying hard not to show it. Even Omero, who never says much at all.
I reach for my wine again, taking a slow sip.
Outside, the sky has turned completely dark.
I raise my glass again, “To brotherhood.”
They raise their glasses. “To brotherhood.”