4. Gianni
Chapter 4
Gianni
The casket descends into the earth, marking the final journey of my beloved Genoveva. My fists clench until my knuckles burn white, and I feel nothing but the crushing weight of her absence pressing down on me. I stand there, rigid, as if frozen in time, the world around me fading into silence.
My mind whirls, a mess of half-formed thoughts, memories, and disbelief. I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t imagine life without her by my side. The realization of her absence slices through me, raw and unforgiving, and in a moment of desperation, I scream her name, the sound tearing from my chest.
I stumble forward, running toward the casket as if I can somehow hold her here, keep her with me. My hands grab at the polished mahogany, nails clawing, seeking any last touch, any final memory.
"I need to see her,” I gasp, words tumbling over themselves. “Just one last time."
I don’t notice the tears streaming down my face, blurring my vision as my fingers dig into the wood. I barely hear the quiet murmurs around me or the low, respectful breaths of the crowd until a gentle touch breaks through the haze. The priest, a kind old man with wise eyes, stands by my side, placing a hand on my shoulder. His words are soft, a comforting lull against the storm of my grief.
"Gianni," he whispers, "she’s at peace now. It’s time to let her rest."
His words reach me, but they are meaningless. Inside, my heart rages, raw and broken. I can almost hear Genoveva’s voice, clear and calm as if she’s standing beside me, a gentle reminder in her voice. “They’re watching, Don Montagna,” she says in my mind. Don’t let them see your weakness.”
But at this moment, I am not Don Montagna. I am just a man, broken and empty, mourning the love of his life.
I let the priest walk me back and allow the casket to go into the abyss. I imagine her face in my head. An image comes to mind - Genoveva walking out into the dining hall in a teal dress, a silver clip holding back her hair on one side while her dark auburn tresses fall down her other shoulder. Her hazel eyes sparkle in the sunlight, a soft dimple on her chin as she speaks. Her cheeks glow, and she’s alive. So alive.
The polished wood disappears into the earth, taking her with it. Forever.
A memory flashes: her smile that day by the lake, the sun in her hair. Oh! How beautiful she had looked. "Gianni," she laughed, "you're staring again."
I blink. The casket's gone. It's just a hole now. Empty. Like me.
And yet, her voice still lingers in my mind. It was always so sweet, like soft chimes in the wind. I remember her saying, "I do, " on our wedding day, and the way she looked at me like I was her whole world.
Now she's gone. Taken. Murdered. Too soon. By that bastardo Paolo Greco. My jaw tightens. Breaths shallow and sharp.
The priest's empty words float past me. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. What use are prayers now? The light of my very life is extinguished.
My heart turns to a cold, dead stone.
A gentle hand on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Don Montagna. She was an angel among us."
I nod mechanically, not really hearing. The world has narrowed to this moment. This casket. This loss.
Genoveva's laughter echoes in my head. Musical notes are now forever silenced. Lazy mornings tangled in sheets. Stolen kisses in shadowed alcoves. Whispered promises. All turned to bitter ashes on my tongue.
Tears prick my eyes. I blink them back furiously. Not here. Not now. I am Gianni Montagna. Genoveva would want me to be strong.
But God, how I want to break apart and scream and rage and tear the world asunder. I’d kill to fill this aching emptiness inside. I’d do anything to have her back.
The casket settles with a dull thud. Final. Irreversible. The chasm in my soul yawns wider. Darker. All-consuming.
I breathe in. Out. Each breath is an effort, and each heartbeat acts as an accusation. You failed her. You couldn't protect her. You let her die.
No more. Paolo Greco will pay with blood. I will have his life for hers. I will burn this entire city to do that if I must. Vengeance will be mine.
I stalk through the front door, my steps heavy, leaden. The house looms before me, cold and empty, devoid of her warmth and laughter. It's not a home anymore—just a mausoleum.
I shrug off my coat, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. What does it matter? What does anything matter now?
I loosen my tie, desperate for air, for relief, for something to ease this crushing weight on my chest.
I climb the stairs, each step an effort. Our bedroom door stands ajar. I pause, hand on the knob. Bracing myself. I push it open.
The room is dark and lifeless. The bed was neatly made, and the pillows were arranged with care. A sob catches in my throat. She should be here, waiting for me and smiling, that secret smile reserved only for me.
I move closer, trailing my fingers over the smooth comforter. I freeze. Something's wrong. The sheets. They're different, not the ones we slept on last.
Not the ones that still hold her scent.
Rage, hot and sharp, slices through the numbness. "MARIA!" I roar, my voice echoing off the walls.
I hear hurried footsteps, and the maid appears, her eyes wide and fearful. "S-Sir?"
I round on her, jaw clenched. "Who changed these sheets?"
She trembles, wringing her hands. "I... I thought... with everything..."
I slam my fist against the wall. She jumps. "I want them back. NOW."
She nods frantically, hurrying away. I pace the room, a caged beast. How dare they? How dare they erase her? Remove any trace that she existed?
Maria returns, arms laden with the familiar bedding. I snatch them from her, dismissing her with a growl. She flees, the door snicking shut behind her.
I strip the bed with jerky, furious movements and remake the bed, smoothing out each wrinkle of the old sheets with obsessive care. There. That's better. I sink onto the mattress, burying my face in her pillow.
I breathe deeply. Seeking her. Jasmine and vanilla. A hint of her perfume. It's faint, but there. Tears burn my eyes. I clutch the pillow tighter.
"Genoveva," I whisper, my voice breaking. "Come back to me, my love. Please. I can't do this without you."
But there's no answer. I’m left with only silence and the crushing truth that she’s gone forever.
Dead.
I sit up, the pillow still clutched to my chest. Frustration boils within me, rising like bile in my throat, and I feel like I need to shoot something or stab someone. Is this all I have left? Fading scents on fabric? Memories that will inevitably blur with time?
No. It's not enough. It will never be enough.
I hurl the pillow across the room with a roar. It hits the wall, sliding down to the floor in a crumpled heap.
I bury my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The great Gianni Montagna is reduced to a grieving wreck. If my enemies could see me now...
But I don't care. Let them come. Let them try to kick me while I'm down. I'll show them what true pain is. I'll make them wish they had never been born.
My tears dry, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. I lift my head, my jaw set. They took her from me. They stole my light, my love, my reason for living. And they will pay—every last one of them.
I rise from the bed, my steps firm and purposeful as I stride to the closet. I pull out a black suit, the fabric crisp and unblemished. It is mourning attire, but also a uniform—a declaration of war.
I dress meticulously, each button and cufflink a ritual—a preparation for battle. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, my reflection a stranger. My eyes are hollow, my cheeks gaunt. But there's a fire there, too.
I lean in close, my breath fogging the glass. "I will avenge you, my love," I whisper, my fingertips grazing the cool surface. "I swear it on my life. On my soul. They will regret the day they crossed Gianni Montagna and took his wife."
I turn from the mirror and head for the door. The sheets lie forgotten on the bed, their feeble comfort no match for the fury that now drives me.
I have revenge to dole out.
I sit in my office and light a cigar. I inhale deeply, the rich smoke filling my lungs, curling inside me like a living thing. It swirls and eddies, a manifestation of my thoughts, dark and turbulent. I exhale slowly, watching the smoke dissipate into the night.
I inhale again. The smoke coils in my gut and tightens my chest, setting my blood on fire. It whispers to me, seductive and insistent. Revenge. Retribution. Make them pay.
I close my eyes, savoring the whisper, letting it become a roar. Yes. They will pay. They will all pay.
I crush out the cigar and call for my soldiers, my men, my brothers in arms. They stand before me, awaiting my command, their eyes gleaming with the same hunger for vengeance for their queen.
I say nothing at first, merely bringing up the CCTV footage on the screen. The images flicker to life, grainy and raw. There, in stark clarity, is the face of my enemy. The stocky redhead, his features twisted in a sneer as he aims his gun right at Genoveva.
I let it play, let my men see, let the reality of it sink in.
"This man," I say at last, my voice low and dangerous, "is our target. He is the one who took Genoveva from us." I meet each of their gazes in turn, seeing the rage, the solidarity, the unwavering loyalty. "We find him, and we end him."
They nod a silent oath, a promise sealed in blood.
"But he is only the beginning," I continue, my lips curling into a snarl. "Paolo Greco. He is the root, the source, the poison that must be purged." I lean forward, my hands gripping the edge of the table, my knuckles white. "We will not rest until he and all his men lie dead at our feet. This, I vow."
The room is silent, the weight of my words hanging in the air. And then, as one, my men stand straighter, their chests expanding with the breath of battle.
"For Genoveva," they murmur, their voices a rumbling chorus.
"For Genoveva," I echo the words of a prayer, a battle cry.
We arm ourselves, checking guns and sharpening knives. I feel the weight of my gun in my hand, the cold metal a comfort, a promise.
And then, we move out into the night, silent and deadly, the shadows of our allies. The city passes in a blur, neon lights and concrete melding into one as we speed toward our destination.
Towards the man who took my heart.
Towards the man who will now face my wrath.
The iron gates of Paolo Greco's estate loom before us, a monument to his arrogance. I nod to Vito, our explosives expert. He grins, a wicked glint in his eye as he places the charges.
"Fire in the hole," he whispers.
The explosion rips through the night, shredding metal and stone. We surge forward through the smoke, weapons at the ready. Shouts of alarm rise from the mansion.
"Remember," I growl to my men, "no survivors."
Gunfire erupts, shattering windows and splintering wood. I move with cold precision, each shot finding its mark. A guard rounds the corner, eyes wide with fear. I don't hesitate. The bullet catches him between the eyes, a spray of crimson painting the wall behind him.
"Boss!" Sal calls out. "Second floor, east wing. Heavy resistance."
I nod, signaling two men to follow me. We ascend the grand staircase, marble steps slick with blood. The acrid smell of gunpowder fills my nostrils, mixing with the copper tang of death.
A door bursts open. Three of Greco's men spill out, guns blazing. I dive for cover, feeling the heat of a bullet as it grazes my arm. Gritting my teeth, I return fire. One, two, three bodies hit the floor in rapid succession.
"Clear," I mutter, stepping over the corpses.
As we push deeper into the house, a flicker of movement catches my eye. A figure darting down a hallway. Tall, broad-shouldered, redhead. My heart rate spikes.
Her assassin.
"You two, sweep the rest of this floor," I order my men. "He's mine."
I give chase, my footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. Blood pounds in my ears, drowning out everything but the thrill of the hunt. I round a corner, and there he is, fumbling with a hidden panel in the wall.
"Going somewhere?" I snarl.
He whirls, fear etched across his face. "Montagna, please—"
I cut him off with a bullet to the knee. He crumples, howling in pain.
"Did Genoveva get to beg?" I ask, my voice dangerously soft as I approach. "Did you give her that chance?"
His eyes dart wildly, searching for an escape. There is none.
"It wasn't personal," he gasps. "Just business, you understand—"
My fist connects with his jaw, silencing him. "This?" I growl, grabbing a fistful of his hair. "This is personal."
I press the muzzle of my gun to his forehead, savoring the terror in his eyes.
“L..look,” he mumbles, his eyes darting around for help. “You won’t get away with this. My brother will have your head.”
“Your brother?” I snarl. “This only gets more interesting.”
Suddenly, the familiarity is evident. He has Paolo’s eyes. How could I not have seen it?
"Please," he whimpers, his voice cracking, his hands raised in supplication. "Mercy."
I laugh, a harsh, bitter sound. "Mercy? Did you show mercy when you ordered your men to gun down my wife? Did you show mercy when you left me to cradle her lifeless body?"
I scream, a primal urge driving through me. His fist connects with my jaw, snapping my head back, but I barely feel it. I'm lost in a haze of grief and fury, a mist that drowns out everything but the need to hurt, to kill.
This man saw my wife, hiding and innocent as she was, and shot her. I’ll have his eyes for that. My fingers find his eyes, digging, gouging. He screams a high, keening wail that echoes off the walls. I press harder, feeling the give of soft tissue, the warm gush of blood.
"My brother will kill you," he gasps, his voice thick with pain. "He'll avenge me."
I laugh, a harsh, grating sound. "Let him try. I'll take his eyes too. An eye for an eye, isn't that the saying? He took my wife, and I’ll take you."
I reach for my gun, pressing the barrel to his forehead. "This is for Genoveva," I whisper and pull the trigger.
The shot is deafening in the confined space. I stand, breathing hard, staring down at the ruin of Paolo's brother. But there's no satisfaction, no sense of victory: just a hollowness, a void where my heart used to be.
I turn, ready to finish what I started.
Later, back at the house, I pace like a caged lion, my fury barely contained. My men stand around me, their faces grim and eyes downcast after they inform me that while they killed off most of his men, Paolo found a way out. It is a secret tunnel, it seems.
"Find him," I snarl, my voice low and deadly. "Turn this city inside out. Check every bolt hole, every safe house. I want Paolo Greco in front of me, on his knees, begging for mercy that will never come."
They nod, scattering to do my bidding. I'm left alone, the silence pressing in on me, suffocating. Genoveva's absence is a physical ache that throbs with every beat of my heart.
I pour a glass of whiskey, downing it in one burning gulp. The alcohol does nothing to numb the agony and rage. I hurl the glass against the wall, watching it shatter, wishing it was Paolo's skull.