The room was large, but the walls felt closer now, as if grief had begun its slow creep inward.

Shadows stretched long across the parquet floor, muted by the heavy damask curtains drawn over tall windows that hadn't been opened in days. Outside, the vineyards lay quiet, caught in that late afternoon stillness only Northern Italy ever seemed to know. A breeze moved the curtain slightly, but it didn't bring in light — only the whisper of passing time.

Inside, the atmosphere was almost reverent. The furniture was old, dark, baroque — full of weight and carvings — and not one piece had been moved in decades. The bed stood firm against the back wall, its headboard tall and commanding like a throne. The man in it sat upright, as if even now, he would not let death bend his spine. Thin wires trailed from his body to softly humming machines tucked discreetly behind velvet screens — the medical staff were not present. Only silence, and men in suits.

There were many of them.

Six sat in carved armchairs arranged loosely in a crescent, their stillness almost ceremonial. Two of them kept their hands folded in their laps, eyes cast downward as if in church. Another leaned forward slightly on an ornately carved cane — dark walnut, with a silver wolf's head for a handle, polished smooth from decades of use. One sat back, slowly stroking the signet ring on his finger as though remembering who gave it to him. Another wore tinted glasses despite the gloom, his face unreadable as he rested his head in one hand, unmoving. The last among them let rosary beads pass through his fingers in a steady rhythm, murmuring low words into his own silence — a private liturgy only he could hear.

Others stood, crowding near the corners of the room, heads bowed in varying degrees — some in contemplation, others in quiet prayer, a few in fear. Their suits were dark, not quite black, but sober enough. There was no mourning yet — not officially — but respect and anticipation hung in the air like incense. The old man hadn't died, but already they were dressing for the ending.

Eyes flicked around the room. Some were cold, some distant. A few shimmered with tears that refused to fall. Two, maybe three, wore their sorrow openly — etched deep into the lines of their faces.

Near the bed, someone knelt. Thirties, maybe. Worn eyes. One hand gripped the frail hand on the sheets, not with desperation, but reverence — the way someone might hold the final page of a book they never wanted to finish. He didn't blink. Just stared at the man's face, as if willing every word that might still come. His fingers trembled ever so slightly, betraying a pulse of anticipation, as though waiting for a judgment that only the old man could deliver.

The old man, though his body had surrendered to time, had not yielded an inch of the authority that had once commanded empires. His face, drawn and thin, seemed to hold a thousand lifetimes of decisions, but his eyes—those sharp, burning eyes—still carried the weight of a thousand untold truths. He looked at the kneeling man, not with pity, but with the piercing clarity of someone who had seen it all.

The kneeling man's gaze did not falter under that weight. He did not move, not even when the silence stretched too long, his patience a fragile thread.

Then, the old man inhaled, the sound rough and strained, like rusted hinges. His chest rose slowly, a weak tremor shaking him, before the words came. They were slow, labored, like he was reaching for them, one word at a time. His voice cracked, but when it finally emerged, it was not the voice of a dying man — it was the gravelly rasp of a man who had once shaped worlds.

"Vito..." He coughed, a deep, rattling cough that shook him, his hand trembling slightly on the bed as he fought for air. "You've been my ombra... my ferro, my mano." Another pause, breath catching in his chest, and then a sharp intake of air. "But I'm not... the last breath of the Vitale name." He wheezed, eyes still piercing, unyielding. "My daughter's gone... but her sangue lives on." His voice was quieter now, fading, yet still carrying that gravitas.

The old man's breath hitched again, and he leaned back as though the effort of speaking had drained him further. The silence stretched between them, suffocating, before he continued, each word labored but full of weight. "The kid's gonna take the reins... Until then, Vito... you hold the fort. Keep the famiglia intact." Another cough, weaker this time. "But don't ever think... the trono's yours. You're just a custode... a caretaker." His hand reached for Vito's arm, fingers weak but insistent. "Find the kid... and let 'em claim what's theirs."

A final, drawn-out breath, and his voice became almost a whisper. "If you fail... then the lupo will decide what's left of us."

And with that, the old man's eyes closed, the weight of his final words hanging in the air between them like a dark promise.

................

Adriano Vale

"People think silence means emptiness. But mine's full of stories I don't feel like telling."

Age: 25

Birthplace: Unknown – somewhere on the outskirts of Milan, Italy🌒

Backstory: Adriano doesn't remember his parents. He was too young when they left him—dropped off at an orphanage as a toddler, without explanation or trace. His real surname was never known, never recorded. On the papers, there was only a first name: Adriano, written in rushed handwriting.

The surname "Vale" was given to him by the director of the orphanage. It came from an old, half-torn Latin book found in the orphanage's dusty attic. "Vale" — meaning "farewell" or "be strong" — seemed fitting for a child left behind. The name stuck, and Adriano never changed it. It was the only thing truly his.

🧠 Personality:

Quiet but never unsure. He speaks when needed, and his words tend to carry weight.Street-smart, emotionally observant, and unshakably loyal to the few people he lets close.Sharp-eyed—he can spot a lie, a hidden flaw, or a valuable detail in seconds.

Doesn't crave money, but respects its power. He likes working with his hands, building and repairing, bringing broken things back to life.

Independent, almost to a fault. He has no desire to belong to any system that could one day abandon him again.

Marco Benedetti

Age: 23

Background: Born and raised in Milan. Comes from a respectable middle-class family. His father is a senior manager at Banca di Milano and wants Marco to follow in his polished, secure footsteps.

🧠 Personality:

Low-key cowardly when it comes to real risk. He talks big—"Let's open a rooftop bar!" "Let's invest in scooters!"—but he gets cold feet when things get serious. Deep down, he fears disappointing his family but also fears being trapped.

What drives him: He wants excitement, recognition, money—but on his terms. Not his dad's 9-to-5, not his cousin's safe law firm job. He wants to feel alive, even if he doesn't quite know how to do that yet. Think: schemes, side hustles, and sometimes chasing the wrong crowd for the right kind of thrill.

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[27/04, 12:53] pratikshayallappamadulkar: Age: 25Birthplace: Unknown – somewhere on the outskirts of Milan, Italy🌒 Backstory:Adriano doesn't remember his parents. He was too young when they left him—dropped off at an orphanage as a toddler, without explanation or trace. His real surname was never known, never recorded. On the papers, there was only a first name: Adriano, written in rushed handwriting.

The surname "Vale" was given to him by the director of the orphanage. It came from an old, half-torn Latin book found in the orphanage's dusty attic. "Vale" — meaning "farewell" or "be strong" — seemed fitting for a child left behind. The name stuck, and Adriano never changed it. It was the only thing truly his.

🧠 Personality:

Quiet but never unsure. He speaks when needed, and his words tend to carry weight.Street-smart, emotionally observant, and unshakably loyal to the few people he lets close.Sharp-eyed—he can spot a lie, a hidden flaw, or a valuable detail in seconds.

Doesn't crave money, but respects its power. He likes working with his hands, building and repairing, bringing broken things back to life.

Independent, almost to a fault. He has no desire to belong to any system that could one day abandon him again.

[27/04, 12:53] pratikshayallappamadulkar: Marco Benedetti

Milan, 1985.

Outside, the day was dry and warm. Early summer. The kind that made asphalt hum and shutters creak. Inside the shop, where varnish, metal, and old leather hung thick in the air, sunlight filtered through the old curtain like smoke through a whiskey glass. In the heart of a city too fast for dreams and too old for innocence, a boy with steady hands sat behind the counter, hunched over a copper candlestick, its stem dulled by age. The polishing rag moved in slow circles, clockwork pace, like he had all the time in the world to bring back its shine.

Adriano Vale sat behind the counter of Antichità Romano, sleeves rolled to his elbows, head slightly bowed. A ceiling fan hummed above, barely moving the heavy air. Outside, the world was electric. Inside, time was still.

The bell above the antique shop door didn't ring—it clinked, softly, like a spoon against porcelain. Vale didn't look up. Continued to do his work.

Then, the door swung wide.

"Dio santo, you're gonna die in this place, Vale."

Marco Benedetti stepped into the shop like he owned it—loud, annoyed, but lit up with the kind of restless spark that made silence shrink. Hair tousled, sun-darkened at the roots but still clinging to those golden streaks that caught the light just right. Shirt too expensive for a twenty-three-year-old, cigarette behind his ear he had no intention of lighting indoors—he wasn't raised in a barn, after all.

Vale didn't flinch. "Morning, Marco."

"It's noon."

"Still counts."

Marco leaned against the glass display case, tapping his fingers like a bored pianist. "Tell me something," he said, smirking. "Is this how you imagined life at twenty-five? Surrounded by dusty clocks and forgotten teacups?"

Adriano turned the candlestick's base in his fingers, checking the polish."Better than answering phones at your father's bank."

"Touché."

Marco flopped into the cracked leather chair by the window, letting out a long-suffering sigh. "I'm wasting away at that bank. You know what I did this morning? Counted five thousand lira bills. For two hours. They don't even smell like money anymore. They smell like ink and broken dreams."

Vale clicked the candlestick shut and set it aside. "So quit."

Marco scoffed. "Sure. And do what? Open a pasta stand in Navigli? No thanks."

He drummed his fingers. "We should do something tonight."

"You said that last week."

"Yeah, and we ended up drinking warm beer on my cousin's roof, listening to him cry about his ex. I deserve better."

"We deserve better," Vale corrected, folding the cloth neatly.

Marco stood up again, pacing now—like standing still made his skin itch. "Sometimes I think about it, you know? Just... dropping everything. Go somewhere. Florence. Marseille. Hell, even Rimini. Open a bar. Play music. Paint. Lie about who we are. Be someone else for a while."

Vale gave him a look. "You don't paint."

Marco shrugged. "Neither do you. But we could."

Outside, a Vespa rumbled past. Somewhere nearby, a radio played something mellow in Italian—probably Battisti or Mina, carried from a neighbor's open window.

For a moment, the shop was quiet again.

Then Marco clapped his hands once, like a reset.

"Alright. You'll call your girl, I'll call mine. We'll go out. Somewhere proper this time. You owe me that much for letting this place leech my soul."

Vale wiped his hands, leaned back in his chair, and gave him a lazy smile. "Where?"

A beat. Then Marco's grin returned. "Autodromo."

He said it like a challenge.

Later That Evening

The sun had begun to dip, casting golden light across the tram lines. The city was quieter now—not asleep, but leaning into its evening rhythm. Horns softened. Shutters creaked closed. Somewhere, someone poured an aperitivo.

The Autodromo on the outskirts of town buzzed with low-slung cars and boys who thought they were invincible. It wasn't an official race—not quite illegal either. Just enough rules to feel like chaos could break loose at any moment. The air reeked of gasoline and thrill.

Marco stood with his sleeves rolled, a bottle of Chinotto in hand, sunglasses still on even as the light faded. The cigarette behind his ear had been replaced with another—this one half-lit and forgotten. He looked better when he wasn't trying too hard.

Vale was next to him, hands in his pockets, head tilted at the distant sound of screeching tires. He still smelled faintly of the antique shop—varnish and oil—but he looked lighter out here, beneath the open sky.

Marco glanced toward the entrance. "She's late."

"Who?" Vale asked, already knowing.

Giulia, of course, walked in like she'd stepped off a magazine page left out in the rain. Short dark hair curled against her jaw in that effortlessly moody way. She wore a washed-out denim jacket over a white tee tucked into high-waisted pants, red lips pressed into a crooked, knowing smile. Her presence was like a static hum—cool, unbothered, low-key cinematic.

She didn't make a scene. Just strolled up with that calm, untouched-by-wind kind of presence. Like she belonged here more than any of the boys revving engines.

Marco met her halfway and didn't say a word. Just smirked, leaned in, and kissed her like he'd been waiting a week—not just a few hours. Giulia blinked, surprised, then kissed him back briefly but coolly, like she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing she missed him too.

"Could've called," she muttered.

He grinned. "You would've said no."

She rolled her eyes, but her hand was already in his.

Behind them came another laugh—louder, unfiltered.

Eva.

Long blond hair in a half-up tie, a navy skirt swaying just above her knees. Her shirt was buttoned wrong by one hole—on purpose. She had that kind of stubborn fire in her step, the sort of mouth made for arguing and laughing in the same breath.

She didn't wait. Walked right up behind Vale, threw her arms around him without warning, and kissed his cheek like it was hers to take—which it was.

"There you are, signore nostalgia," she whispered against his ear.

Vale had a little smile in his eyes. She always did this—loved loudly.

Before he could duck, she spun around and caught his lips in a real kiss.

"You smell like brass polish," she teased.

"I tried cologne. Didn't work," he said.

She laughed and leaned against him anyway. "You're lucky you're cute."

They all found a spot near the track's edge, just behind a line of boys arguing over spark plugs and whose cousin brought the best tires from Naples.

Giulia leaned back on her elbows beside Marco, watching the chaos, sipping from his bottle. After a while, she wandered off to her own friend group, waving only briefly.

Eva stayed close, head resting on Vale's shoulder like she belonged there.

Engines screamed. Girls cheered. The night wrapped around them like cigarette smoke and stereo haze.

Young blood. Streetlight shadows. Laughter, engines, kisses, half-finished conversations.

The night was alive—and none of them cared what came after.

...****************...