prologue

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.

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