Chapter 2 - The Lion in the Red Mud
The words hung in the freezing rain like a blade suspended above the courtyard.
“She isn't buried, Matteo... she is still alive in that clinic... and she’s
waking up tonight.”
Forty seasoned killers standing beneath the covered terrace ceased to breathe.
Senator Vittorio Castiglione’s crystal wine glass slipped from his numb fingers,
shattering against the flagstones with a sharp, crystalline ring that sounded
like a gunshot.
Matteo Falcone did not shout. He did not roar in fury.
The Don of Sicily simply stood in the pouring rain, holding his wife’s unburned
wedding band in one hand and the Zurich certificate in the other.
A terrible, volcanic stillness settled over his features—the silence of an
artillery shell in flight.
He reached down with his left hand, grabbed Bianca by the thick silk fabric at
her shoulder, and hauled her to her feet with a single, effortless pull.
“Matteo, please!” Bianca wailed, her heels slipping on the wet clay. “My father
arranged the transfer! It was for the stability of the syndicate! Camilla was
going to destroy everything Antonio Falcone built!”
Matteo didn't answer her. He dragged her across the courtyard, up the terrace
steps, and hurled her onto the polished marble floor of the banquet hall.
She slid ten feet across the floorboards, coming to rest at the feet of her
father.
Senator Castiglione stepped backward, his aristocratic face drained of every
drop of blood. “Matteo... control yourself. We have guests from the five
families present. Whatever domestic disagreement you have with Bianca can be
handled after the toasts—”
Matteo walked into the room.
Water poured from his midnight-blue suit, leaving a dark, muddy trail across the
Persian carpet. In his right hand, he held the lead container.
“Stefano,” Matteo said softly.
His underboss, Stefano Varga, stepped out from the shadows beside the fireplace.
Stefano was fifty years old, missing his right pinky finger, and had buried
bodies for the Falcone family for three decades.
“Boss,” Stefano replied, resting his hand on his sidearm.
“Lock every iron gate on this estate,” Matteo commanded, his voice devoid of all
human emotion. “Disarm the Senator’s personal security detail. If any man
reaches for a radio, put a bullet through his palate.”
Senator Castiglione’s eyes flared with panic. “Falcone, this is high treason
against the Rome alliance! I am an active senator of the Republic! You cannot
hold me on your estate!”
Matteo closed the distance between them in three long, predatory strides.
He reached out, his iron hand clamping around the Senator’s throat, lifting the
sixty-year-old politician until the tips of his Italian leather oxfords barely
grazed the floor.
“You stole my wife from a burning ship, Vittorio,” Matteo whispered, his dark
eyes burning with an ancient, terrifying flame. “You buried a box of lead in my
family chapel. You forced me to kneel before a pile of empty porcelain for five
years while you bled my shipping routes in Palermo.”
The Senator clawed at Matteo’s wrist, choking, his face turning a deep,
dangerous purple. “She... was... comatose... Anton... kept her alive...”
Matteo lowered the Senator just enough to let air whistle through his crushed
windpipe.
“Why tonight, Vittorio? Why is she waking up tonight?”
The Senator choked, tears of pure terror spilling over his wrinkled eyelids.
“The medically induced coma... Anton’s protocol... it was designed to run for
five years to prevent brain damage from the smoke inhalation. The neural
blockers expired forty-eight hours ago. Anton said... if she isn't terminated by
midnight... she will regain full consciousness.”
Matteo’s jaw tightened until the bone cracked audibly.
“And you were going to execute her in that bed while I put a ring on your
daughter’s finger,” Matteo said.
The Senator couldn't speak; he could only whimper.
Matteo tossed the politician to the floor beside Bianca like a sack of wet
flour. He turned toward the forty capos watching from the tables.
“The Castiglione alliance is broken,” Matteo announced, his voice booming
through the cavernous hall. “The regional families will hold this house. Stefano
stays in command of the estate.”
He turned his piercing gaze toward the glass doors, where I was still kneeling
in the mud, clutching the remaining shards of blue porcelain to my chest.
“Gina,” Matteo called out.
My heart leaped into my throat. “Y-yes, Mr. Falcone?”
May you like
“Get up from the dirt,” Matteo said, his voice dropping into a register of
surprising, firm gentleness. “Pack a heavy coat. You’re coming to Switzerland.”
