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“Non può essere vero,”one of them mutters. “It can’t be true.”
I meet his gaze, understanding the disbelief.“È la realtà.It’s the reality we face,” I reply, my words heavy.
The room becomes a symphony of voices, each man grappling with the loss in his own way. I let them speak, the raw emotions echoing off the walls of our headquarters. Alessandro’s absence leaves a void, one that cannot be easily filled.
“Capo, adesso cosa facciamo?” another asks. “Boss, what do we do now?”
I take a deep breath, feeling the burn of the fresh tattoo on my back against the fabric of my shirt, an inked tribute to Alessandro. It’s a permanent reminder of the bond we shared, of the blood that ties us even in death. The pain of the needle pales in comparison to the ache in my heart.
“I will lead us now,” I declare, the weight of the words settling around us. “We will find those responsible, and we will make them pay.”
The room grows still as my words sinks in. I am now the capo, the leader of our family. The responsibility is a heavy burden, but it’s one I carry willingly for Alessandro.
“We must act now,” I continue, laying out a plan. “No one gets away with taking one of our own.Nessuno.” I look each one of my soldiers in the eyes.
As we discuss strategies, the room transforms into a hive of whispered plans and determined nods. The family, once under Alessandro’s guidance, now rallies behind me. The loyalty that runs through our veins is a force that cannot be underestimated.
“Il sangue di Alessandro scorre nei nostri cuori,” I say, my voice low, but resolute. “Alessandro’s blood runs in our hearts. Together, we will avenge him.”
The men respond with a chorus of affirmations, their commitment echoing through the dimly lit space. The walls, witnesses to countless secrets and alliances, absorb the weight of our shared resolve.
Each man, fueled by a mix of grief and determination, departs to carry out his assigned tasks. The city outside may remain oblivious to our machinations, but within these walls, a silent war brews.
* * *
Three days pass in a haze of grief and disbelief. I reach out to Rafael, tasking him with investigation of the circumstances surrounding Alessandro’s demise. A call from him punctuates the somber atmosphere, his voice carrying the weight of revelations that further darken the shadows.
“Alessandro was found shot in an abandoned building in the Los Angeles Art Gallery,” Rafael begins, the information landing like a blow. “The assassin left his signature calling card. The body is severely disfigured, but I can arrange for you to retrieve it.”
I absorb the details, the reality of Alessandro’s violent end seeping into my bones. I can feel the loss deep in my bones.
“What was he doing in LA?” I inquire, my mind grappling with the enigma.
Rafael’s reply adds another layer to the mystery. “I’m not sure, Giulio. But he was in constant contact with someone in the FBI.”
“Nick?” I question knowing this is our source.
“No,” Rafael answers, injecting a new element into the puzzle.
“It was a woman—an IT expert, a special agent, and a handler. Sophie Trumon.”
“What do you know about her?”
Rafael clicks on his computer on the other end, “She lives right here in Chicago. I can get you the address.”
“Perfetto.Send it to me, it is time Sophie and I have a little chat. Maybe she can tell me what happened to my brother.”
