Chapter 66
When Vitale arrived in Lumaria, Isabella was meeting him in her dreams.
Moonlight slipped through the gaps in the bedroom curtains, casting a soft silver glow on her sleeping face.
In her dream, Isabella smiled, her fingertips unconsciously brushing over the bedsheet beside her, as if he were lying there.
Meanwhile, the real Vitale stood outside an old restaurant in Palermo, adjusting the cuffs of his suit, preparing to step into the most dangerous mafia gathering in half a century.
Inside the restaurant, time seemed frozen in the mid-20th century.
Dark oak-paneled walls were adorned with faded family portraits, crystal chandeliers cast a dim yellow glow, and the long table was covered with crisp white linen tablecloths.
The air was thick with the smell of cigar smoke, aged leather, and a faint hint of blood.
It was the scent of history, built up over decades.
Besides the representatives of the three major families, more than a dozen leaders of smaller groups sat at the table.
A gathering of this scale hadn't happened in fifty years.
The last time was during Vitale's grandfather, Noah Luca's era, to divide up Lumaria's territory.
And today, everyone was here for Vitale.
Costa sat at the head of the table, his sixty years etched into the wrinkles on his face.
For a mafia boss, showing stress openly was a deadly weakness.
But right now, he couldn't care less.
When the door opened, all conversation stopped abruptly.
More than twenty pairs of eyes turned toward the entrance.
Vitale stood there, his red hair burning like fire under the lights, his deep blue suit perfectly tailored, outlining his sharp, powerful frame.
Victor followed half a step behind him, like a loyal shadow.
"Evening, boys." Costa stood up, trying to take control of the room, but the tremble in his voice betrayed him.
Vitale didn't respond right away.
He slowly scanned the room, his gaze lingering on each face for a second.
Cunning old Antonio, ambitious Luciano Banks, indecisive Marco...
Finally, Vitale's eyes landed on Costa, his blue gaze devoid of any warmth.
Victor had warned him repeatedly on the way here, "Don't say Isabella is your weakness. Call her a fling, a toy, anything, but don't let them know you actually care about her."
Vitale had only smirked coldly at the time.
Now, he walked toward the long table, shaking hands and exchanging hugs with several key family heads, completing the traditional mafia greetings.
His hands were dry and steady, his hugs firm but measured.
Polite, but not weak.
Victor stayed close behind, though everyone knew the star of the night was the young red-haired boss.
When they sat down, Vitale chose a subtle spot.
Not at the head, not at the end, but in the middle of the table.
This position allowed him observe everyone's expressions while avoiding being easily cornered.
Victor sat to his right, Costa across from him.
The bartender started serving drinks.
Aged whiskey shimmered amber in crystal glasses.
But Vitale didn't touch his. He never drank at family meetings—a lesson his father, Rhett, had taught him with his life.
He needed to stay sharp, always sharp.
"I'm surprised you showed up, Vitale," Costa said, sipping his drink to break the silence.
"Are you?" Vitale's voice was calm, "I thought you called this meeting just to get me here."
The next half hour was classic mafia talk.
Words twisted and indirect, like solving riddles, discussing life and death through metaphors.
They talked about the weather, the olive harvest, and soccer games, but every sentence carried hidden barbs.
Vitale handled it all with ease, skillfully deflecting any attempts to steer the conversation toward Isabella.
Victor kept his eyes on Simon, who stood behind Costa.
The brother who once fought alongside them now stood there in a polished suit, his face blank.
Victor wanted to pull out his gun and blow that fake face apart.
He remembered ten years ago, when Simon ran through the streets with him and Vitale, chasing down traitors.
He remembered five years ago, at Rhett's funeral, how Simon was one of the few who truly shed tears.
After Rhett's death, the family fell into chaos.
The older members all wanted power, and outsiders were circling like vultures.
Back then, Vitale was only twenty-two, nearly alone, with just Victor and Simon by his side, using blood and loyalty to help him hold things together.
"Why?" Victor mouthed silently.
Simon avoided his gaze.
Just then, Vitale cut straight to the point, "Costa, did you call this meeting because of the Garland family crest?"
The air in the restaurant froze instantly.
The Garland family crest.
It wasn't just a tattoo design; it was the ultimate symbol of power in Lumaria's underworld.
Whoever held it had the final say over the three major families.
After Rhett's death, the crest's whereabouts became a mystery, a holy grail that every faction secretly fought over.
The smile on Costa's face vanished completely.
He set down his glass, hands clasped on the table, "Before I explain, I hope there'll be no gunfire or fighting here, for anyone's sake."
Vitale and Victor exchanged a glance and nodded at the same time.
Costa visibly relaxed. "I know a lot of people want me dead, but I value my life."
He looked around the room and continued, "I didn't betray you, Vitale. I just got a little greedy."
"I can return all the money I took, double it even, but you can't take my life, and you can't hand me over to the cops. Can we agree on that?"
Vitale leaned forward slightly, hands clasped on the table, "I'll take the money, but I'll take the traitor too."
Costa gave a bitter smile, "You mean Simon? No, he's not a traitor."
He paused, taking a deep breath, "He's my son."
Dead silence.
Then a wave of suppressed murmurs.
Several leaders exchanged shocked looks, some cursed under their breath, and others instinctively reached for their waists.
Vitale stared at Costa, then at Simon, before letting out a short, cold laugh, "Is this some kind of sick joke?"
Simon finally spoke, his voice dry, "I know you think I betrayed you, but the one who really used my father and tipped off the cops is someone else."
He looked straight at Vitale, "Otherwise, you and Victor's factories wouldn't have been raided, and that shipment at the port wouldn't have been seized."
Vitale's gaze sharpened, "You found the informant?"
Simon nodded, "My father did. That person..."
He hesitated, "They're digging into everything about you. The talk about your weakness isn't just the fake story you spread—it's something they've deliberately hyped up."
"Now, all of Eldoria, from the big families to the street punks, knows Isabella is your soft spot."
Victor shot to his feet, his chair scraping harshly against the floor.
But Vitale raised a hand to stop him.
"Who is it?" Vitale's voice was quiet, but it made the temperature in the restaurant drop.
Costa wiped the sweat from his forehead, "His name is Marco Ferrante. He used to be your father's most trusted lawyer. Now he works for the anti-mafia special task force."
"He knows all the family secrets, how every business runs, and most importantly..." Costa's voice grew quieter, "he knows everything about Isabella—her past, her family, her weekly schedule, even which café she likes to have breakfast at."
Vitale's hand suddenly clenched.
The crystal glass shattered in his grip, sharp fragments cutting into his skin. Blood mixed with whiskey dripped onto the white tablecloth, spreading a stark red stain.
"Damn it!" someone exclaimed.
In an instant, more than twenty guns were drawn, their barrels glinting coldly in the dim light.
Everyone stood up, the sounds of chairs clattering, bullets being chambered, and hurried breathing mixing together.
The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and death.
Costa stood in a panic, hands raised high, "Calm down, everyone! Put your weapons away! This is what we agreed on!"
But no one listened.
Gun barrels pointed at each other in the darkness, everyone becoming someone else's target.
In this enclosed space, if a shot were fired, no one would survive.