Chapter 67 Messages

Chapter 67 Messages
Alessandro
The dirt falling on my cousin Fabio's casket was the sound of my own failure. Each thud of earth on polished wood was an echo of my blindness, my arrogance. I stood rigid, the picture of a don in mourning black suit pressed to perfection, face carved from marble, hands clasped before me in the posture of grief. But inside, I was crumbling like ancient stone, each breath a struggle against the weight of what I had done.
Fabio was dead because of a leak in my organization. A leak named Marco. A leak I had been too blind, too trusting, too weak to see until it was far too late. Because of me, my cousin,my brother in all but blood lay cold in that expensive box while his widow wept tears that should have been mine to shed.
The priest's words were a drone, a meaningless hum against the roaring guilt in my ears. Latin prayers meant to comfort the living and guide the dead. But Fabio was beyond guidance now, and I was beyond comfort. I scanned the crowd of black-clad mourners, my gaze not one of grief, but of cold, sharp assessment. Faces I'd known my entire life. Faces that had broken bread at my table. Any one of them could be another Marco, another poison seed planted in my garden.
Trust was a luxury I could no longer afford.
The ancient cemetery stretched around us, weathered headstones and marble angels bearing silent witness to centuries of Desanti blood. My family had been buried in this earth since before Italy was even Italy. Now Fabio would join them, another name carved in stone, another life cut short by this endless war we waged in the shadows.

As the service ended and the crowd began to dissipate like smoke after a fire, I remained. Salvatore stood at my shoulder, a silent sentinel, his eyes constantly moving, cataloging threats. The other mourners gave us wide berth, sensing the darkness that radiated from me like heat from a forge.
Then a young man with the nervous eyes of a rabbit broke from the periphery. He couldn't have been more than twenty, thin and shaking, dressed in an ill-fitting suit that marked him as an outsider. Sal shifted beside me, his hand moving toward his jacket in a motion so subtle most would never notice. But the man didn't brandish a weapon.

He didn't speak. He simply thrust a single, perfect blood-red rose into my hand before vanishing back into the sea of black like a ghost, leaving only the flower and the scent of fear.
My fingers closed around the stem instinctively. A thorn bit deep into my thumb, a sharp, clean pain that cut through the numbness. A bead of blood welled up, vivid scarlet against my skin, and dripped slowly down the stem. It seemed appropriate somehow—blood on roses at a funeral. The symbolism wasn't lost on me.

Tucked among the vicious petals was a sliver of parchment, folded with precise care. I didn't need to read it to know who it was from. The scent of the rose, overly sweet and cloying, was her scent. That perfume she always wore, the one that had once driven me mad with desire and now made my stomach turn with rage.
Jennifer.
My hands trembled as I unfurled the paper, heedless of the blood now staining it. The script was elegant, each letter formed with careful attention—sharp, cruel, and unmistakably hers.
"A king without his queen is just a man...men are so easily broken. - J"

The air left my lungs. The cemetery, the mourners, even Fabio's grave,all of it fell away. This wasn't just a kidnapping; it was a performance. A theatrical display of her power over me, her contempt for everything I held dear. She was mocking my grief, taunting me at my own cousin's funeral. While I buried my family, she danced on their graves.

The message was clear: she had taken my heart, torn it from my chest while it was still beating, and now she was watching to see how long I could bleed before I fell. Before I broke. Before I came crawling to her, begging for mercy she would never grant.

"Alessandro?" Luca's voice was low, concerned.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The rose crumpled in my fist, the thorns digging deeper into my palm, joining the wound on my thumb. Blood ran freely now, dripping onto the fresh earth of Fabio's grave. A welcome pain. A necessary pain.

Let it bleed. Let it remind me what I had lost. Let it fuel what I would become,this was no longer just about getting Bianca back. This was no longer about territory or respect or the ancient codes we lived by.

This had become something else entirely,something darker, something absolute.
I would burn the Vitale family to ash. I would erase the very memory of Jennifer Vitale from this earth, wipe her name from history as if she had never existed.
"Call everyone," I said, my voice steady now, cold as winter steel. "Every soldier, every ally, every favor owed. We are going to war."