Dead Men Hold The Crown

Black umbrellas rose like a forest of mourning above the stone courtyard of Saint Michael's Cathedral. Rain fell sharp and cold, hissing against the cobblestones like the whispers of ghosts. But inside the circle of silence, there was only one name on every lip: Don Salvatore Valieri. They buried kings with less. Marco Valieri stood motionless beside the casket, gloved hands folded in front of him, eyes like dead glass. Not a flicker of grief showed on his face. No tremble in his jaw. The mourners watched him closely, some with respect. Others, with calculation.

Because the old lion was gone-and the wolf pups were starving. The priest's words droned in the background. Marco didn't hear them. He watched the men standing beneath the black tents-his father's captains, lieutenants, and old allies. Most were quiet. Some were grieving. A few were armed. One of them was a traitor. He just didn't know which one yet. A gust of wind flared through the churchyard. A rose slipped from the top of the casket and landed in the mud. Marco's younger cousin, Luca, stepped forward to retrieve it. That's when the first shot cracked. Pop. Luca dropped before he touched the rose. His body hit the ground with a wet thud, blood seeping into his white shirt. Screams followed. Chaos erupted. Umbrellas flew. Gunfire burst from the rooftops like a godless thunderstorm. "DOWN!" Marco roared, dragging the priest behind the marble altar as bullets shredded through the oak coffin. Wood splintered. Blood misted the air. A funeral turned firefight. Welcome to Velrano. Marco ducked behind a stone angel, pulled a Glock from under his coat, and scanned the chaos. Two shooters. High ground. Suppressed rifles. Professional. But this wasn't just a hit. This was a message. No peace. Not even in death. Marco spotted one of the gunmen perched on the bell tower, silhouetted against the rain. He took a breath, raised his pistol, and squeezed the trigger. The man fell without a sound. One down. The second gunman was already fleeing across the rooftops. Marco didn't chase. He wasn't stupid. This wasn't a job for rage. This was war, and wars were won by strategy-not emotion. By the time the gunfire stopped, six men lay dead. Two were Marco's. One was the priest. The rose still lay in the mud. Two hours later, the cathedral was cordoned off, the police bought off, and the bodies cleared away. Rain still fell. Marco stood alone inside the blood-stained church, staring at the shattered casket. His uncle, Arturo, approached from behind. "You should've postponed the burial." Marco didn't turn. "Postponing won't stop bullets." Arturo sniffed. "This was meant to provoke you." Marco finally turned, eyes cold and unreadable. "It failed." Arturo's face tightened. "You can't run the family on ice and logic, Marco. These men want fire. They want fear." "They'll get it," Marco said, walking past him. Arturo hesitated. "Have you considered what this means?" Marco stopped in the archway. "It means someone powerful wants me dead," he said. "Or worse-they want the seat empty." He left without another word. By nightfall, the city buzzed with rumor. Some said the Morelli Syndicate orchestrated the attack. Others blamed Nico Vescari, a disgraced captain exiled years ago. But in the Valieri mansion, behind locked doors and armed guards, Marco studied something more important than gossip: His father's old ledger. It wasn't a book. It was a weapon. Names. Transactions. Codes. Crossed-out entries. Some circled in red ink. One phrase kept appearing in the margins like a whisper from the grave: B&S. Marco tapped the letters with his pen. "Blood and Silence..." He looked at his father's old consigliere, Angelo. "What was it?" Marco asked. "A code? An era? A threat?" Angelo's face went pale. "That's dead history, Marco. Let it lie." "Like my father?" Silence. Angelo cleared his throat. "Your father became Don because of what he did during the B&S years. But it wasn't just violence. It was... purification. He cut out the rot. Buried enemies so deep no one dared dig." Marco leaned back in his chair. "Someone's digging now." "You don't want that history unburied." Marco stared out the window at the rain-slick city. "I don't have a choice." That night, Marco walked alone into his father's private vault beneath the mansion. Dust filled the air. The scent of gun oil and cigar smoke lingered like ghosts. He flipped on the overhead light. One wall was covered in photographs-gritty black-and-whites from decades ago. Men with cold eyes and sharper suits. His father among them, young and hungry. Most of the faces were crossed out. Dead. In the center of the wall, one photo was untouched. Three men. A younger Salvatore. A nameless partner. And a third man whose face had been scratched out violently. Marco's eyes narrowed. He didn't recognize the partner. But the background-it wasn't Velrano. It looked like Catania, a city his father never spoke of. And written beneath the photo, in red marker: "It started with silence. It ends in blood." Marco stood there a long time, memorizing every detail. The photo. The code. The handwriting. The warning. Suddenly, a voice behind him: "You're not ready for this war, boy." Marco spun, gun drawn-but no one was there. Only shadows. Or maybe ghosts. Outside, the city pulsed with neon and rain. The Valieri empire stood on the edge of collapse. Marco knew one thing for certain: This wasn't just about revenge. It was about unearthing a truth that could burn the entire underworld to ash. And it had already begun. The Blood & Silence years were back. And this time, they had a new player.