Chapter 2 Dead Men Don't Stay Buried

The morgue stank of bleach and betrayal. Marco stood alone beneath flickering fluorescent lights, eyes locked on the cold slab where Luca's body lay. His cousin's face was calm now-no sign of the panic in his eyes when he dropped in the rain. Just a bullet hole. Clean. Professional. Marco's jaw tightened. He didn't come here to grieve. He came for clarity. Doctor Bellanti, the coroner on Valieri payroll since '94, shifted nervously beside the body. "Shot came from a suppressed .308. Entry wound's clean. No exit. High angle. Probably from the bell tower." Marco nodded slowly.

"What else?" Bellanti hesitated. "Tracer residue on the gloves. Means military-grade rounds. The kind you don't buy off the street." Marco said nothing. He didn't need to. Outside the morgue, Marco's right hand, Rafa, waited with a file folder and a grim face. "Two shooters. We recovered one of the bodies-Serbian, black-market tattoos, no wallet. Other vanished into thin air." Marco flipped open the file. Inside: a photograph of the dead man's face, bloodied and cold. His neck bore a faint tattoo-a crown broken in half. Marco's eyes narrowed. "That's not Serbian. That's Old Velrano ink." Rafa blinked. "That mark hasn't shown up in twenty years." "Exactly." Marco snapped the folder shut. "B&S era." Rafa looked uneasy. "You think they're back?" Marco didn't answer. His silence said enough. The Valieri mansion, 11:43 p.m. The rain hadn't stopped. Marco sat in the study, staring at the scratched-out photo again. That unnamed man beside his father... There was something familiar about the posture. The watch. The smirk. He flipped through the old ledger again. One page. Blank except for a name. DANILO. No last name. No notes. Just the name-centered, bold, and alone. Angelo entered without knocking, holding a crystal glass of scotch. His hands trembled slightly. Marco didn't look up. "Who was Danilo?" Angelo stopped cold. "Where did you see that name?" "In the ledger. No details. Just his name." Angelo sat down slowly. "That name was erased on purpose." "By who?" "Your father." Marco finally looked at him. "Tell me." Angelo took a long drink. "Danilo was Salvatore's blood brother. Not by family-by war. They started as street enforcers, nobodies. But Danilo... he was the blade. Your father was the brain." "Then what happened?" Angelo leaned back, eyes haunted. "He vanished. After the B&S purge. Some say Salvatore killed him to secure the throne." "And others?" "Others say Danilo never left. Just changed his face, changed his name. Went underground." Marco closed the ledger. "Either way, he's back. Or someone wants us to think so." At dawn, Marco visited the old cathedral again-where the shooting began. He stood in the bell tower, where the shooter had fallen. Blood stains still marked the stone floor. A nun was scrubbing the steps. She didn't acknowledge Marco. He didn't speak-until he noticed a scrap of paper wedged behind the rail. He pulled it out, unfolding the rain-soaked note. Four words, handwritten in red ink: "Even kings answer echoes." No signature. Just the same ink used in the photo room. Marco crushed the paper in his fist. This wasn't a warning. It was a summons. Back at the mansion, Arturo waited in Marco's office, arms crossed. "There's movement in the eastern docks. Trucks. Armed guards. You know who controls that territory?" "Bruno Caldini," Marco said. "Exactly. Bruno hasn't made a move in months. Now, right after your father's funeral, he's shifting weight like he smells blood." Marco nodded. "He does." "You want to respond?" Marco leaned forward. "Not yet." Arturo scoffed. "Waiting gets you killed." Marco smiled without humor. "Acting without knowing gets you buried." Nightfall again. City lights like shattered glass across wet streets. Marco rode in a black car with Rafa, windows tinted, weapons hidden in the floorboards. Destination: Caldini's warehouse on Pier 9. When they arrived, two guards stepped forward, hands on their belts. "We're not open," one muttered. Marco stepped out without a word and shot him in the leg. The second guard raised his weapon but Rafa disarmed him in one smooth movement. Marco walked over the groaning man and kicked the warehouse door open. Inside: crates, rifles, men in vests and Bruno Caldini himself. Heavyset, smirking, smoking a cigar like it was 1985. "Well, if it ain't the baby Don," Bruno said. Marco didn't blink. "You moved your shipments ahead of schedule. Why?" Bruno spread his arms. "The city's shifting, Marco. Gotta be ready." "You weren't at the funeral." Bruno shrugged. "Wasn't invited." Marco's voice dropped. "You didn't need an invitation. You owed my father your entire corner." Bruno tapped ash onto the floor. "Your father's dead. And the throne doesn't sit empty for long." A beat of silence. Marco stepped forward, slow and precise. "You ever heard the name Danilo?" Bruno's smirk vanished. "That name's cursed," he said. "You speak it, you bleed." Marco smiled. "I bleed anyway." Bruno leaned in, voice low. "You dig into the B&S years, you'll end up like your father." Marco met his gaze. "Then I'll know I'm on the right trail." By midnight, Marco stood alone on the Valieri balcony, watching the city breathe smoke into the clouds. He lit a cigarette-his first in years-and let the fire touch his lungs. The past wasn't whispering anymore. It was screaming. The attack at the funeral. The mark on the dead shooter. The name Danilo. The red-ink warnings. It wasn't coincidence. It was orchestration. Someone was resurrecting the past one corpse at a time. And Marco was done reacting. He was going hunting.