Chapter 3 Ghosts in the Red Room

The Red Room wasn't on any blueprint of the Valieri estate. Hidden behind a false wine rack in the basement, it wasn't a room-it was a chamber of secrets. Blood-red wallpaper peeled at the corners. The air stank of cigars, sweat, and sealed history. Only two keys ever existed. One belonged to Don Salvatore. The other hadn't been seen in twenty years. Marco broke the lock. The door creaked open. A single bulb flickered overhead, dangling from a rusted chain. Dust particles danced like ash in a beam of stale light. On the wall: a faded map of Velrano with red pins.

Next to it: photographs, names, timelines. Some names were crossed out. Others circled in black. But what stopped Marco cold was the ledger on the desk. Different from the family books. This one was hand-bound, the leather scarred, the title burned in: "BLOOD & SILENCE - OPERATIONS LOG." Marco flipped it open. Operation 7: "Nightingale." Target: Orazio Bernardi Status: Eliminated Reason: Unstable, leaked intel to Rossi faction Cleaners: D.V. + S.V. Result: City silence preserved. No retaliation. Operation 8: "Hollow Crown." Target: Father Rinaldi Status: Silenced Reason: Confessional leaks regarding underage extortion ring Cleaners: D.V. Note: Salvatore objected. Danilo proceeded. Argument logged. Marco's pulse slowed. These weren't hits. These were state-level purges. He reached the final entry. No number. No title. Just a date. "October 11th, 1997 - Last Known Presence of D.V." Location: Pier 17 Status: "Vanished. Presumed deceased." Then in ink darker than all the rest: "Betrayer? Or scapegoat?" Marco closed the book. Danilo wasn't just Salvatore's enforcer. He was the ghost behind the throne. The one who cleaned up what the Don couldn't risk touching. And then he disappeared. Now bodies were dropping, using his old mark. Someone was pretending to be Danilo. Or worse-he was back. Rafa found Marco in the Red Room an hour later, holding a Polaroid pulled from a hidden drawer. It showed Salvatore and Danilo at the Velrano docks, standing beside a crate stamped with foreign lettering: Catania Munitions. "We found a name," Rafa said. "Guy who used to run errands for Salvatore during the late '90s. Name's Pietro Sanzini. Went dark two decades ago. Now he's resurfaced-working a chop shop in South Velrano under a fake name." Marco pocketed the photo. "Pull the car around." Rafa frowned. "You sure you want to do this yourself?" "I don't trust anyone else." South Velrano was rot in concrete form. Broken windows, tagged walls, ghosted factories turned gang dens. The chop shop was a warehouse with a rusted corrugated roof and no lights. Inside: a single overhead bulb, a gutted car on cinder blocks, and a man with a bent spine and oil-streaked fingers hunched over an engine. Marco walked in without a word. Pietro didn't look up. "We're closed." Marco stopped three feet from him. "You used to work for a king. Now you fix junk." That froze him. Pietro slowly stood, turned, and blinked in disbelief. "You're his boy." Marco didn't smile. "That's what they say." Pietro's hands twitched. Not toward a weapon. Toward a cigarette. He lit one with a trembling hand. "I was hoping I'd die before this day came." Marco stepped forward. "Tell me about Danilo." Pietro exhaled smoke. "He wasn't a man. He was a myth in motion. The kind of guy who didn't knock. He erased people like chalk." "Why did he disappear?" Pietro paused. "Because he was loyal. And loyalty is fatal when power gets hungry." Marco's voice sharpened. "Did my father kill him?" "No," Pietro said quietly. "Your father couldn't. That's why he sent him to Pier 17 with fake intel. Danilo figured it out too late." "Then who?" Pietro's lips pressed shut. "All I'll say is this: Danilo died for silence. But someone's out there breaking that pact now. Someone who wants you to suffer the way your father never did." Marco grabbed him by the shirt. "Names." Pietro chuckled bitterly. "I give you names, I'm dead in twelve hours." "You're already dead." Pietro swallowed. "There's a storage unit on First and Knox. Unit 7. It's where Danilo kept the black files. The ones even Salvatore never saw." Marco released him. "If you're lying-" "I'm not." Pietro lit another cigarette with shaking hands. "You're in the middle of a war that started before you were born. You just didn't know it until your father's blood hit the dirt." By 2 a.m., Marco stood outside Unit 7. Bolt-cutters in hand. He pried the door open. The stench of mildew and metal hit his nose. Inside: an old desk, a duffel bag, and a wall of lockboxes. He opened the duffel first. Inside: four burner phones, bundles of cash, and a folder labeled "Valieri Protocol." He opened the folder. Letters. Confessions. Photos. One photo made his stomach turn. Salvatore Valieri kneeling. Hands behind his head. A gun to his skull. The man holding it? Danilo. But the gun wasn't fired. Behind Danilo in the photo blurred but unmistakable was Arturo. Marco dropped the photo. The ground beneath him wasn't concrete anymore. It was quicksand.