Chapter 5 The Danilo Doctrine

The wind howled through the back alleys of North Velrano, carrying the scent of gasoline and rot. Marco moved like smoke through the underbelly of the city-no entourage, no guards, no name. Just a pistol in his coat and a question that refused to die. Where would a ghost hide? He didn't trust Arturo, but he believed him on one thing: if Danilo had lived, he didn't come back as himself. He came back as a doctrine. At 6:12 a.m., Marco arrived at The Wedge-a run-down bar once used as a neutral zone during the B&S years. Now, it was a half-dead dive run by ex-fighters and failed loyalists.

Marco walked in and the room froze. Three men at the bar stopped mid-sip. A woman in the corner dropped her cigarette. The bartender-an old war dog named Vince Turro-reached slowly beneath the counter. Marco raised one hand. "Don't. I'm not here for blood." Vince's eyes narrowed. "Then you're in the wrong part of town, Valieri." Marco stepped forward, dropped a photo on the counter-Danilo in Catania. "I want to know what he was doing there." Vince didn't touch the photo. "We don't say that name here." "You do now." Vince sighed and poured himself a whiskey. "Catania wasn't a job. It was a forge. That's where Danilo became what he was." Marco leaned in. "Meaning?" "He went there after the Rossi Massacre. Disappeared for six months. Came back different. Colder. Sharper. Like someone rewrote his code." "What happened in Catania?" Vince downed the whiskey. "Whatever it was, he never spoke of it. But when he returned, he brought one thing back." Marco waited. "The Doctrine." The "Danilo Doctrine" wasn't a rulebook. It was a playbook for controlled chaos. A method of cleaning house without leaving prints. Each rule was whispered between killers. Never written. Always followed. Rule One: Silence is the only safe currency. Rule Two: Fear is more loyal than blood. Rule Three: Betrayal is not punished-it's erased. Rule Four: The throne is a lie. Power is a shadow. Marco knew these rules. He'd lived them. But now they weren't whispers-they were blueprints being used against him. Back in the car, Rafa waited with news. "Three of our safehouses hit in the last six hours," he said. "No survivors. One was torched. Two were emptied. And each one had the same thing carved into the wall." He handed Marco a photo. A single letter: D. Carved clean. Deep. Personal. Marco stared at it. "He's not just copying Danilo." Rafa frowned. "Then what?" Marco's jaw locked. "He's finishing what Danilo never did." Midday. The Valieri war room. Maps, screens, live feeds. Every territory marked in red, green, or black. Marco stood at the head of the table, surrounded by the remaining captains. Enzo. Bianchi. Raul. And Arturo, arms crossed in the corner. Marco didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. "We're not at war with a family," he said. "We're at war with a legacy." Enzo squinted. "The hell does that mean?" "It means someone is weaponizing the past. Using our own rules to dismantle everything my father built." Raul sneered. "Then we burn them down." Marco stepped forward. "No. We smoke them out." He pointed to the map. "Tonight, we spread false intel. A fake weapons deal at the old Colina warehouse. Make sure the right ears hear it. No guards. No surveillance. Just bait." Bianchi raised a brow. "And when they come?" Marco's eyes gleamed. "We follow. No attacks. No noise. We watch where they run." Arturo nodded slowly. "We draw the spider from the web." Marco didn't look at him. "And then we burn the web." 11:39 p.m. The trap was set. Marco watched from a nearby rooftop, sniper scope trained on the warehouse entrance. The streets were dead quiet. No police. No foot traffic. Too quiet. He checked his earpiece. "Visual?" Rafa's voice crackled. "Nothing yet. No movement on infrared." Suddenly-motion. Two figures, masked, moving like phantoms. One circled the building's side. The other moved straight to the door. Marco zoomed in. The lead figure wore a jacket with an old crest stitched into the sleeve-a broken crown. Same mark as the dead shooter from the funeral. "Target confirmed," Marco whispered. "Hold fire." The masked figure stepped inside. Seconds ticked. Then- Boom. A second explosion-smaller-flashed from the side alley. "Diversion!" Rafa shouted. "They've got spotters!" Marco cursed and leapt from the rooftop. Boots slammed against the fire escape. By the time he hit the ground, tires were screeching in the distance. They were already gone. --- Thirty minutes later, Marco stood inside the smoldering warehouse. No bodies. Just ashes. And a new message carved into the floor with acid: "Blood remembers." Marco stood frozen. This wasn't just tactical. It was personal. Someone wasn't trying to erase the Valieri name. They were trying to redefine it. Back at the estate, Marco sat in Salvatore's old chair, eyes locked on the photo of Danilo and his father. A doctrine wasn't a man. It was a virus. And it was mutating. Somewhere in Velrano, the man behind this was watching. Waiting. Building a new empire from the bones of the old one. Marco leaned forward. "If Danilo's alive," he whispered, "I'll find him." He closed the folder. "And if he's not-I'll kill whoever's wearing his face."