Chapter 7 The Ghost's Overture

The opera house fell silent. Not the respectful silence of a loyal room- The paralyzing silence of a hunted pack. Marco didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't show fear. That voice from the rafters-it wasn't just a threat. It was familiar. But not from memory. From tape. The same voice from the VHS. The man off-screen telling Danilo to pull the trigger. The architect. Marco scanned the ceiling-no movement. Nothing but dust and old velvet. Rafa moved in from the side hallway. "No visual. Staircases are clear." Marco stepped into the center of the stage, picked up the pistol again.

"To the man playing ghost..." His voice echoed. "You've had your moment. You've made your noise. Now come out and finish the performance." Nothing. Then a slow clap from the upper box seat. Two hands. One rhythm. Mocking. Controlled. From the darkness, a figure stood, silhouetted behind torn drapes. Face masked in a Venetian half-mask. Long coat. Gloves. Not a shred of identity. Just a presence that made the blood in the room drop a degree. He spoke. Calm. Confident. Cruel. "Do you know why your father won, Marco?" Marco didn't answer. "Because he understood this city doesn't belong to the loudest. It belongs to the last man standing." The figure stepped forward into better light-but only slightly. Just enough to show the faint glint of steel at his belt. "You think you're the heir. The crown prince. The next chapter." He tilted his head. "You're the footnote." A growl rose from Raul near the back. "Who the hell is this clown?" But Marco raised a hand. "No." His voice was low now. Controlled. "You've done all this work to stay hidden. Burned bodies. Carved walls. Killed ghosts. So why show yourself now?" The masked figure let the question linger. Then: "Because you've already lost. You just haven't accepted it yet." He tossed something over the railing. It landed with a thud on the stage. A small, blood-soaked package. Rafa picked it up. Unwrapped it. Inside: The severed tongue of Captain Enzo. Still warm. Raul cursed. Bianchi backed away in horror. Marco didn't flinch. He stared up. "That's a message. What's the lesson?" The masked man said: "The past isn't dead, Marco. It's hungry. And it remembers who tried to silence it." Gunshots cracked from the rafters- Not at Marco. At the exits. Lights shattered. Glass exploded. The building plunged into chaos. Screams. Scrambling. Half the room diving for cover. Marco stayed rooted. Through the strobing muzzle flashes above, he saw the figure vanish into the curtains. Gone. Just like that. Fifteen minutes later, the opera house was empty. Raul was patching a graze. Bianchi hyperventilating against a pillar. Rafa stood by Marco, scanning what was left of the ceiling. "No security footage. No snipers caught. The bastard walked in and out like a ghost." Marco bent down and picked up the wrappings from the tongue. On the inside, scribbled in red: "You can't kill what your father buried alive." Marco read it once. Then again. His hand clenched. "Get me eyes on every graveyard, every mortuary, every crypt used by the family between '94 and '98." Rafa blinked. "You think he's-" "He's not just rewriting the rules," Marco said. "He's digging up everything my father tried to bury." Later that night, back at the estate, Marco stared at the family tree engraved in marble. Salvatore's name at the top. Branches spreading to loyal captains, forged alliances, bloodlines. Neat. Ordered. Controlled. But it was a lie. Danilo wasn't on it. None of the B&S lieutenants were. They'd been erased. One by one. After their usefulness ran out. Marco whispered to the stone, "He's not after territory. He's after truth." Rafa returned with a file. "Only one grave from the B&S era was moved in secret. Unmarked. Registered under a false alias." Marco opened it. Location: Saint Delano Cemetery Name on record: Giovanni Rossi But listed next of kin? Unknown. Marco's eyes burned into the page. Giovanni Rossi was a known enemy. But the body had been buried with Valieri credentials. And only two men had clearance to authorize that. Salvatore. And Arturo. Marco didn't wait. By dawn, he was at Saint Delano Cemetery, boots heavy in wet grass. The grave sat alone. Weeds curling around a stone too clean to be old. He stood over it, arms crossed. The inscription read: "No name. No flag. Just silence." But fresh soil had been turned. Marco knelt. Brushed his fingers over the damp dirt. A metal plate, half-buried, caught his attention. He dug. Pulled out a rusted lockbox. Inside: A recording device. An old bullet casing. And a single photograph. The photo showed Danilo standing next to a child. The child was maybe eight. Black hair. Hard eyes. And next to them-Arturo. Marco's hand froze. He flipped the photo. In Salvatore's handwriting: "The only thing more dangerous than a ghost... is the son he left behind." Marco stood. The wind screamed through the trees. And for the first time in days, Marco felt it. The real enemy was never Danilo. It was who Danilo left behind. And that man was alive. Watching. And ready to finish what his father started.