Chapter 8 Buried Sons, Burning Kings

There was something unnatural about the silence on the drive back. Marco sat in the backseat, staring at the photograph like it had teeth. Rafa drove, eyes darting to the rearview mirror every few seconds, like the picture might come alive and bite them both. "Tell me I'm wrong," Marco said. Rafa hesitated. "I want to." "The kid in that photo," Marco muttered, voice cold, "was standing next to Danilo and Arturo. In a private grave, under a fake name, buried like a secret." Rafa's knuckles whitened on the wheel. "It can't be." Marco turned to him.

"Why not? You think ghosts only walk in stories?" Rafa didn't answer. Marco leaned back, eyes locked on the dark skyline of Velrano. "He wasn't buried. He was planted." Back at the estate, Marco didn't go inside. He sat beneath the old olive tree in the courtyard. Salvatore used to sit there after executions, pretending to admire nature while blood was hosed off the patio. Now the tree loomed over Marco like judgment. Rafa approached carefully. "We traced the kid." Marco looked up. "Name used now is Lucien Varro. Works out of the east docks. Small-time arms broker. No known allegiance. Arrested twice. Always released." Marco stood. "That name isn't real." Rafa nodded. "No birth records. No school trail. It's like he appeared out of thin air around 2011." Marco stared at the ground. "He didn't appear. He was activated." Midnight. They approached the east docks under heavy fog. Everything stank of seaweed, oil, and hidden crimes. A row of shanty offices and shuttered warehouses lined the waterfront like rotting teeth. Rafa parked two blocks out. Marco moved alone. He found the office listed under Varro Imports-windows blacked out, no signage. One security camera above the door, but it didn't turn. It was a dummy. Marco picked the lock in ten seconds flat. Inside, the place looked abandoned. Dust. Mismatched furniture. A desk with three locked drawers. Marco opened the middle one with a flick knife. Inside: files. Names. Locations. Purchase orders. But tucked at the back- A cassette tape. Labeled: "For M." He slid it into the old player on the desk. Danilo's voice filled the room. "If you're hearing this... I'm dead. Again. Or for real, this time." "My son... my blood... I tried to protect you from this world, but it has a gravity of its own." "There's no winning. Just surviving. Until you don't." "If you've come for vengeance, don't. This city doesn't bleed for revenge. It bleeds because it forgot how not to." Pause. Then: "If they find you before you finish what I started... burn them all." Click. Silence. Marco ejected the tape. His hands didn't tremble. Not yet. He turned to leave- But froze. On the far wall, behind a tattered map, something stuck out. A pin. He pulled the map down. Behind it-etched directly into the wall: A Valieri execution tree. But not from the past. A projection. Targets. Routes. Family lieutenants. Crossed-out names. Each branch cut one by one. And at the very top- Marco's name. Already circled in black ink. Back in the car, Marco tossed the tape onto Rafa's lap. "He's Danilo's son," he said flatly. Rafa swore under his breath. Marco stared at the map Rafa was unfolding, taken from the office wall. "He doesn't want the crown," Marco muttered. "He wants the ashes." Rafa looked up. "You really think Lucien's behind all this?" Marco's eyes were steel. "He was born in silence. Raised by a ghost. And trained to erase everything that carried my father's name." "He's trying to wipe the Valieri legacy?" Marco shook his head. "No." "He's trying to replace it." By dawn, Arturo was waiting in the war room, already reading the field reports. "Three more captains defected," he said. "We're hemorrhaging muscle." Marco didn't sit. "I know who's behind it." Arturo looked up sharply. "Lucien Varro," Marco said. The name landed like a gunshot. "Danilo's son?" Arturo asked, already pale. Marco nodded. "He didn't just survive. He's building something." Arturo looked away. "Salvatore said the boy was a mistake. That Danilo hid him like shame." Marco's voice dropped. "Salvatore didn't kill him because he thought the boy would never grow teeth." "Well," Arturo whispered, "he grew fangs instead." That night, the fires began. Three Valieri warehouses lit up across Velrano, one after another, like a chain reaction of fury. Explosives planted with surgical precision. Inside each blaze, a message was left behind-spray-painted in white on charred walls: "Legacy is a lie." Marco watched the flames rise from the estate balcony. He didn't flinch. Didn't curse. Didn't even breathe. He simply said: "Prepare the Black Room." Rafa blinked. "You serious?" Marco turned. "No more shadow plays. We find him. We bring him in. And if he won't kneel-he burns."