It is the morning after Luca delivered Aria’s name to me and told me to have her dead.
The coast stretches out like a silver knife, quiet and treacherous beneath the early haze of morning.
Dubrovnik gleams in the distance, its tiled rooftops rising from the sea like the back of some ancient serpent, beautiful and old and full of teeth.
I stand at the edge of the lookout just beyond the southern slope, the rented car idling behind me, its engine ticking softly as the metal cools in the breeze.
I keep one hand tucked in my coat pocket, fingers grazing the pistol’s grip like it might answer the questions crawling beneath my skin.
The house is a stone thing, narrow and discreet, perched halfway down the winding road that leads to the harbor.
It faces the water, like all good hiding places do, the shutters angled just enough to suggest someone inside is watching.
I do not move yet.
I let the wind wrap around me, let the moment settle.
This is not a rush job.
Luca was clear.
Confirm, then clean.
I reach for the folder in the passenger seat, flip it open again.
Stefano Amari. Former Conti muscle.
Went underground after their ports were folded into ours, slipped through the cracks with enough money and favors to disappear.
The photos inside are grainy but clear enough.
One at a seaside café.
Another, leaving the market with a bag too heavy for groceries.
A final one taken near the marina, his phone in hand, mouth just slightly open like he’s mid-sentence.
There’s no audio, but I know the kind of conversations men like him have when they think they’ve been forgotten.
I wait until the sun finishes climbing the edge of the sky, until the tourists start to hum around the edges of the city like insects around sugar.
Then I make my move.
The steps down to the villa are slick with salt and moss.
My shoes don’t slip.
The door is unlocked.
He doesn’t expect company.
Or maybe he does, and he’s grown stupid with comfort.
Either way, I push the door open with the slow grace of someone who owns the moment and the ruin it will bring.
He’s in the kitchen, bare-chested, knife in hand, slicing bread like he belongs to the sea.
He glances up. Freezes.
His face is older than the last time I saw it, back when he was wearing someone else’s badge and barking at dock workers like he had real power.
Now, there’s resignation in his eyes.
No panic.
Just a tired little smile as he sets the knife down.
‘You found me.’
I don’t respond.
I close the door behind me and step inside.
The place smells like olives and cigarettes, windows open wide to catch the morning breeze.
There’s a pistol on the table beside him, half-covered by a folded paper.
He does not reach for it.
Smart enough to know better.
‘So,’ he says, running a hand through hair gone silver at the edges, ‘who sold me out?’
I don’t answer that either.
I don’t need to.
I don’t owe him that grace.
Instead, I pull out the chair opposite him and sit.
Let the silence stretch between us like wire.
‘You left clean,’ I say finally. ‘You were given a corridor, a new name. Luca even let you keep your cut.’
He laughs, but there’s no joy in it. ‘And you think that bought me silence? Loyalty? Come on, Moretti. You know better. You think any of this is clean? You think the old man still runs things like he did ten years ago? Half your house is rotting from the inside out, and the rest of you are too loyal to smell the stink.’
I keep my face still. He’s trying to draw blood. He won’t.
‘Who are you feeding?’
‘I don’t know their names,’ he says with a shrug. ‘They pay in euros and secrets. I trade what I know, they leave me be. You’re not the only ones with enemies, Enzo. There’s more than one family who wants to see yours bleed.’
I lean forward. ‘And what exactly have you given them?’
He smirks. ‘Shipping manifests. Guard rotations. A few names. Nothing that hurt. Yet.’
The last word hangs there as I rise, smooth my jacket, glance once at the window where the light has turned hot and golden, cutting across the floor in long bars.
‘You’re going to tell me the names.’
‘Or what?’ He smiles wider now, but it’s thin. ‘You going to kill me before or after you realize your house is already burning?’
I don’t speak.
I walk around the table and draw the pistol, the weight of it easy in my hand, familiar like a prayer.
I press the barrel to the back of his head and feel his breath catch.
‘Three names. That’s all I want.’
He says nothing for a beat. Then, slowly, he speaks.
‘Luciano. Ortega. Maybe Del Toro.’
I frown. All names I’ve heard before, but the last one is wrong. Del Toro’s dead. Killed in a port fire two months ago.
Either Stefano’s bluffing, or someone’s been feeding him ghosts.
I pull the gun back slightly.
‘Who told you Del Toro was still alive?’
He shifts, not quite a flinch, more like a test of boundaries.
‘Someone close to you. Said things weren’t like they used to be. Said Luca’s grip is slipping. That there are…whispers.’
There it is.
I step back. Lower the gun.
He sees the shift and lets out a long breath, but it’s not relief. It’s pride.
He thinks he’s won something.
‘You don’t believe me,’ he says.
‘I believe you believe it,’ I reply. ‘But I also know when a man is repeating someone else’s story.’
His smile fades just slightly.
‘Who told you Luca was weak?’
He shrugs again. ‘Doesn’t matter. You’ll find out soon enough.’
I nod once.
‘I already have.’
Then I shoot him. One clean shot to the chest, just above the heart. He jerks, gasps, and slumps forward over the table, the bread knife sliding to the floor with a dull thud.
There is no scream.
Just a bubbling breath, one final exhale, and silence.
I stand there a moment, watching the blood spread.
I’m not angry.
This is not vengeance.
This is duty.
This is the price of betrayal.
I holster the gun, wipe my prints from the chair, and grab the folded paper from beneath the pistol on the table.
It’s a list. Shipping docks. Time stamps.
One of them has a red line drawn beneath it.
The name beside it is blurred by grease, but I know the numbers. I know the port.
Naples.
I fold it and slide it into my coat.
Outside, the sea roars quietly, the sound swallowed by the cliffs and the distance.
I lock the door behind me and head up the stone path, the sun at my back, the city stretching before me like a mouth filled with teeth.
Giovanni is waiting by the car, leaning against it with a cigarette between his fingers. He flicks it away when he sees me.
‘Done?’
‘Clean.’
He doesn’t ask for details.
Just opens the driver’s side door and gets in. I follow.
The engine rumbles to life, and we pull away, the villa shrinking in the mirror until it is nothing but stone and shadow.
‘He said something interesting,’ I say after a long silence.
Giovanni arches a brow, eyes on the road.
‘Said there are whispers. That Luca’s not as strong as he used to be.’
Giovanni chuckles. ‘There are always whispers. Half the underworld lives on them.’
‘These were different.’
He nods, as if indulging me. ‘And what do you plan to do with that information?’
I watch the coastline blur past.
‘Find out who’s whispering. And why.’
He says nothing. He just drives, the cigarette smoke still lingering faintly in the car, the road stretching forward into a silence that tastes too much like the breath before an impending war.
