She flinched at my tone, a tiny, wounded creature. “Thank you, Mr. Vitale.” She nodded and then scurried toward the elevator, the click of her heels sounding like a frantic retreat, each step a condemnation I deserved.
I stood there, the silence deafening, the city lights now just distant, mocking stars. The Shostakovich had ended, leaving a void that my carefully constructed composure struggled to fill. I picked up my crystal tumbler from a side table, the ice long melted, a mirror to the warmth I felt draining away. I swallowed the tepid vodka in one go, the burn doing nothing to warm the cold knot of guilt inside me, a familiar companion I tried to drown with every expensive sip. I walked to the piano, running ahand over the dust on its lid—a forgotten instrument of a softer time.
Failure. Weakness. Sentimentality. Things I couldn’t afford, yet things that clung to me like the lingering scent of Kate’s cheap perfume. I hated that I still cared, hated that a ghost of empathy could still pierce my armor. I was reaching for the decanter, a desperate attempt to numb the rising tide of regret, when my silence shattered.
Not by music, but through the harsh tone of my phone.
Reaching for it, I quickly answered.
“Yes.”
“I have a new assignment for you.”
“I’m on my way.”
The air in the Vitale compound clung heavy and thick, a miasma of cigar smoke, stale whiskey, and something far more primal—the scent of power, earned through blood and betrayal. Chicago’s skyline, a glittering beacon of ambition visible through the smoked-glass windows of my penthouse office, felt a million miles away from the suffocating reality within these walls. This was the heart of the Vitale empire, a kingdom built on illicit dealings, hushed threats, and an unyielding code of loyalty that could, and often did, turn lethal. And at its helm, poised on the precipice of a destiny etched in shadows, was my brother, Cesar Vitale.
He stood by the window, a monolith of granite against the fading twilight. His broad shoulders strained the confines of his impeccably tailored suit, a stark contrast to the raw, untamedpower that vibrated beneath the surface. His face, a landscape carved by unforgiving circumstances, was a study in controlled ferocity. Sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes the color of a stormy sea, usually veiled with an unnerving stillness, but tonight, they held a glint of something restless, something akin to the gnawing anticipation of a predator before the hunt.
With his dark hair slicked back, he betrayed none of the disarray that often accompanied the machinations of his world, a testament to his iron self-discipline. Every line of his formidable frame spoke of a man forged in the crucible of violence, a man who understood the language of fear and wielded it with a chilling proficiency. He was the embodiment of the Vitale name, a legacy steeped in darkness, a burden and a birthright he carried with the stoic resignation of a man born to rule, or to fall.
The weight of our family name was a physical presence, an invisible cloak that settled upon me the moment I drew my first breath. It was a symphony of whispered histories, of ancestors who had carved territories in blood, leaving behind a trail of legends and cautionary tales.
Loyalty was the bedrock of the Vitale family.
A fierce, unwavering devotion to family, the blood, the name.
But beneath the veneer of unity, resentments festered like ancient wounds. Power was a fickle mistress, always sought, always contested, a constant, silent war waged in smoke-filled rooms and dimly lit alleyways. I knew this dance intimately. I had witnessed its brutal steps since childhood—the subtle shifts in alliances, the venomous whispers that could shatter reputations, the swift, brutal consequences for any perceived weakness. I was a product of my environment, my hardened exterior a shield against the constant threat, my loyalty to the Vitale name an ingrained instinct.
Our father was once the formidable Don Vincenzo Vitale, a man carved from the same obsidian as his father before him, a force of nature whose death had left a void not only in the family but in my very soul. Cesar’s premature ascension, caused by my father’s sudden, violent death years ago, had stripped him of his youth and forced him to confront the brutal realities of his inheritance. The family elders, a council of weathered men who had served under my father, had betrayed us.
Fate had already decided Cesar’s path the second he was born first. He was the heir apparent, the future Don, a title that carried with it a crushing weight of responsibility. His duty was to uphold the family’s honor, expand our influence, and crush any challengers. This was the legacy he had inherited, a legacy stained with blood, shrouded in secrecy, demanding a ruthlessness that had become as natural to him as breathing. Early on, he learned he couldn’t afford sentimentality, and compassion could be exploited as a vulnerability. His life was a constant negotiation between the man he was forced to be and the flicker of something else, something buried deep beneath layers of ice and steel, and my job, along with my brothers, was to ensure that no harm came to Cesar.
The air in the office crackled with unspoken tension.
The council had convened earlier; their hushed tones carried the weight of ancient grudges and simmering ambitions. I had listened, my expression impassive, absorbing their pronouncements, their veiled threats, their carefully worded directives. They spoke of past wrongs, of debts owed, of enemies who had grown bold in their perceived absence. Each word was a carefully placed stone in the foundation of Cesar’s future, shaping his path, dictating his actions. We all knew Cesar was a pawn in their intricate game of power, but my brother was a pawn with a sharpened blade, capable of carving his own destiny, even if it meant defying the very hands that guided him.
He turned from the window, the vast expanse of the city below a silent witness to his internal turmoil. The Chicago we knew was not the glittering metropolis presented in tourist brochures. It was a city of contrasts, of opulent penthouses and grimy back alleys, of high society galas and clandestine meetings in darkened warehouses. It was a city where fortunes were made and lost in the blink of an eye, where loyalty was a currency and betrayal was a common transaction. My brothers and I carved our empire in this unforgiving landscape, our roots entwined with the very fabric of the city’s underbelly. We operated in the shadows, our influence extending far beyond the visible structures of legitimate business, touching every facet of Chicago’s hidden world.
My upbringing had been a stark education in survival. I remembered fragments of my childhood, flashes of warmth quickly extinguished by the omnipresent shadow of violence. I recalled the hushed arguments, the whispers of danger, and the ever-present tension that permeated the grand, yet suffocating mansion of my former home. My mother, a woman of quiet grace, had been a fragile bloom in a garden of thorns, her spirit eventually broken by the harsh realities of this life. Her death had left an indelible scar on my young soul. Then came my father’s violent end, a brutal severing that had plunged me into a maelstrom of grief, rage, and a chilling sense of abandonment. I had been left with nothing but the weight of expectation, the venom of unfinished business, and a profound distrust of the world.
Cesar recognized my pain, my rage, and he channeled it, fanning the embers of my nascent vengeance. He painted me a picture of our father’s legacy, a tapestry of honor and respect that had been tarnished by those who had dared to challenge the Vitale name. He spoke of a specific name, a name that had been whispered in hushed tones in the aftermath of our parents’death, a name that had become synonymous with betrayal. This name, he insinuated, was intrinsically linked to the tragic events that had defined my youth, a name that demanded retribution. This seed of vengeance, planted in the fertile ground of my grief, had taken root, growing into a formidable force that now guided my every move. I was a man driven by a purpose, a man forged by loss, a man who understood that survival in this world meant leaving no room for weakness, no space for mercy. The Vitale name was my destiny, and the shadows that clung to it were the very essence of my being.
I am Massimo Vitale, and this is my story.
Chapter One
Massimo
I stood before Cesar, a statue carved from the same formidable stone as our father, his gaze unwavering, his expression a carefully constructed mask that betrayed nothing of the storm brewing within. The air in his dimly lit office, thick with the scent of aged leather and the unspoken anxieties of men who had long since traded their souls for power, seemed to press in on him, an invisible cage of expectation.
“Massimo,” my brother began, his face a roadmap of a thousand betrayals and a hundred whispered pacts, his voice a dry rustle of fallen leaves. He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle, to permeate the silence. “Guilio has brought something to my attention. A matter of grave importance. One that requires your... particular skills.”
I inclined my head, a subtle acknowledgment. I knew better than to interrupt. In this world, patience was not merely a virtue; it was a weapon, honed to a razor’s edge. I had learned to listen, to observe, to absorb every nuance, every flicker of emotion in the eyes of those who held power, and those who sought it.
“There is a woman,” he continued, his gaze, sharp and assessing, locking onto mine. “Savannah Scott.”
The name hung in the air, an anomaly in the usual litany of territorial disputes, financial consolidations, and retribution for past offenses. It was a name that held no immediate resonance with the familiar enemies and allies of the Vitale empire. Yet, the gravity with which it was spoken, the deliberate pause, thealmost theatrical emphasis, told me that this was no ordinary assignment. This was a thread woven into the very fabric of our history, a thread I was now being tasked to unravel.
