“Savannah Scott,” my brother Guilio, the second oldest of seven and a man known for his ruthlessness in financial dealings, his eyes like chips of obsidian, echoed, his voice a low growl. “She is... a complication.”
My jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Complication?” I finally asked, my voice a low baritone, devoid of inflection. “In what capacity?”
Cesar leaned forward, his hands clasped on the polished surface of the heavy oak table. The faint glow of the single lamp cast long, dancing shadows, distorting the lines of his aged face, making him appear both ancient and predatory. “Her existence, Massimo, poses a... potential threat. Not to our current operations, per se, but to... something far more significant. To our legacy.”
Legacy.
The word resonated with a familiar, heavy clang in my mind. It was the word that defined my existence, that had ensnared me since birth. The Vitale Legacy. A legacy built on blood, power, and an intricate web of secrets that bound us all, inextricably, to the city’s underbelly.
“You are to watch her,” Cesar decreed, his voice leaving no room for debate. “Observe her movements, her associates, her intentions. Report all findings directly to me. This is not a matter to be taken lightly, Massimo. The stakes are higher than you can imagine.”
My eyes, the color of a winter storm, scanned the faces of my brothers before me. There were seven of us in total. From Cesar to the youngest Tomasso, who was absent for this meeting. I saw the veiled ambition in some, the ingrained loyalty in others, but most importantly, I saw a shared history, a shared secret, thatbound us all to this woman, Savannah Scott, in a way that was not yet apparent to me.
“What is her connection to us?” I pressed, my voice hardening. The mystery was a prickle of unease beneath my skin, a sensation I loathed. I dealt in facts, in tangible threats, not in the nebulous whispers of unseen dangers.
A slow, almost imperceptible smile touched the lips of Guilio. It was a chilling sight, a flash of predatory satisfaction that did little to assuage my growing disquiet. “Her connection, brother, is precisely what you are to uncover. She is a ghost from the past. A past that certain individuals have sought to bury. But ghosts, as you well know, have a way of resurfacing.”
The implication was clear.
Savannah Scott was more than just a target; she was a key, a puzzle piece that held the answer to something my brothers refused to articulate, something that had festered in the dark corners of Vitale history. And they tasked me with being the one to pry it loose.
“There is also a matter of... retribution,” Cesar interjected, his voice laced with a venom that I recognized instantly. It was the same venom that had fueled my grief and rage after our father’s death. “For past transgressions. For the pain inflicted upon our family.”
My gaze sharpened. I knew that pain. I lived with it, breathed it, every single day. The memory of our father’s violent end was a phantom limb, an ache that would never truly subside. If this woman, Savannah Scott, was somehow connected to that ultimate betrayal, then the mission took on a new dimension. It was no longer just about surveillance; it was about vengeance.
“Who was wronged?” I asked, my question a low rumble in my chest, tinged with a dangerous edge. I needed to know. I needed to understand the depth of this perceived betrayal, to quantify the debt that needed to be repaid.
My brothers exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. They were a tightly knit unit, bound by years of shared secrets and a collective understanding of the unspoken rules that governed our world. “The scars run deep, Massimo,” Guilio finally said, his voice softer now, almost mournful. “Deeper than you know. Our father... he carried a burden. One that ultimately led to his demise. And this woman, Savannah Scott, is intrinsically linked to that burden.”
Guilio’s words struck me like a physical blow. Our father. The mention of our father, coupled with the enigmatic presence of this woman, ignited a dormant thirst within me, a primal urge for retribution that had been simmering beneath the surface of my carefully controlled demeanor. I had always understood that our family was stained with the blood of past conflicts, but this... this was personal. This was about settling a score that had haunted our family, and me, for years.
“Your directive is clear,” Cesar stated, his gaze once again sharp and demanding. “You are to integrate yourself into her world. Become a shadow she cannot shake. Discover her secrets, her allegiances, and if she represents the threat we suspect, then... you will know what must be done.”
He did not need to elaborate.
The unspoken understanding hung heavy in the air. In the Vitale world, threats were not merely neutralized; they were eradicated. And if Savannah Scott was a threat, she would cease to exist. The thought sent a tremor of anticipation through me, a dark excitement that was both familiar and disquieting. This was the nature of my world, the brutal reality of my birthright.
“Her location?” I asked, my voice a low growl, already envisioning the steps I would take, the intricate dance of deception and surveillance I would orchestrate.
“She lives in the city,” Guilio replied, a map unfurling in my mind, a mental blueprint of Savannah Scott’s life. “Anunassuming life. A façade. You will find her. And when you do, remember the Vitale name. Remember what it demands.”
I nodded, the weight of the assignment settling upon me, heavier than ever before. I was the instrument of Cesar’s will, a pawn in an intricate game of power and retribution. But I was also a Vitale, a man shaped by loss and driven by a burning need for justice, or perhaps, for vengeance. The directive was issued, setting the wheels of fate in motion. I was bound to Savannah Scott, an unsuspecting target, and a dormant thirst for retribution had just been stoked into a raging inferno. I would watch her. I would learn her secrets. And I would ensure that the Vitale name, and the legacy it represented, remained untarnished, no matter what the cost. The city outside, a glittering expanse of promises and perils, awaited my move. And Savannah Scott, a name that had just become the focal point of my existence, was about to enter the Vitale web, unaware of the darkness that was about to descend. The Vitale directive had been issued, and I was its executioner.
The chill in the air was constant, a familiar companion to the hushed pronouncements of power. I stood before them—the stoic brother, the dutiful son—but within me, a tempest brewed, a storm long held captive, now threatening to break free.
Guilio’s words,“She is a ghost from the past,”had resonated with a chilling accuracy.
Ghosts. I knew ghosts intimately. They haunted the dark halls of my mind, whispers echoing in the opulent emptiness where laughter should have been. I remembered the scent ofmy mother’s perfume, a delicate floral note that always seemed to linger, a phantom embrace in the suffocating silence after. I remembered the rumble of my father’s voice, a steady bass that promised protection, a warmth that had been extinguished far too soon. These were not just memories; they were spectral companions, the indelible imprints of a life violently ripped apart.
My childhood, born of privilege, had shattered one unforgiving night. The memory—sharp and brutal—replayed with relentless clarity. The blare of gunfire, the frantic shouts, the sickening thud of a door being kicked in, followed by a silence so profound, so absolute, it had swallowed the world whole. Accustomed to the predictable rhythm of my parents’ love, the secure fortress they had built around us crumbled that night, leaving me and my brothers exposed to a darkness I still refused to comprehend, a darkness that would forever define me.
Cesar and Guilio found me huddled in the shadows of our former playroom, holding the youngest of us, Tomasso, silently crying as my little brother clung to life. The once vibrant colors of the toys muted by the stark reality of what I had done.
Gone was the cheerful boy I once was, replaced by something dark and hollow. Blood stained my hands, a constant reminder of those I gladly killed that night. The Vitale name, once a symbol of my father’s strength and protection, now felt like a shroud, a heavy burden that marked me and my brothers as survivors, a testament to a tragedy that had orphaned seven brothers in the most brutal sense.
Before that night, my father ensured our upbringing was... comprehensive. I was educated, trained, molded, and proud of the Vitale name. But no amount of tutelage could erase the primal fear, the gnawing emptiness that had taken root in my soul. I learned to build walls, to harden my heart, to channel mygrief into a formidable control. My father, a man of immense presence and unwavering resolve, had been my guiding star. I had absorbed my father’s lessons, his philosophies, his unyielding belief in the Vitale code. I had believed, with the fierce conviction of a child, that my father was invincible, that my family was a shield against all harm.
The shattering of that illusion had been a wound that had never truly healed.
