Volume I: The Accursed Contract
Chapter 1 : Don Victor Salvatore
It was a cold winter in Sicily, the kind of cold that infects the soul with a sense of melancholy and emptiness, making the earth drown amidst the sounds of heavy rain.
On the upper floor of "The White Palace," behind heavy curtains and air saturated with the smell of medicine, Victor Salvatore lay on his large bed like a mountain that had half-collapsed while the other half remained standing by will alone—the will of a man who does not break.
The man whose name had echoed across many European and global countries for nearly five decades…
The man named Victor Salvatore!
Don Victor Salvatore was the leader of the largest Mafia in Italy and one of the biggest criminal organizations. His long years of activity in his field made him feel as if he were helpless. He was not like a man who spent his entire life researching martial arts and mastering many of them; he was not even as healthy as a man his age should be now!
The cursed cancer was gnawing at his bones!
He had been feeling changes in his health, and he felt the pains in his stomach becoming stronger and stronger. Painkillers were no longer of any use, but he knew he could only blame himself, for he was the one who ignored his pain, settled for painkillers to reduce the ache, and immersed himself in work until the disease itself invaded him!
But that stopped when he began coughing blood from his mouth, which was the time he learned of his injury and diagnosis, where he found himself in the final stages of the disease, with only a short time left to live!
However, he was not surprised by that. There was a saying among gangsters and mafiosos: "All mobsters die either by a bullet or by burning their stomachs drinking whiskey." It was a natural matter among them, and the truest thing in this field.
Don Victor breathed hoarsely. In this spacious room, if we exclude the sound of the heart rate monitor, the sound of his ragged breathing was what could be heard from under the assisted breathing apparatus.
Yet, despite that, he did not want to leave this old companion; he continued drinking even with the doctor's warnings. He did not care, as these were his final days anyway!
The sound of knocking was heard coming from the room door; it opened slowly, then closed as quietly as it had opened.
A man in his forties entered, wearing a black coat reaching his knees with a formal black suit underneath. He wore a black hat with silver strands of hair hanging from it. His sharp black eyes appeared through the shadow of his hat, and a defined beard with his jawline showed the Italian man in his full prestige. With his height reaching one meter and eighty-five centimeters, he looked as imposing as a black tower unaffected by time.
Victor's gaze focused on this person from the corner of his eyes after verifying that it was 'Paolo Riva,' his right hand and one of the few who succeeded in gaining some of his trust during his long life journey.
Victor gave a tired nod that barely moved his head. His voice, which used to be a powerful roar that deterred anyone, was a mere hoarse whisper that barely pierced the oxygen mask.
"Come closer..."
Paolo took a step forward quietly, then bowed slightly at the bed. His sharp eyes, partially obscured by the shadow of the hat, carried a mixture of harsh loyalty and suppressed pain. He had served this man for nearly thirty years and was now seeing the invincible mountain crumble before him.
Inwardly, he considered Don Victor his true father; even if his real father returned, he would not be equal to the man lying before him!
"Don Victor... how are you?" Paolo asked in a low voice, avoiding the usual lie about "getting better."
"Do not ask questions you know the answer to, my son," Victor sighed with difficulty. "Damn it... even death here is cold and boring. I should not have listened to the doctor and given up Cuban cigars."
Paolo smiled a small smile that did not reach his eyes, trying to hide his sadness from Don Victor and maintaining a composed appearance.
"The rain hasn't stopped since dawn, sir," Paolo said, shifting the conversation slightly.
"Let it rain... perhaps it is washing someone's blood in these vast lands," Victor muttered, stopping briefly to catch his breath. Then he pressed a small button next to the bed. A nurse entered immediately, checked the devices, and adjusted the dose of painkillers.
"Go," the Don signaled her with his trembling hand as soon as the nurse left. He looked at Paolo with a sharp gaze that gathered what remained of his authority.
"Paolo, you know what will happen. It has been arranged, hasn't it?"
"Everything is ready, Don. According to your wish. No one knows about the final will, and the palace and security have been secured. Do not worry, there will be no chaos..." Paolo confirmed, his hand stroking the beard of his jaw, and the eyes of this man—who had not felt sadness for a long time—began to twist in grief. He grabbed his black hat and pulled it down further, trying to hide his eyes.
"Chaos is always coming, Paolo. It is the tax we pay for a life like this. But my family must remain standing. Most importantly... is for the Salvatore family to stay united. My son... Francesco... that irresponsible fool?"
At this moment, a tone of doubt appeared in Victor's voice, a voice that did not befit a Mafia boss. Francesco was his only son, but he never possessed the ferocity or shrewdness that characterized his father. He was still green, and Victor did not want to leave the family's affairs to him, but he had to preserve his lineage, his only trace in this world.
"Do not worry, Don. I will be there to support him and provide advice to him always. He is my brother after all."
Victor closed his eyes for seconds that felt like a century. His heart was beating with an increasing and interrupted rhythm on the flat screen beside him.
"I trust you, Paolo. You were always my second son whom I did not sire," Victor said, trying to reach out his hand to touch Paolo's shoulder. Paolo quickly raised his hand to catch the Don's cold, vein-filled hand. Victor would not have regretted it even if Paolo took over the leadership; it was simply that his son was incompetent and could not protect his position. After all, no one could know the reality of the human soul, and human greed knows no bounds; everything was possible!
"Do you remember, Don Victor? Do you remember... 그 night in Naples... when you found me in the street shivering from the cold," Paolo whispered with rare and strange emotion.
Memories appeared one after another quickly in Victor's mind, from the first time his uncle introduced him to this field and gave him a gun, to the day he killed him. The days of his mad obsession and his research into martial arts and forbidden fighting styles—it was the best period of his life!
Gaining power was the only thing that gave him pleasure and the desire for life, a feeling that also made him—through its loss and his helplessness—desire to continue living.
Perhaps a pathetic death is my punishment for everything I have done!
Hahaha, how funny!
Victor could not respond. The heart rate monitor began to emit a louder beep. He was breathing with greater effort, and his features began to stiffen. His eyes were half-open, looking at an invisible point on the ceiling, but despite that, and within his thoughts, a faint smile was drawn on his wrinkled face!
It was the final moment of a great leader. It was weak and ordinary, and even frightening as well. It carried his obsession that lasted fifty years of struggle and glory. There were no bullets, no fighting, only the sound of an annoying device announcing the gradual cessation of his heart activity.
The beeping turned from an increasing sound to a long, continuous sound... Beeeeep... Beeeeep... Beeeeeeeeeeeeep—"
Paolo looked at the screen, then finally at Don Victor's face. He slowly pulled his hat off his head, his silver hair strands hanging down. He leaned over and kissed Victor's cold forehead and closed his calm eyes that remained looking toward the ceiling until the end.
But his faint smile was still painted on his face. He showed no fear in the face of his death and received it smiling as if he were going to take a nap waiting for a beautiful dream!
Don Victor Salvatore was no longer in this world!
The man who knew he was one of the strongest in the world had finally died!
Paolo Riva, the man whom the passage of time did not break, sat by the bed for a long moment, staring at his former king. Then he stood up, adjusted his black suit, and put on his hat.
He pulled his phone from his pocket. The clock pointed to three in the morning.
"The White Palace speaking," he said in a sharp voice without any trace of sadness, which contradicted his expression and the tears that rolled down his cheek from under the hat. "Don Victor Salvatore... has passed away in his palace. Prepare a funeral befitting his Excellency."
He closed the phone, then looked toward the heavy curtains. The cold winter had just begun in Sicily, announcing a new era in the great history of the Mafia!
End of Chapter