The Prototype

40. The Real Game Has Begun

MARCELLUS

The Sicilian sun blistered the horizon, its fiery fingers clawing at the sky as if attempting to tear open the heavens themselves. Palermo simmers beneath that unforgiving heat, a city scorched by centuries of blood, war, and power, each layer of history clinging to its very foundation.

The ancient stone buildings stand like silent witnesses, their facades eroded by time, absorbing the sun's relentless intensity. Jagged shadows slicing through the narrow, winding alleys, creating a stark contrast against the sun-soaked stones. Feeling as if the weight of history presses down upon the city, an unshakable reminder that nothing here is innocent—not the streets, not the people, not the very air, which hangs thick and oppressive, as though Palermo's violent past clings to every breath I take.

The heat creeping into every crevice, seeping into the cracks of the earth, the walls, the very souls of those who dare to traverse these streets. It is relentless, like a second skin suffocating the life out of anything too weak to withstand it. And yet, Palermo, with all its ancient grandeur, has seen far too much to be weak. Its veins—the streets—pulsate with life, cars slithering through them like blood, their polished exteriors gleaming under the sun's unforgiving glare. The city moves, but beneath that movement lies the quiet hum of power and violence, a rhythm I have understood all too well.

Feeling the remnants of yesterday clinging to my skin, the sweat from last night's work mingling with the memories of violence that unfolded beneath the cloak of darkness. Lingering like a ghost that refuses to be exorcised, a reminder of what I have done. The blood I have shed, the lives I have snuffed out, all with the same carelessness one might show in flicking a cigarette to the pavement. Rubien and Pier—their names echo briefly in my mind, not with any real significance but as faint reminders of their folly. They are dead now, their bodies sinking into the cold, black depths of the sea, mere fish food, their blood long washed from my hands.

Mentally visualizing the sharks circling their remains, tearing apart what is left of their foolish bodies. Nature, in its cruel beauty, does what it does best—cleaning up the mess. In a way, it is poetic. The world has a way of balancing itself, and I am simply a part of that natural order. Just as the sun rises and sets, as the tides ebb and flow, men like Rubien and Pier are meant to fall, to disappear, to be consumed by the very forces they underestimated. They believed they could rob me, that they could take from me and live to tell the tale. Fools. They were never more than pawns, and like pawns, they have been sacrificed.

My restaurant will continue to thrive, cleansed of the filth they attempted to leave behind. The money will flow again, patrons will dine, and the world will continue to turn—under my control. Because in the end, that's what it always comes back to: control. My empire, my rules. Anyone who forgets that, who dares to challenge it, will end up like Rubien and Pier—nothing more than a memory sinking into oblivion. Everything is back in its place now, exactly as it should be. Order restored. Power reaffirmed.

Yet, there are always the weak, naive ones—the ones who get roped in and twisted. Take Victoria, for instance. She is nothing more than a thread dangling on the edge of a severed rope, a weak link in a chain that I have already tightened. She knows it, too. I don't have to utter a word. Fear has done that work for me. Every time she walks these sun-drenched streets, she carries the shadow of death with her, wondering if today will be the day I decide to pull the final string, to end her pathetic existence with nothing more than a nod.

I could snuff her out with a single command, and it wouldn't mean a damn thing to me. But she is not worth my time—not anymore. I have already made my point, and she knows her place. Fear will keep her in line, and fear, in my world, is as powerful as any weapon. My name alone is enough to control her, to control anyone. That's the thing about power—it isn't about how many bodies you bury or how much blood you spill. It's about the silence, the unspoken understanding that I do not need to lift a finger for someone like Victoria to be as good as dead.