There are places in this city I refuse to walk through during the day.
Not because I'm afraid.
Fear and I parted ways years ago.
But because in daylight, you can see the ghosts.
I see them in puddles. In reflections. In the way a child flinches when someone raises their voice. I see the dead in every face that looks too long at mine. And worse, I see the ones I didn't kill, those I spared and shouldn't have.
That morning, I stood in front of the mirror with a razor in my hand and a face I barely recognized. My reflection looked like my father, same hard jaw, same tired eyes, same anger that never settled.
I hated him.
He'd sold out our bloodline to a rival famiglia before I could even walk.
He was the reason my mother ended up alone.
He was the reason I had to earn respect with bullets instead of birthright.
"Boss?"
Marco's voice came through the door, breaking the spiral.
"Enter."
He stepped in with military stiffness, eyes averted as always. Loyal. Quiet. Deadly. I appreciated that in a man.
"We got movement near Via San Luca. Giulio's cousin, Alessio, was spotted with two Russians. You want eyes?"
"Already have them," I muttered, wiping the blade clean. "Giulio may be dead, but his ghost hasn't gotten the message."
I slipped on my shirt, crisp black cotton over skin marked with old wounds. One bullet scar on the left shoulder. Knife across the ribs. Burn on the wrist from an iron in Palermo,
lesson in silence.
Marco watched me silently. He didn't ask questions.
That was why he was still alive.
By noon, I was at Villa Orsini, my estate on the hill overlooking the bay. From here, you could almost pretend Naples was clean. That the sea breeze wasn't full of lies and ash.
In the garden, Enzo waited with Sandro and Matteo, the two names left on my list of suspects. Rocco had died last night. Car bomb. I hadn't ordered it.
Which meant someone else was cleaning up faster than I liked.
"Talk," I said simply, stepping into the sun.
Sandro didn't hesitate. "We followed Alessio to the port. He's meeting with Mikhail Orlov."
Orlov. Russian Bratva. Not just muscle, importer. Weapons. Women. Chemicals.
"He's trying to buy his way in," Matteo added. "Now that Giulio's out of the picture, Alessio's playing middleman."
"And who let Orlov into my city without my consent?"
Silence.
"Thought so."
I turned away from them, eyes narrowing on the distant shape of a container ship sliding toward the docks. Inside, there could be anything. Or anyone. Drugs. Guns. Corpses. Secrets.
Naples was a city that traded in all four.
I lit a cigarette. This time, I didn't stop myself.
Later, in the privacy of my study, I dialed the only number I shouldn't.
"Thought you forgot me," said a deep voice on the other end. Russian accent, soft like poison in honey.
"Elena," I said.
She laughed. "Don't call me that. I'm not your sister."
"No, you're worse."
She was my contact in Moscow. Former intelligence. Now freelance. Always three steps ahead of the Bratva and five ahead of the police.
"Orlov," I said, "is moving through my streets. Tell me why."
A pause. I could almost hear her smile.
"Because Naples is bleeding. And rats smell blood. Orlov's not the first. He won't be the last."
"I don't need philosophy. I need facts."
"He's meeting someone. Someone not Russian. You'll want to see this one in person."
"You have a name?"
"No. But he's not like the others. Young. Silent. Dangerous. Orlov respects him."
My pulse slowed.
"Where?"
"Port of Napoli. Two nights from now. You'll know him when you see him."
She hung up.
The idea that someone could move in my city without my permission already burned. But the thought that Orlov respected him,this unnamed shadow, that gnawed at something deeper.
Respect in this world wasn't given.
It was taken.
Earned through brutality. Through sacrifice. Through blood.
So who was this ghost crossing into my world?
That night, I stood on the rooftop of La Traviata again, the city glittering below like a bed of knives. Enzo had found the rest of Giulio's financials. It was worse than expected.
Money laundering. Offshore transfers. Silent partners with names I didn't recognize. One of them had a French passport and diplomatic immunity. Another was linked to a London fund that had recently acquired stakes in three of my clubs without my knowledge.
Giulio hadn't just betrayed me.
He had been building a network under my nose.
I should've noticed. That I didn't meant I was slipping.
"You look tired," came a voice behind me.
I didn't flinch. I never do.
Marco stepped forward, holding a file. "Intercepted communication. Russian. Coded. Took Enzo all night."
He handed it over.
Inside was a photograph.
Grainy. Taken from a distance. The figure was cloaked in black, head turned slightly. No visible face. But something about the posture, still, straight, sharp, it stirred something in my gut.
Underneath, a date and time.
Two nights from now.
Just like Elena said.
"He's arriving," Marco said simply. "And he's not coming alone."