⚠️ Content Warning:
This episode contains explicit references to structural violence, organized crime, family manipulation, and power dynamics involving murder, coercion, and psychological control. Though the narrative is presented through an intimate and literary lens, some passages may be disturbing or sensitive for certain readers. Reader discretion is advised.
Third-person narration
For a brief moment, the threads of fate seem to play in favor of our protagonist. Perhaps it's the calm before the storm. A small breath before a destiny that cannot be escaped. Only time will tell…
The Sicilian sun fell elegantly over the white stone walls of the Rosetti villa. Surrounded by cypress trees tall as sentinels, the property looked more like a temple than a home. Marble columns, silent fountains, and wrought iron balconies spoke of ancient power, of blood that doesn't mix, of pacts that don't break.
Marco stepped out of the car, his face marked by the journey, the stress, and the weight of a promise he couldn't keep. He wore black, as respect dictated, with tense shoulders and a steady gaze. He knew he wasn't arriving as an ally. He was arriving as someone who had failed.
At the entrance, Salvatore—the Consigliere—greeted him with a dry nod. Behind him, two Caporegimes—Luca and Enzo—escorted him down the main hall. No words. Just footsteps. Just glances that said without saying: you're not one of us. Not anymore.
They passed the Soldati—young men in dark suits with trained eyes. Some recognized him. Others simply judged. Marco didn't stop. He knew every second mattered.
The capo's room was at the heart of the villa. High ceilings, heavy curtains, a carved wooden table etched with family symbols. And at the far end, seated like a modern emperor: Vincent Rosetti.
Vincent didn't rise. Didn't offer a greeting. He simply looked at him with eyes that were no longer those of a friend.
"Marco," he said, voice low. "I thought you'd never set foot on this land again."
"Vincent… I came as a friend. As a brother. Not as an enemy."
Vincent leaned forward, fingers interlaced with a calm that wasn't calm.
"Friendship is proven through actions, not words. And you, Marco, failed in the most sacred act: protecting a promise."
Marco stood firm.
"Vanessa didn't run out of hatred. She ran out of fear. For freedom. She's a child, Vincent. Not a traitor."
"No!" Vincent interrupted, slamming the table with restrained fury. "She is my son's betrothed! Since the day she was born! You gave me your word! And now you speak to me of freedom?"
The silence grew heavy.
"Family is everything, Marco. It's the foundation. The shield. The knife. If you can't control your blood, how do you expect me to trust your men?"
Marco stepped forward, unshaken.
"I didn't come to justify myself. I came to ask for time. To seek solutions. To remind you that before we were capos, we were friends. Your sister was Vanessa's mother. That must count for something."
Vincent stood. Tall. Imposing. With the shadow of centuries behind his back.
"And brothers don't break pacts. I don't care about your pain. I don't care about your search. I care that my son was humiliated. That my family was exposed. That you, Marco, failed me."
Marco lowered his gaze for a moment. Then lifted it with dignity.
"If you want to punish me, do it. But don't destroy everything over a decision that wasn't mine."
Vincent pulled a pistol from his jacket. Silver. Silent. Clean.
"I'm not destroying. I'm cleaning."
He fired.
The sound was dry. Precise. Marco collapsed to the floor. Not dead. But wounded. Gravely.
The Soldati entered. Salvatore gave the order. No one cried. No one screamed.
Vincent sat again. He looked at the blood on the marble like one might observe a signature.
"Let this remind everyone: family is not betrayed. And promises… are kept."
And as the blood spread beneath his body, Marco thought of the day it all began.
More than twenty years ago, in that same villa.
The night Vanessa was born smelled of aged wine and gunpowder. Vincent Rosetti was celebrating his son Mateo's third birthday, surrounded by loyal men and silent women. Marco approached with a glass in hand and an idea in his head.
"Your son needs a promise," he said bluntly. "A secured future. A lineage that doesn't mix. That strengthens."
Vincent looked at him with curiosity.
"And what do you propose?"
"My niece. Vanessa. She was born today. She's your blood. Your younger sister brought her into the world. And my brother… well, you know what he is. A capo in Colombia. But unstable. Ambitious. Dangerous."
Vincent frowned.
"Promise a newborn?"
"It's what families do when they want to last. When they want power. When they want control."
Vincent stayed silent. Then nodded.
"Done. Let it be her. Even if they're cousins. Let them marry when Mateo is old enough to take my place."
Marco smiled. But he knew promises weren't enough. They had to be secured.
Two years later, the accident was clean. Precise. A car with no brakes on a sharp curve. No one suspected. No one investigated. No one survived. His brother—the capo—and Vincent's younger sister—Vanessa's mother—died together. Mourning was brief. The news, manipulated. "Settling scores," they said. "Road mistakes," they lied.
Marco sent for Vanessa's maternal grandmother from Italy. Gave her clear instructions: raise her carefully, but guide her. Don't let her dream. Don't let her study more than necessary. Don't let her fly.
The grandmother suspected. Always. But never said a word. She spoke to Vanessa of invisible enemies, of dangers lurking, of a destiny she had to accept.
Years later, Marco watched her grow like one sharpens a blade. He taught her to drive at thirteen—not for freedom, but for escape, for strategy. He gave her a camera—not for art, but for surveillance. He forbade talk of universities, careers, dreams. He taught her to read gestures, to silence emotions, to obey without understanding.
He never told her the truth. Never asked for forgiveness. Because he felt no guilt. Only thirst for power.
Vanessa was his promise. His currency. His legacy.
And now, as his body faded on Sicilian marble, Marco thought of her. Not with love. With calculation.
If he survived, he'd have to find her.
If he died, someone else would.
Because promises… are kept.
Mateo Rosetti
The first time I saw her, she was nine. I was twelve. She arrived with her grandmother, dressed as if the world were a safe place. It wasn't. Not for her. Not for me.
Vincent pointed her out from the balcony.
"Your betrothed," he said.
I didn't understand. Thought it was a joke. But no. At nine, she already had a destiny. And I, at twelve, already had a burden.
I like women. But not the way it's expected here. Not as trophies. Not as property. I like them for what they don't say. For what they endure. For what they dream. And Vanessa… Vanessa is all of that. And more.
I've loved her in silence. Not out of obligation. Out of time. Out of knowing her without her knowing me. Out of watching her grow behind invisible bars. Out of understanding her gestures, her fears, her internal escapes.
But here, you don't love. You obey. You take what's assigned. You protect what's ordered. And you don't ask.
Vanessa grew up under surveillance. I know because I was part of it. I received reports. Photos. Routines. What she ate. What she read. What she dreamed. Though that last part was irrelevant. No one cares about dreams in this family.
I know her without ever touching her. I know how she moves when she lies. I know what music calms her. I know she prefers silence over parties. And I feel sorry for her. Not for who she is. For who they didn't let her become.
One night, years ago, I heard Marco talking to a woman in the villa. He was drunk. Rare for him. He said things that didn't add up.
"I had to do it," he murmured. "I wasn't going to let that idiot ruin the pact."
The woman laughed nervously. He continued:
"My brother was weak. And his wife… a Rosetti, yes, but naïve. They don't understand power. What it costs to keep it."
They didn't say names. But I knew them. Years later, I confirmed it. That brother was Vanessa's father. And the woman, her mother. My aunt.
He killed them.
Made it look like an accident.
And no one questioned it.
Sometimes I think Vanessa is the only innocent one in this game.
But that doesn't save her.
Innocence here is just another weakness to be punished.
I love her.
I desire her.
And I understand her.
And that, in this family… is dangerous.