Chapter 1 : Don Victor Salvatore
It was a cold winter in Sicily, the kind of cold that grips the soul with a sense of emptiness and melancholy, making the ground seem to sink under the weight of the relentless rain.
On the upper floor of the "White Castle" mansion, behind heavy curtains and the air thick with the scent of medications, victor Salvatore lay on his grand bed like a mountain that had collapsed halfway, the remaining half standing only through sheer will—the will of a man who does not break.
The man whose name had echoed through European ports for five decades…
The man named Victor Salvatore!
Don Victor Salvatore was the head of Italy's largest mafia and one of the biggest criminal organizations in the world. Yet, after decades in his field, he felt helpless—not like a man who had spent his life mastering combat arts and perfecting countless skills. Now, he was not even in the health of a man his age.
The cursed cancer was eating away at his bones.
He had been feeling changes in his health, his stomach pains growing stronger and stronger. Painkillers no longer worked, but he knew he could only blame himself, for he had ignored the warning signs, relying on medication to dull the pain while immersing himself in work—until the disease had conquered him.
It all changed when he began coughing up blood, a moment that revealed the full extent of his illness: he was in the final stages, with only a short time left to live.
Yet, he was not surprised. There was a saying among gangsters and mafia men: every gangster dies either by a bullet or by burning his stomach with whiskey. It was natural among them, and the most truthful thing in their world.
Don Victor breathed roughly in the spacious room. Apart from the soft beeping of the heart monitor, his harsh breathing was the only sound beneath the respirator.
Still, he refused to part from his old companion. He kept drinking despite the doctor's warnings. He didn't care—these were his final days, after all!
A knock came at the door. He opened it slowly, then closed it quietly after the visitor entered.
A man in his forties stepped in, wearing a black coat that reached his knees over a formal black suit. A black hat sat atop his head, silver strands of hair falling from beneath it. His sharp black eyes peeked from the shadow of the hat, his defined beard and jawline giving him the full stature of an Italian man. At 1.85 meters tall, he looked majestic, like a black tower unaffected by time.
Victor's gaze, from the corner of his eye, fixed on the man. Confirming it was Paolo Riva, his right-hand man and one of the few who had earned some of his trust over a long lifetime.
Victor nodded weakly, barely moving his head. His voice, once a powerful roar that commanded respect, was now a rough whisper that barely pierced the oxygen mask.
"Come closer…"
Paolo stepped forward calmly, then leaned slightly over the bed. His sharp eyes, partially shaded by the hat, held a mixture of harsh loyalty and suppressed grief. He had served this man for nearly thirty years and now watched the unconquerable mountain crumble before him.
Victor considered him his true son in his heart, even if his real son could never match the man lying before him.
"Don Victor… how are you?" Paolo asked softly, avoiding the usual lie of "feeling better."
"Don't ask questions you already know the answers to, my boy," Victor sighed with difficulty. "Damn… even death here is cold and boring. I shouldn't have listened to the doctor and given up my Cuban cigars."
Paolo gave a small smile that didn't reach his eyes, trying to hide his sorrow and appear composed in front of Don Victor.
"The rain hasn't stopped since dawn, sir," Paolo said, subtly shifting the conversation.
"Let it rain… perhaps it's washing someone's blood from this vast land," Victor murmured, pausing to catch his breath. He then pressed a small button next to the bed. A nurse immediately entered, checked the machines, and adjusted his pain medication.
"Go," Don Victor motioned with his trembling hand. As soon as she left, he looked at Paolo with a sharp gaze, containing what little authority remained.
"Paolo, you know what must happen. Everything is arranged, isn't it?"
"Everything is ready, Don, as you wished. No one knows about the last will. The mansion and security are secured. Don't worry, there will be no chaos…" Paolo replied, stroking his jawline. His eyes, long unused to sorrow, twisted with grief. He lowered his black hat, hiding his gaze.
"Chaos always comes, Paolo. It's the price we pay for a life like this. But my family must remain strong. Most importantly… the Salvatore family must stay united. My son… Francesco… that reckless fool?"
A note of doubt crept into Victor's voice—a tone unbefitting a mafia boss. Francesco was his only son, but he had never possessed the ferocity or cunning of his father. He was still naive. Victor didn't want to leave the family's fate in his hands, yet the bloodline had to endure, his only legacy in this world.
"Don't worry, sir. I'll be there to guide him, advise him always. He is my brother, after all."
Victor closed his eyes for what seemed like an eternity. His heart beat unevenly on the flat monitor beside him.
"I trust you, Paolo. You've always been the son I never had," Victor said, reaching out to touch Paolo's shoulder. Paolo swiftly raised his hand to grasp the Don's cold, veined fingers. He would not regret it if Paolo took the leadership—his own son was incapable of protecting his position. After all, no one could ever understand the human soul fully, nor the boundlessness of greed. Everything was possible.
"Do you remember, Don Victor… do you remember that night in Naples… when you found me shivering in the street?" Paolo whispered, a rare and strange emotion in his voice.
Memories flashed rapidly in Victor's mind—from the first time his uncle introduced him to this world and handed him a gun, to the day he killed him, through his days of madness, obsession with combat arts, and forbidden fighting techniques. Those had been the best days of his life.
Acquiring power was the only thing that gave him pleasure and desire to live—a feeling that also made its absence unbearable.
Perhaps a pitiful death was the punishment for everything he had done.
Hahaha, how ironic!
Victor could not respond. The heart monitor's beeping rose sharply. He struggled to breathe, his features stiffening. His eyes, half-open, stared at an invisible point on the ceiling. Yet, in his thoughts, he managed a faint smile that spread across his wrinkled face.
This was the final moment of a great leader. Weak, ordinary, even frightening. It carried fifty years of obsession, struggle, and glory. No bullets, no fights—just the annoying sound of a machine marking the gradual halt of his heart.
The beeping shifted from rising tones to a long, continuous sound… Tiiiiit… Tiiiiiit… Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit…
Paolo looked at the screen, then finally at Don Victor's face. He slowly removed his hat, letting the silver strands fall. He bent down, kissed Victor's cold forehead, and closed his serene eyes, still fixed on the ceiling until the very end.
Yet his faint smile remained. There was no fear in the face of death—he welcomed it as if taking a nap, awaiting a beautiful dream.
Don Victor Salvatore no longer existed in this world.
The man who knew himself as one of the strongest in the world had finally died.
Paolo Riva, the man unbroken by time, sat beside the bed for a long moment, staring at his former master. Then he rose, adjusted his black suit, and put on his hat.
He pulled his phone from his pocket. The time was three in the morning.
"The White Castle speaking," he said sharply, without a trace of sorrow, though tears had slid down his cheek beneath the hat. "Don Victor Salvatore… has passed away in his mansion. Prepare a funeral worthy of his grandeur."
He hung up and looked toward the heavy curtains. The cold winter had just begun in Sicily, heralding a new era in the illustrious history of the mafia.