Chapter 4 - The Shadow of Milan
The name Matteo Corvis was one that carried weight across the entire northern territory of Italy.
Where Marco Salerno ruled the south with a fierce, traditional sense of territory and loyalty, Don Matteo was a modern, ruthless industrialist—a man who controlled pharmaceutical lines, private security firms, and politicians across three European capitals. He was older, colder, and possessed resources that far outweighed a regional family.
Inside the command vehicle parked two blocks away from the 5th Street warehouse, Marco sat in the passenger seat, staring at the digital tactical display showing his men's positions around the perimeter.
Outside, the rain had turned into a thick, low-lying fog that obscured the streetlights.
"Corvis has thirty men surrounding the block," Salvatore reported from the backseat, racking the bolt of his assault rifle. "They brought armored sedans. They aren't trying to hide, Don Marco. They want us to know they're here."
"Corvis doesn't care about Vincent Rossi," Marco said quietly, gazing out the rain-slicked windshield. "Vincent was just his wedge. Corvis has been looking for a reason to expand his narcotics distribution into our ports for five years. He used Vincent to try to steal the Marchetti routes from the inside."
"So what do we do?" Salvatore asked. "If we execute Vincent now, Corvis uses it as a declaration of war. The entire northern syndicate will mobilize."
Marco pulled his satellite phone from his pocket and dialed a secure, unlisted twenty-digit number.
The line rang three times before a deep, gravelly voice answered with cold indifference.
"Marco," Don Matteo Corvis greeted him over the speaker. "I was wondering when you would call."
"You're in my city, Matteo," Marco said, his tone icy and smooth. "Your men are sitting outside my property like wild dogs. That is a dangerous mistake."
A low, dry laugh echoed through the speaker. "A mistake? No, Marco. A correction. Vincent Rossi was working a joint venture under my authority. You took him from his office, you killed his men, and you held him in an illegal facility. You are disrupting international commerce over a personal grievance."
"He put his hands on a woman under my protection," Marco said, his voice dropping into a deadly register. "He terrified her child. In my territory, that isn't commerce, Matteo. That is a death warrant."
"You always were too sentimental, Marco," Matteo replied, his tone turning sharp and arrogant. "Just like your father. You let emotions govern your balance sheets. Listen to me very carefully: Hand Vincent over to my men outside the warehouse. Let my lawyers handle the Marchetti shipping transfer. Do this, and we remain partners in the southern trade routes."
"And if I refuse?" Marco asked softly.
"If you refuse," Matteo said, "I will burn every asset you own. I will start with your shipping docks, I will move to your estate, and I will find that pretty little widow and her daughter wherever you try to hide them. You cannot protect them from me, Marco. You don't have the numbers."
The line went dead with a harsh click.
Inside the command vehicle, the silence was suffocating. Salvatore looked at Marco, waiting for the order to retreat or advance.
Marco slowly lowered the phone. A faint, terrible smile spread across his face—a smile devoid of all joy, filled only with a dark, apocalyptic resolve.
"He threatened the child," Marco whispered to himself.
"Boss?" Salvatore asked nervously.
Marco turned his head slowly toward his lieutenant. "Call the secondary perimeter units. Tell them to unleash the heavy ordnance. We aren't negotiating with Matteo Corvis."
"Don Marco... that means war with Milan," Salvatore said, his eyes wide.
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"No, Salvatore," Marco said, clicking his seatbelt open and reaching for his heavy automatic shotgun from the rack beside his seat. "War implies two sides have a chance of winning. Tonight, we show Milan why the south belongs to the Salerno family."
The side door of the command van slid open, and Marco stepped out into the fog, his long coat whipping around his boots as the first mortar flares erupted into the night sky over the 5th Street warehouse.
