Chapter 3 - The Grieving Widow
The Santa Maria del Carmine was draped in black velvet. Hundreds of high-ranking mafiosi, politicians, and corrupt judges filled the pews, their faces masked in solemnity, though the air was thick with the scent of opportunism. At the altar stood a mahogany casket, heavily weighted to simulate the presence of a body.
Isabella sat in the front row, wrapped in a pristine black lace veil. Her tears, captured by the flashes of paparazzi outside, were a masterclass in theatrical sorrow. Beside her sat Matteo Rossi, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, playing the role of the supportive family friend, though his hand occasionally brushed against Isabella's thigh beneath the fabric of her veil.
"You've handled this beautifully, my love," Matteo whispered as the priest began the Latin requiem. "The Morelli caporegimes have already signed over the port logistics to my family. By tonight, the empire is legally ours."
"Don't be careless, Matteo," Isabella whispered back, her voice devoid of the grief she displayed outwardly. "We still need to clear out the villa. Vittorio kept a physical ledger of his black-market contacts in a hidden safe. We need that book before the finance ministry freezes his personal assets."
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors at the back of the cathedral groaned open. A cold wind swept down the center aisle, fluttering the altar candles. The priest stopped chanting. A silence so profound it was suffocating descended upon the congregation.
Footsteps echoed against the marble floor. Slow. Measured. Explicitly familiar.
May you like
Isabella turned around, her breath catching in her throat. The color drained from her face, leaving her a ghostly pale beneath her veil.
Walking down the aisle, dressed in a flawless midnight-blue suit, his Patek Philippe gleaming under the cathedral lights, was Vittorio Morelli. He was alive, unblemished, and smiling.
