Chapter Text
Who wants peace prepares for war
Santino and The Camorra pulled the bounty back, but it didn’t change anything: The High Table wanted John Wick’s head. He was too dangerous in their eyes, threatened the order too much and Santino was in no position to help him. The best he could do was to put more names on his list. It was getting long, most of the High Table was on it.
On top, was his father’s name, crossed. Cancer took care of that one. Anticlimactic really, but Santino was also a pragmatic man: it was one less name he had to take care of.
Underneath, also crossed, was his sister's name. Beloved Gianna.
Now that the mad chase around the globe was done and his rage soothed, he had space for thoughts, for a reflection of the soul like his museum exhibition suggested.
He’d told John the truth: he really still loved her, his sister. She’d been his first ally, the only one during all those years he spent alone under his father's iron fists. Her betrayal had been even more inacceptable because of that. He had to be ruthless, at least as much as he was reckless.
Then came the High Table’s names, some of them crossed — their line of business was a dangerous one — some untouched, waiting for their time. All the people he held partly responsible for his pain. The whole system had to fall, but for that, he needed time, ressources, and a seat at the table.
He had the seat now, for which he’d paid a steep price. Some would argue he had the ressources, but that remained to be seen. He wasn’t sure about time: it all depended on if John survived his mad dash across the city, across the ocean and across the desert for it seemed to be his destination. Santino guessed who he was looking for in the middle of nowhere: The Elder. Santino estimated the move was bold enough to work, but the price their imperator would demand might be too high for John.
In the meantime, Santino had to focus on ressources. He had the Camorra behind him, but the problem with that particular italian mafia was it worked as a patchwork of independent families. The D’Antonio clan was the most powerful and successful, thus the most respected. That didn’t mean other families wouldn’t try to make a bid for power if Santino showed even a hint of weakness. Running to hide in The Continental had been one. John’s fault, really. The man made him lose all sense of reason.
Nothing new here.
Santino closed the file and went to the next one. Small blessings: Gianna was busy before her death and as such, their affairs were in good shape, though Santino found her too prudent. But there was nothing new there either.
“Cassian has been cleared from the hospital,” Leonora announced. Santino looked up in surprise, he hadn’t heard her coming even with her high heels on the creaking parquet slats. The house in Praiano was old, with large rooms, high ceilings and great windows overlooking the sea. It had all the comfort one could ever imagine, and represented the highest Neapolitan taste when it came to interior design thirty years ago. Santino hated it, but his reasons had nothing to do with style.
Without a word, Santino pulled an embossed paper. On top was the sigil of their families, and underneath, smaller but no less important was the seal of the High Table. It was signed from his father’s hand: a contract of protection that named Gianna D’Antonio as the ward of one Cassian Adrianko.
Written in small lines at the bottom of the contract, one addendum in particular interested Santino. It said that in the case of Gianna’s death, the contract would fall back to the D’Antonio family, to be used as seen fit.
Santino was in need of a new bodyguard, courtesy of John. He’d lost a sister and a friend in his bold operation to seize the family seat. He regretted the latter more than the former. Bodyguards and assassins were two sides of the same coin: they received the same training but for a few key points, and the same loyalty to their employer was expected of them as long as the contract ran. Cassian’s contract was for life, just like Ares’ had been.
“Remind him of this,” Santino said, handing Leonora the paper. The woman was without age, between forty and sixty for sure, trying to be more precise was a fruitless endeavor. She’d been working for the family since Santino’s grandfather had taken the seat, granted she’d been very young at that time. Giacomo D’Antonio, Santino’s father, hadn’t liked her, so he’d pushed her to a corner, overseeing small local operations far beneath her skills. It was the fact his father hadn’t liked her that made Santino trust her as his right hand when it came to daily management of their operations. He’d made her his consigliere on the way back to Naples.
Her bright blue eyes took the paper’s contents in a glance. She nodded tersely.
“After that, bring him here. He’ll have questions, I imagine.”
Santino watched her go before reclining in his seat. He winced, touched his chest gingerly. His old scar pulled at him, a sure sign he was more tired than he thought. He couldn’t rest yet, not until he’d secured his place at the head of the Camorra, not while the sharks were still swimming so close, hungry for blood.
With a grunt, he closed his eyes and stroked the scar over his shirt. In a flash, he remembered John kissing it, from his hip to his sternum and gritted his teeth against an involuntary shiver. He couldn’t think about that, just like he couldn’t think about the bounty on John’s head.
He had to trust John’s sheer determination would be enough for him to make it out alive. Santino rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed coffee, real, strong Italian coffee.
With a tired sigh, he glanced down at the file in front of him. In the low light of the desk lamp, the lettering seemed to come alive like the ledger was possessed. The De Gramont - D’Antonio business partnership was a relatively small contract: it mostly depicted how they split the profit made by The French Connection — the heroin shipment route that started in Naples and ended in New York via Marseilles, and the terms of use. On the other side of this contract was another High Table seat.
Marquis Vincent Bisset De Gramont was occupying that seat. He was on Santino’s list.
Cassian was pissed. Santino could understand, he knew he and his sister had been close .
“I think we should have a talk, you and I,” Santino said, seated at his father’s desk. He still thought it as his father’s. Santino was seriously considering launching a few rockets at the house and rebuilding from scratch. Unfortunately, he had more pressing matters.
Cassian didn’t respond, he sat ramrod straight on the opposite chair, with hatred burning in his eyes. Santino chuckled and pulled a smoke out from his pack. He’d quit seven years ago, but recent events had him starting again.
“Fine, I’ll do the talking,” he said, offering Cassian an insincere smile. “I feel like I owe you an explanation.”
Cassian’s jaw twitched, indicating he doubted whatever Santino could say would be enough.
“Did you love her, my sister? You two ever fucked?” The leader of the Camorra asked, tongue curling over the crude words as the smoke pillowed out.
Cassian didn’t react, adopting a blank face that betrayed much more than he thought. Santino went on, unbothered by the other man’s silence.
“Seven years ago, my father took something from me. It was the most important thing I ever had. To this day, I’m still not complete without it,” he explained between two drags of tobacco. “He tasked Gianna with making sure I gave it up. She betrayed me that day.”
“She loved you!” Cassian blurted, jumping to the edge of his seat.
“And I loved her. But I loved him more. I loved myself when I was with him more,” Santino shot back, eyes glinting hard and cold like gemstones.
Cassian blinked, frowned. He had to remember it, he was behind the door that day when Giacomo D’Antonio beat his son for being a “faggot and sleeping with a dog”. The bodyguard leaned back a fraction in a silent apology, body still thrumming with tension.
“John Wick.”
“Hmhm, John Wick,” Santino acknowledged.
“You put a bounty on his head not a week ago.”
“I was angry.”
Cassian snorted.
“You’re crazy.”
Santino made a show of opening his arms wide with a little bow before flicking his cigarette over the ashtray.
“I want you to understand that it broke my heart to have her killed, but I made a vow that day, and I’m a man of my words.”
“You’re a cold bitch, Santino.”
“Thank you,” the Camorra leader replied with malicious joy. “Now let's talk about your contract.”
“I’m not working for you.”
“Wasn’t Leonora clear enough? Didn’t you read the contract to the end? You belong to the D’Antonio family, and I am the D’Antonio family.”
Complex emotions crossed over Cassian’s features until it reached defeat. Loyalty was a bodyguard’s worst enemy.
“You had John Wick kill her, Santino. I can never forgive you. I… Gianna was my world.”
“I understand. More than you can imagine.”
“Except he isn’t dead. Not yet anyway,” Cassian added darkly, a lingering hope in his gaze.
Santino crushed the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray and glanced at him from the corner of his eyes.
“You’re barking at the wrong tree, Cassian. John isn’t responsible for Gianna’s death.”
“I know, you are.”
“Not really. I was compelled to do it. I don’t lie when I say I loved her.”
Cassian gnashed on his teeth like a stubborn child. Santino watched the process with interest, since he knew the outcome. Cassian was far too curious and intelligent to leave it at that.
“Who, then? You want to blame your father?”
“Oh no, I think he was compelled to be like he was, too. None of us are free, you see. We think we’re above the rest because we wrote the rules but we’re prisoners too. Only ours is a prison of the mind and not of the body” Santino briefly looked at the fireplace where the D’Antonio family crest was carved over the mantle. Years spent bidding him time had allowed him to forge a conviction and to identify his true enemy. His eyes went back to Cassian: “You want revenge for Gianna’s death? You need to aim higher.”
The bodyguard’s face expressed his dislike for Santino cryptic guessing game, but the Camorra leader could see the wheels working in his mind all the same.
“How much higher?” Cassian asked cautiously.
Santino’s lips stretched into a maniacal smile, one that promised chaos beyond human imagination.
“I would aim for the top.”
The bodyguard blinked, and then burst out in a raucous laugh.
“What, destroy the High Table? You are crazy!”
He chuckled some more, giving Santino his best sneer. But gradually, his face morphed from disbelief to alarm when Santino continued to grin like a lunatic.
“My god, you’re serious.”
“Very,” Santino replied flippantly.
“So what, you see yourself as the absolute power?”
“I just want to be free.”
Cassian scoffed.
“I don’t believe it,” he grunted, receiving a detached shrug for his trouble.
“I don’t mind if you don’t believe me. I’m offering you a purpose… And a chance to protect what Gianna held most dear,” Santino added, making a flourish gesture to point at himself with an ironic wink. He always loved watching people twitch, and Cassian was particularly funny. “Unfortunately, it’s either that, or you die. I can’t keep a bodyguard that wants to kill me, you understand.”
This made Cassian smile, like it was a relief Santino was back to making cold and logical threats instead of speaking about killing gods.
Tilting his head to the side, Santino reclined on his seat, crossing one leg over the other.
“I’ll give you the night, Cassian. Come back at sunrise with a yes, or prepare to die.”
While John was meeting The Elder in the Moroccan desert, Santino was preparing his own gamble.
“I’ll go alone.”
Leonora and Cassian stopped their talk about logistics and security details to look at him.
“What do you mean, alone ,” the bodyguard asked, sounding tired. Three days after choosing to live and follow Santino in his mad endeavor, Cassian was already having regrets and it showed, to his master’s endless amusement.
“I mean I’ll go alone. Neither you nor Leonora will come with me. What don’t you understand about ‘alone’, exactly?” Santino asked, mind focused on his task.
He was writing his latest instructions on how to deal with a recent attempt from the Cosa Nostra to take a warehouse in Teggiano. His orders were simple: politely set fire to the clothing store of the Via Monte Santo as a warning. Politely meant no human casualties, so Santino considered it fair game when they’d lost two men in the overtaking attempt. It wasn’t a good sign if the Cosa Nostra felt it could expand that far north, but Santino also wasn’t in a position to do more than that and it would soon start to show. He looked up when he’d signed the coded letter — paper was less traceable than emails nowadays — to find Leonora and Cassian looking at him with worried frowns.
“I’m sorry Master D’Antonio, it sounded like you were speaking about going with no protection nor council to a Camorra clans’ meeting,” Leonora slowly pronounced and Santino snorted: she only called him Master D’Antonio when she was mad because she knew her employer hated that. Master D’Antonio was his father.
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
Cassian threw his hands to the air and started to pace.
“May I ask why you think this is a good idea?” Leonora went on, using the most polite Italian form. She was really mad, apparently.
Reclining in his father’s chair, Santino looked at her with an ironic smile.
“What, you really think they would dare try and kill me?” he asked with fake innocence, “Me, their benevolent leader, coming to meet them with an open heart and absolute trust in their fealty? They would never !” He laughed meanly before shaking his head, serious again “It would make them look like cowards to collectively kill an unarmed, unprotected man coming to see them in good faith.”
Cassian stopped pacing and Leonora gave him a calculating look.
“Poker, really Santino?”
The recently appointed leader of The Camorra shrugged, expression unchanging.
“Going in there surrounded by our last men is a mistake, it shows we’re desperate.”
“Whereas if you go alone, it shows you don’t fear them,” Cassian guessed as he finally understood.
“It shows I find them so beneath my attention they don’t even register as a threat to me.”
The bodyguard snorted.
“You know that thing called overconfidence?”
“They might find your attitude disrespectful,” Leonora warned.
“If they want my attention and my respect, they should work for it,” Santino replied with a dark twist to his lips. “What have the clans done for the past ten years? While I conquered New York, they feuded between themselves and taunted the police with stupid drive-by shootings in the middle of the day, just because they wanted to remind the locals they still existed.”
He got up and rounded the desk to approach the old map hanging on the far wall of the office. It was a precise map of Italy with all the main cities, Naples written in larger font to draw the eye, but Santino kept looking north, where the map showed Monaco and beyond, Marseilles.
“The Camorra needs to remember the meaning of ambition.” He looked at his closest advisers from over his shoulder, long lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones. “I’ll remind it.”
John was back in New York. He’d survived his meeting with The Elder and Santino could discern the terms of the bargain. It was a clever move, to use a rebellious child to kill another, but it also showed how little their honorable leader understood John Wick. He would never kill Winston.
In the meantime, Santino was also playing a bold move of his own. He got out of his car at the entrance of Forcella street in Naples. Leaving Cassian and Leonora looking grim behind, he walked alone in the busy street to an ancient sculpted oaken door. It was squeezed between two larger and more imposing buildings, surrounded by trash and people laughing, shouting and dancing to loud hip-hop music. All the buildings looked old and decrepit, which was exactly how The Camorra liked it: desperate people lived there, and despair was good for business. This house in particular was rumored to have been built on the ruins of the original D’Antonio Villa. Contrary to popular beliefs, most criminal empires weren’t controlled by common people who’d built their operation from the ground, but by old blood families seeking another playground after being exiled from the legitimate system.
The old walls welcomed Santino like a doting grandmother. Security at the door respectfully averted their eyes as he came close, but Santino noted their surprised glance when they understood no one was following him.
The meeting was happening at dusk, and was preceded by a cocktail. Santino had decided to make his appearance at the last moment for bigger effect, making sure everyone was already in when he joined the festivities. The inside courtyard revealed a hidden gem in the rundown district: a patio ran around the square, arches painted in bright colors, pillars covered in gold coating, a fountain chanting in the middle of a verdoyant garden. Soft traditional music was being played by a quartet at the back and everywhere the gaze went, it only found designer clothes and priceless jewelry.
Silence fell within a minute of Santino standing at the entrance. He smiled, hands crossed at his back and shoulders relaxed.
“Good evening my dear friends,” he pronounced without pushing his voice, but it carried through the patio all the same. “Please excuse me for my tardiness. Business held me back.”
The effect was immediate: a rumor traveled through the refined crowd as everyone noted the total absence of retinue.
A waiter hesitantly came forward with a plate full of glittering champagne flutes. Looking unperturbed by the uneasiness of the rest of the families, Santino smiled and thanked him. He brought the glass up in a universal gesture of cheering before taking a sip.
After the initial shock, several groups seemed to appear, as each of the clans tried to decide on a reaction. Santino calmly waited and didn’t have to do so for long. Raffaella Guiliano came forward to greet him personally. The Guiliano clan ruled over the Forcella, and due to their position at the center of Naples, the family was one of D'Antonio's first and strongest allies.
“Looking good, Santino,” she said with a charming smile. Her eyes shone with mischief, like she knew what he was doing and found it funny. “I’m impressed,” she added, making Santino smile and wink at her.
“Still the most beautiful woman in Naples, Raffaella,” he replied, which brought a snort out of the woman.
“Flatterer.”
“Honest.”
And just like that, the first round was his.
When they took their places around the table, no one dared to approach the throne-like seat at the end, which was traditionally reserved to the D’Antonios. As he made his way to his place, Santino noted who was looking at him, who was studiously ignoring him, and who was talking with whom.
He sat slowly, making a show of it as he sprawled into the lavish chair.
“Let’s begin,” he said in the resounding silence that followed.
On his right, a man of Santino’s father's age cleared his throat. His name was Giorgio, and he was the leader of the Mazzarella family. Santino gave him an encouraging smile and the man addressed the assembly.
“We’re here to discuss Santino D’Antonio’s claim to the Camorra seat at the High Table. By collect—”
“Excuse me, Giorgo, I’m not sure I heard right. What’s there to discuss?” Santino asked innocently, giving the man a charming smile. The Mazzarella now looked vastly uncomfortable. “The High Table recognises my authority as the holder of The Camorra seat. Do the clans not recognise it as well? What more do you need?”
“We can’t help but notice the high mortality rate in your family lately, Santino,” Ana Rinaldi, one of the Camorra matriarchs, noted with a serene voice.
“Apparently, we’re not immune to cancer.”
“Gianna didn’t die of cancer,” Ana objected with the same matter of fact tone.
“John Wick killed her, some say it was on your order,” the Contino-Bosti leader, Marcellus, added with reproach.
“Unfortunately for my late sister, I had a score to square, and John Wick a debt to settle,” Santino explained with a pleasant expression, not moving from his sprawl.
His declaration seemed to perturb the dynamic in the accusations.
“A score to square?” Giorgo Mazzarella asked.
“My, yes, you didn’t think I just killed my sister for the seat? I’m hurt you would think me so power hungry when I sacrificed so much for our beloved kingdom. I live by the rules like all of us: an eye for an eye, consequences , etcetera etcetera.”
“What could have Gianna done that warranted her elimination in cold blood like this?” Marcellus Contino-Bosti nagged, clearly not ready to lose the fight yet.
Santino drummed his fingers on the armchair once, face turning serious.
“It was a personal matter that I won’t discuss with you. Let’s just say her betrayal caused me a lot of… heartbreak,” he chose with irony, “heartbreak that’s only reawakened by her loss, I assure you. But I couldn’t let it go unpunished. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t retaliate when I’m wronged?”
The Contino-Bosti leader still had things to say to that, but Santino didn’t give him the occasion.
“Which is an excellent transition to discuss my pledge to The Camorra,” he declared, infusing just a note of passion in his voice.
A wave of curiosity predictably rolled over the assembly. Santino got to his feet in a fluid movement.
“As I’ve proven by punishing my sister’s slight, I won’t let our enemy defy us, mock us, or try to take what’s ours. I can promise you this: as your leader, I’ll teach our competitors to respect us, to fear us, to envy us,” Santino enumerated as he walked behind each seat, followed by the eyes of all the clans. ”I’ll be ruthless when it comes to defending your interests against the growing ambition of others, just like I’ve been ruthless with my own blood. I want you all to see that as a proof of integrity: my own flesh isn’t above our rules, or the High Table rules.” Santino paused, took a moment to look each and every clan member in the eye before going on with his tour of the room. “The Camorra is a name we share in pride: a whole that makes us one of the most powerful organizations to ever have existed, and one of the oldest. It is a protection but it’s also a place that respects your individuality. I don’t rule over you, I lead you. And I’ll lead you to a greatness beyond your wildest dreams,” he concluded as he reached his seat back again, leaning forward on the table.
The expected silence met his declaration. One speech wasn’t going to be enough, but Santino could already tell the soft belly of the assembled families was starting to change allegiance.
Ana Rinaldi snorted, piercing black eyes shining with amusement. The Rinaldi were one of the oldest families, but contrary to the Guiliano, their allegiance had always been a challenge: they loved to be courted. If they were convinced, then most of the rest would follow.
“That’s all very… Exciting,” she said, “but how exactly are you going to do that? You lost most of your best men to the hand of the monster you hired to kill your sister, the Cosa Nostra is at our door, and even the police are becoming bolder as we speak. Your sister had a plan for us, Santino. A carefully orchestrated plan with new positions in the Ivory Coast. What exactly are you offering us, young man?”
Santino smiled, shark-like, barely containing his trepidation.
“Excellent question, dear Ana. No need to go as far as the Ivory Coast. What I’m offering to you is far closer, and far more rewarding. Why would I try to build an operation from the ground when I can give you one which has already proven its worth for two generations?”
Santino enjoyed the suspense and the eagerness he could now read on most faces. With an eye roll, Ana Rinaldi played her part to the end.
“Please, oh dear Santino, put an end to this insufferable wait and dazzle us with your great masterplan.”
“Of course. I only ask one thing from you, beloved families of The Camorra…” he paused briefly to make sure he had everyone’s attention. “I ask for one year of absolute loyalty. I won’t be questioned on how I’ll do it, and I won’t justify any of my demands. I ask for your complete obedience. If by the end of that year, I have not delivered, then I’ll gladly let you be rid of me and the D’Antonio family… But I trust that in one year, we will all look back with fondness on this moment you dared to question me. Because in one year exactly, The Camorra will be the new master of The French Connection.”
The appeal was too great. The French Connection would finally connect their heroin supply chain without intermediaries. Free to exploit it fully, the profit made from a sale would be doubled, and return of investment exponential. It was indeed a dream come true… If Santino could really deliver.
Despite lingering doubts, all the families agreed on the year's trial. The entry price was sufficiently low that none dared to question their good luck, and they all knew they wouldn’t be the one taking the real risks. Santino had put his life on the line, and would be doing so regularly in this endeavor.
They were impressed with his boldness, and sated in their lust for power.
A year of obedience and loyalty for The French Connection, that was the deal.
Leonora was pacing in front of the car by the entrance of Forcella street and her relief was visible when Santino reappeared around 2 am. The exact terms of The Camorra’s contract with Santino were negotiated during the night, the proceedings happening under full lockdown. A formal paper was to be brought to the D’Antonio private hotel in two days and another meeting planned for the signature later that week. At this date, the official countdown would start.
Leaned back against the hood of the car, Cassian appeared torn between relief and disappointment, which made Santino laugh.
“Aww, you hoped they would avenge my sister? They’re not that brave, Cassian,” he said as a way of greeting.
The bodyguard rolled his eyes, but opened the door to him. Just as Santino was bending to get in, his phone chimed with the special sound he’d put for the High Table’s alert. They exchanged a look, and Santino was surprised to see Cassian was anxious. Slowly, Santino pulled his phone out of his pocket and unlocked the screen.
[Info about — Location: NY Continental. New Status: Deconsecrated. Approval: Adjudication 1011979. Effective: immediately]
Santino bit his lower lip and finished getting in the car. He opened the report attached to the notification, pushing back the anxiety rising in his stomach.
What are you doing, John?
Santino barely slept, waiting for the next notification from the High Table. Around ten, he gave up trying entirely and went down to find Leonora already waiting for him.
“Let’s take a walk,” he said, needing to move. She nodded with a frown, falling in step behind him with her.
They went to the leisure port just down the road, walked along the jetty with coffees in carton cups.
“Something happened?” She finally asked when she felt Santino was ready.
“New York has been deconsecrated.”
“John Wick?”
“Yes.”
They walked on, Santino could feel her hesitating.
“We were close,” he declared, putting her out of her misery.
“There were rumors,” Leonora acknowledged.
“Not just rumors. Facts.”
The woman stayed silent for a few steps.
“Your father couldn’t have liked that.”
“He didn’t. You can ask Cassian about the details of what happened when he found out, he was there. I try to forget it,” he added with a dark chuckle. “Gianna chose her side that day. And I couldn’t forgive her.”
Leonora nodded wisely like it made sense. In their world, it did, or at least it was acceptable, but Santino was well aware of how unhinged it really was. He couldn’t find it in himself to care.
She also knew he needed a distraction more than comfort.
“The French Connection?”
Santino smirked, still riding the leftovers of his bold move.
“The French Connection,” he confirmed
“How do you intend to proceed?” the woman prompted, back to business mode. Santino sipped his coffee, observing neapolitans go about their day on the pier.
“If you were to describe Vincent De Gramont in a few words… What would you choose?”
The consigliere tapped a manicured nail over her own cup.
“Reckless, ruthless, relentless. Much like you.”
“Well, thank you.”
Leonora snorted: she hadn’t intended the words to be just compliments.
“But yes. Much like me. Which is how I know his greatest weakness: ambition, the need to please, wanting to carve his name in history.”
They went on, walking toward the end of the dock.
“Do you consider it your own greatest weakness, then?” the woman wondered. There was only curiosity in her tone, which Santino secretly appreciated.
“Could have been. But apparently, I was to be bestowed with an ever bigger weakness…” Santino shrugged and handed his right woman the cup to search for his pack of cigarettes. “It taught me the suffering of loss, taught me I needed to fight to survive, to be who I am… Something Vincent never experienced. It makes him inconsiderate, callous with everything precious. That will be his downfall.”
Leonora made a noise of agreement, but pushed further.
“That doesn’t really answer my question.”
“I’ll offer him a gamble, with a prize he can’t refuse.”
“Should I start an account for savings?” the woman asked with mirth and Santino gave her a humorous smile.
“We both know money won’t do it. No, I’ll offer him the Camorra: my submission to his will, two seats on the High Table, virtually.”
Leonora stopped with a flabbergasted expression.
“You can’t do that! The clans would never accept it!”
“So it’s a win-win scenario, right? Either I win and offer our beloved families The French Connection, or I don’t and they get rid of me, and Vincent De Gramont finds himself with a rebellious mafia fighting him.”
“Master D’Antonio, this is pure madness!”
He turned to her fully, gaze hard now. She couldn’t start having doubts now.
“High stakes, high rewards.”
“This is your life, your name on the line!”
He sucked on his cigarette with a detached expression.
“I’m the last of the D’Antonios and I intend to keep it that way, Leonora. Either way, The Camorra will grow to be something else.”
Maybe his tone was more wistful than intended, because Leonora seemed more shocked by this than by his crazy idea. He saw her tense next to him and when he looked at her properly, Santino saw she had a very determined expression.
“Well, we shall not lose that bet, then.”
The head of the Camorra let out a bark-like laugh before grinning ferally.
“Right. I just need to find how to bait him without raising his suspicions. And that, Dear Leonora, is why I need a year. The final stages are easy to map out, it’s getting there that’ll demand more work.”
“We need to get closer, infiltrate his inner circle.”
“Hmm… It’s time to rekindle an old friendship,” Santino grimaced.
They were childhood “friends”, Vincent and he. Their families had always been close because the De Gramont owed a big part of their profit and status to the help provided by Santino’s family, two generations ago.
They walked the few last feet of the pier as he finished his smoke. The enclosure of the port was still visible on their right, but everywhere else, it was just the sea, sails and fishing boats.
“But I still need to know about his trades and operations.”
Leonora nodded: that would be her part to supervise this.
They sat on the lone bench facing the ocean and went over the details together, Leonora taking notes on a book she always had in her purse. Cassian called about an hour later, incensed because Santino had left without telling him and he’d apparently spent the last hour in a mad dash across Naples. It made his employer laugh meanly and hang up. Let the man sweat a bit more. Ares wouldn’t have let him slip away like this.
As he was putting his phone away, a notification from the High Table chimed and Santino’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t forgotten about New York, but Leonora’s distraction had worked until now. She politely looked the other way as he unlocked the screen with slightly trembling fingers to read the text.
[Accounts Payable: John Wick contract closed. Death confirmed by Adjudication 1011979 at 6:04 am EST on the March 25th, 2014]
Santino kept looking at the text without understanding. There was a reality between the lines he couldn’t accept. He read the words fine, but they made no sense.
“Santino?” Leonora called softly.
“John Wick is dead,” he said out loud, but no, the idea still didn’t compute.
It felt like the sea was brusquely inside his skull, waves upon waves of deep water crashing around his brain, filling it with cold salted water. The world was muffled around him as drums roared against his temples. He barely felt Leonora’s hand touching his shoulder gently as she got up, leaving him alone.
He couldn’t breathe. Something was rising in his chest, something terrible.
A war cry that never made it out of his mouth. Santino swallowed it. Swallowed everything and put the phone back in his pocket.
He looked at the sea, surprised to find it so calm.