Chapter 8
Vito smiled. "What am I after? Safety. The Costa family is a small outfit on Genova Isle — we don't even get a seat at the table compared to yours. Why would I need that much money? I couldn't hold onto it anyway. But if my son is Cecilia's husband, even just in name, who on all of Genova Isle would dare touch the Costa family? That kind of reputation is worth more than cash."
It made sense. Edmond nodded, though he knew Vito was maybe one-third honest at best.
A man who sold his own adopted son into a fight ring, claiming he wasn't in it for the money?
Only an idiot would buy that.
But it didn't matter. What Vito wanted wasn't the point. The point was whether he could be used.
A dog wants meat — let it bite first. Whether it gets fed afterward is the owner's call.
"Fine. I accept the terms."
Edmond set down his glass. "But there's one condition. Luciano has to disappear from the islands. For good. Not driven out — dead."
"That's..." Vito hesitated. Not out of sympathy, but because he wasn't sure killing Luciano would come without consequences.
Edmond read him instantly and let out a cold laugh.
"Mr. Costa, do you still think Luciano is just some washed-up underground fighter?"
Vito said nothing.
"I had someone look into him yesterday." Edmond's voice dropped lower. "The vast majority of people on Mornveil Isle recognized his photo — and were afraid of him. Do you know what that means?"
Vito's expression shifted.
"That adopted son of yours," Edmond said, each word deliberate, "is almost certainly the Ghost of Mornveil Isle. I can't think of anyone else with that kind of reach."
The room went completely silent for a full five seconds.
Alessio stood behind Vito and didn't catch the weight of those words. But Vito did.
The Ghost of Mornveil Isle. The real power behind the entire Vestland Isles underground — controlling every black-market shipping route across the Twilight Sea, the arms trade, the grey financial networks.
For the past three years, that name had spread like a plague. Wherever it reached, nothing survived.
And that person was the boy he'd raised for sixteen years, then sold into a fight ring with his own hands.
Vito's back was soaked in cold sweat.
He thought about the seized cargo at Warehouse Three. He thought about Luciano walking out of the estate, saying, "I wish the Costa family all the best." He thought about that flat, clean "No" over the phone.
It all lined up.
"So now you understand," Edmond said, eyes fixed on Vito. "This man cannot be left alive. If you don't kill him today, tomorrow it's you and me in the ground."
Vito's lips moved. He tried to say something. Nothing came out.
Because he'd just realized something far more terrifying.
When Luciano came back to Genova Isle, he'd brought one person, one car, no entourage, no show of force whatsoever.
Vito had assumed that was because he had nothing.
Now he understood. He simply didn't need any of it.
A man who could make an entire island afraid of him — coming home to check on his adoptive parents — why would he bother putting on a show?
Which meant everything Vito had said to him in the living room — "you don't get a choice," "as long as you carry the Costa name you follow our rules" — probably sounded to Luciano like an ant threatening a lion.
And the dockworkers' union had seized the cargo right after Luciano left.
Sitting with that thought, Vito felt his legs go weak.
But fear was one thing. He'd survived on Genova Isle for decades, and he pulled himself together fast enough to see what had to be done.
"How do we kill him?" Vito said, jaw tight.
That was exactly what Edmond had been waiting for.
"Verna Harbor is my territory. A direct move won't work — Luciano is too good, my men can't get close. But an assassination is different. Find the right people, the right moment, and even the best fighter is still just a man."
"You have someone in mind?"
"No. But you do."
Vito blinked.
"The Costa family used the Arberia gang to put Luciano in the fight ring. That gang has been operating on Mornveil Isle for over twenty years — they've got no shortage of men with nothing to lose. And they have history with Luciano. Seven years in that ring, the bad blood between them runs deep." Edmond laid out everything he'd dug up.
Vito understood.
"I know a low-level guy from that gang here in Verna Harbor," Vito said, thinking it over. "Driton Gray. I dealt with him back when we arranged to send Luciano to the ring. That man will take any job as long as the price is right."
Edmond nodded, satisfied. He pulled an envelope from the drawer and slid it across.
"This is Luciano's current movements in Verna Harbor. He's staying near the castle tower. Every morning he walks a stretch along the harbor's cobblestone path — about twelve minutes from the tower to the docks. There's a blind spot in the middle, flanked by abandoned warehouses on both sides. No cameras. No regular foot traffic."
Vito picked up the envelope and flipped through it. "You've been watching him this whole time?"
"Since the moment he set foot in Verna Harbor."
That same afternoon, Vito reached out to Driton.
The Albanian ran a seafood restaurant near Verna Harbor as a front. His real business was smuggling and collecting protection money. He had a dozen or so men under him — the kind who'd fight or kill without much thought.
When he heard Luciano's name, something crossed Driton's face for just a second. Then Vito slid a number across the table and it disappeared.
"Five hundred thousand up front, another five hundred when it's done. One million total."
Driton ran his tongue over his lips. "Just Luciano?"
"Just him. But don't get sloppy — he spent seven years in the ring. He can handle himself."
Vito deliberately left out the part about Luciano being the Ghost of Mornveil Isle.
Because if Driton knew that, no amount of money — not a million, not ten million — would get him to touch this job.
Driton snorted. "I've seen plenty of guys come out of those rings. So he can fight — can he stop a bullet? Relax. I've got it."
Late that night.
In a top-floor private room at a waterfront casino, Eddy Murati was stretched out on a sofa with a cigar. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the black sea stretched out below, waves hitting the seawall in slow, steady beats.
His phone buzzed on the table.
One look at the name on the screen, and the lazy ease on Eddy's face went flat.
"Talk."
The voice on the other end was low. "Driton and his crew went off on their own again. Eight men, two long guns, night vision, submachine guns."
Eddy said nothing.
"They're ignoring everything I told them. Who are they going after this time?"
"Can't confirm. But Vito met with him this afternoon."
"Vito? Vito Costa?"
"Yes, boss."
Eddy sat with it for a moment. "Send someone to tail them. Keep me updated."
He hung up, then picked up a second phone — a private one — and dialed a number he rarely called first.
When the line connected, Eddy's voice dropped noticeably.
"Sir."
A brief silence on the other end.
"Talk."
"I have some new information about your adoptive father..." Eddy laid it all out, slowly and completely.
A few seconds passed. Then a calm voice came through.
"Got it."
Four in the morning.
Driton led his eight men into the abandoned warehouse district.
Two snipers set up on a rooftop, each with a spotter. Four men with submachine guns took cover behind shipping containers on both sides of the cobblestone path. The remaining two sealed off the only exit from the warehouse area.
Eight guns. Overlapping fields of fire. Nothing was getting out of there — not even a rat.
Driton hung back behind the farthest container, binoculars trained on the direction of the tower, waiting for Luciano to appear.
