Chapter Three: The Ring
Forty minutes later, the operating room door opened.
James emerged covered in sweat and blood from his surgical gown, but with a smile on his face.
"The surgery was a success. The patient is out of danger."
My tense nerves relaxed.
Close your eyes and take a deep breath.
"Thanks."
“It’s what I should do. However… her heart damage is more serious than expected, and she will need long-term treatment and rest.”
“Tony, give Dr. James one million dollars. Also, his family will henceforth be under the protection of the Santoro family.”
"yes."
James was so moved he couldn't speak, his eyes welling up with tears: "Thank you! Thank you, sir!"
I walked toward the recovery room.
Through the glass window, Maria lay on the hospital bed, her body covered in tubes, various instruments beeping. Although her face was pale, her breathing was steady, and her chest rose and fell rhythmically.
Bella sat on the edge of the bed, holding her mother's hand, her head resting on the edge of the bed, as if she were asleep.
I didn't go in; I just stood quietly outside the door.
Vittorio—I didn't expect him to be here too—stood at the end of the corridor, followed by four bodyguards in black. The old man was seventy-three years old, with completely white hair, but his back was straight and his eyes were sharp.
“Child,” he said, walking over to me and looking at me. “You’ve lost weight.”
"Old man, you shouldn't have come."
“Silly boy,” Vittorio laughed, his eyes welling up with tears, “If you make one phone call, I’ll crawl all the way to Brooklyn, even if I have to.”
I remained silent.
I drove that beat-up truck through familiar streets and stopped in front of an abandoned warehouse.
This warehouse, located deep within the Brooklyn pier, is surrounded by rusty shipping containers, a place even the homeless avoid. Three years ago, I locked that door myself and vowed never to return.
Push open the rusty iron gate and step into the darkness.
The air was thick with the smells of mildew and rust, and a layer of dust covered the ground, with footprints clearly visible. A hole in the roof let in moonlight, which shone through the crack onto the ground like a pool of mercury.
I turned on my phone's flashlight, and the beam swept across the piles of old tires, rusty chains, and rotten planks before finally settling on a corner.
Remove the tire, and underneath is a pit sealed with cement.
I took a crowbar from the car and pried open the cement.
A rusty metal safe.
I took out my key—the key I had carried with me for three years.
Insert it into the keyhole.
My hands are trembling.
Three years ago, Marco died in my arms.
That stormy night, we were surrounded by more than fifty assassins in a dockside warehouse. Lightning ripped through the night sky, thunder roared deafeningly, and rain poured down like a waterfall.
"Dom! You go first! I'll cover your retreat!"
"I'm not leaving!"
"Listen to me! You are the family heir!"
"And what about you?!"
Marco smiled, the gentlest smile I had ever seen. Rain streamed down his face, mingled with blood, but he smiled like a child.
"Brother, promise me, don't let Bella know about our world. Let her grow up like a normal child."
"Marco—"
Promise me!
He pushed me aside and turned to rush towards the assassin.
Gunshots rang out.
He was shot and fell into my arms.
"Brother...promise me..."
I promise you!
Marco laughed and said, "You're more suited to be the Godfather than I am... but don't forget... sometimes... ordinary life... is the most precious thing..."
After he finished speaking, his hand fell limply to his side.
I killed all the enemies in the warehouse.
That night, I killed thirty-two people by myself with just a gun.
When you run out of bullets, use a knife; when the knife is dull, use your fist; when your fist is broken, use your teeth.
By the time I crawled out of the pile of corpses, it was already daylight.
At the funeral, I took off that ring and locked it in a safe.
They vowed to keep their promise.
Now, I have no other choice.
I turned the key.
Click.
The safe was opened.
Inside was a black suit, a white shirt, a silver tie, and that ring.
An obsidian carving, its surface engraved with a roaring lion—the emblem of the Santoro family. The lion's eyes are two rubies, gleaming with a cold, eerie light in the darkness.
The inside of the ring is engraved with the Latin phrase: Familia Supra Omnia (Family above all else).
This ring represents the highest power in New York's underworld.
Whoever wears it becomes the chairman of one of the five major families.
I put the ring on the index finger of my right hand.
In that instant, the beast that had been dormant for three years awoke.
I took off my work clothes and put on a suit.
The person I see in the mirror is no longer that dock driver.
The black suit was impeccably tailored, the white shirt collar was crisp, and the silver tie was impeccably fitted. His hair was combed back, revealing his forehead. His eyes were cold and stern, and his jaw was taut.
This is the real me.
“I’m sorry, Marco,” I said, “but they will die if I don’t intervene.”
I got into the truck, started the engine, and drove towards the hospital.
The rain started, just like that night three years ago.
