Chapter 7 - THE CORONATION OF ASHESThe Uninvited GuestInside the grand ballroom, the party was at its peak. Classical violin music echoed off the marble walls as servers passed around silver trays of caviar.
Marco stood at the podium, a microphone in his hand.
"And now," Marco grinned, "I ask the Council of Five to present the mantle of the Supreme Don."
The eldest boss of the Moretti family stood up, holding a velvet box containing the ceremonial dagger of the syndicate. He walked toward Marco.
Suddenly, every light in the grand ballroom went pitch black.
Women screamed. Men reached for concealed sidearms.
"What the hell is going on?!" Marco yelled into the dark microphone. "Security! Get the backup generators on!"
Before the security team could react, the massive projection screen behind the stage flickered to life.
It wasn't a slideshow of Marco’s achievements. It was security footage from the chapel two days prior.
The video played in high-definition: it showed Veto clawing frantically at the coffin lid. It showed Elena screaming. It showed Marco drawing his gun to stop them. And then, it showed the coffin opening—and Prattasio sitting up, coming back from the dead.
The entire ballroom went dead silent. The bosses stared at the screen in absolute horror.
"That's... that's impossible..." the Moretti boss whispered, his hands shaking so violently he dropped the velvet box.
"It's a fake video! A deepfake!" Marco shrieked, panic cracking his voice. "Kill the power! Turn it off!"
A single overhead spotlight suddenly snapped on, cutting through the darkness like a beam of judgment.
It illuminated the double doors at the main entrance of the ballroom.
The heavy doors groaned open.
Stepping through the mist of the corridor was Prattasio Lori. He wore a midnight-black suit, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. And trotting steadily by his side, his ears pinned back, his muscles rippling under his Kevlar vest, was Veto.
The room gasped. Several women fainted. Two bosses fell backward over their chairs, crossing themselves as if seeing the Devil himself.
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"You..." Marco stuttered, dropping the microphone. It hit the floor with an echoing FEEDBACK SCREECH. "You were buried..."
"You bought a cheap casket, Marco," Prattasio’s voice echoed through the massive room without a microphone, cold enough to freeze blood. "And you forgot that a real Don never walks alone."
