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Ch.7: The New Life
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2025-11-01 20:01:00
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The Revenge Of The Boss ch.8 The Mafia Coulture
The sun bled into the Tyrrhenian Sea, turning the horizon over Palermo into a bruised violet, as Vito Rizzuto locked the iron gate of his rented flat on Via Maqueda and descended the narrow staircase that smelled of damp stone and yesterday’s garlic. Three months in Sicily, and the city had already sunk its teeth into him. He had come to vanish, to trade the snow-dusted corpses of Montreal for olive groves and salt air, but Palermo refused to let anyone vanish. It demanded tribute: a laugh in the market, a coin in a beggar’s cup, a secret whispered over espresso. And sometimes, blood.The Ballarò market was a living organism, pulsing under strings of bare bulbs that flickered like dying stars. Vendors bellowed in Sicilian dialect thick enough to chew: “Arancini caldi! Pesce fresco! Pomodori come baci!” The air was a stew of frying oil, citrus peel, and the faint metallic tang of the sea. Vito moved through it like a shark through coral, eyes scanning every face, every hand that dipped
The Revenge Of The Boss Ch.7: The New Life
The ferry docked at Palermo's Vittorio Veneto pier at 5:47 a.m., with a dull thump that sounded like the beating of an ancient heart. Vito was the last to disembark, backpack on his shoulder, hat pulled down, the slow pace of someone in no hurry. The air was thick with salt, burnt coffee, and exhaust fumes. But above all, tension. Police everywhere. Carabinieri in uniform, plainclothes officers with radios clipped to their belts, drug-sniffing dogs sniffing suitcases. News of his escape was all over the papers: "Don Rizzuto Escapes from Asinara – Public Danger Number One." Twenty-year-old mug shots, nine-column headlines, newscasts portraying him as an armed ghost. Every group of passengers arriving from the mainland was stopped, documents checked, faces compared with tablets. Vito joined the queue with the Calabrians. One of them, the barber with the tattoo, patted him on the shoulder. "Good luck, buddy." Vito nodded. When it was his turn, the officer—a young man with a sparse
The Revenge Of The Boss ch.6 The ferry to Palermo
Vito was sitting on a rusty iron bench at the port of Cagliari, the warm late-April sun warming the back of his neck without burning it. Few passersby: an old man fishing with a line, a couple of German tourists with backpacks, a stray dog sniffing a bag of chips. The Tirrenia ferry to Palermo was docked at Pier 3, the gangway already lowered, the engines roaring softly like an expectant heart.He had money from the tobacconist and the hardware store, but he didn't want to use it all. Not yet.He spotted the souvenir shop twenty meters away: a glass cube with the sign "Souvenirs Sardinia - Low Prices!" Inside, a young woman—twenty years old, black hair tied in a ponytail, a T-shirt with the Sardinian flag—was arranging cork figurines and magnets. She was clumsy: she left the cash register open, turned to pick up bags, and forgot her phone on the counter.Vito stood up. He walked slowly, hands in his pockets, hat pulled down. He entered."Good morning," the girl said, smiling nervous
The Revenge Of The Boss ch.5 The Return from Hell
The little park in the center of Porto Ferroli was a forgotten hole: three broken benches, a rusty swing, weeds growing between the cracked tiles. Vito curled up behind an oleander bush, his gray tracksuit still damp from the sea, his body aching but his mind as sharp as a blade. He slept little, his eyes half-closed, his breathing shallow, ready to spring at the slightest sound. No stray dog dared approach. No guard passed. Only the wind, carrying the smell of salt and stolen freedom. At dawn he rose. He washed his face at the fountain, drank like a thirsty animal, then walked toward the station. Porto Ferroli was a small village of fishermen and retirees: narrow streets, bars with their shutters down, an air of sleepiness that protected him. The station was a concrete cube with two platforms and a scoreboard that flashed late. Vito studied the schedule: a regional train to Olbia at 9:17, then a connection to Cagliari, and from there the ferry to Palermo. Sicily. The name burned
The Revenge Of The Boss ch.4 The Escape of Fornelli
The days piled up like pages torn from a rotten calendar, leaving no trace, no meaning, no hope. The degradation was total: Vito's cell stank of mold and congealed piss, the mattress was a nest of fleas that devoured his skin at night, the bucket overflowed and no one emptied it for days. The food—if you could call it that—was a gray slop that tasted of detergent and spoiled fish, served on cracked plastic trays. The showers? Once every ten days, freezing water that pierced his bones like needles. The guards ignored him or insulted him, spitting near his feet as he passed.Vito didn't complain. Never.His anger was a low, constant, stoic flame. This is my furnace, he thought, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after swallowing yet another mouthful of shit. You'll temper me, you bastards, and when I get out, I'll be pure steel. But escape? Impossible. Asinara was a prison island, surrounded by stormy seas, guarded by patrol boats, dogs, and searchlights. No escapee had ever man
The Revenge Of The Boss ch.3 Fornelli's Exile
Asinara wasn't a prison. It was a biblical exile, an island forgotten by God and man, where the sea pounded against the cliffs like a punishing hammer and the sun burned the skin like a mark of Cain. Vito Rizzuto, number 739, had been transferred after the signing of the protocol—not by mercy, but by calculation—to the most remote wing of the Fornelli super-prison: a half-abandoned wing, built in the 1970s and never finished, with corridors that stank of rust, damp, and decades-old piss. The cells were holes in the tuff, the windows barred with rusty iron that let only shafts of gray light filter through. The food? A swill of cold beans, stale bread that smelled of mold, and, once a week, a piece of rotten fish that the guards tossed into the tray like a bone to a dog. Vito didn't complain. Never. Anger was a burning coal in his chest, but stoicism was the forge: every insult, every disgusting dish, every night on a mattress that smelled of other people's sweat was a brick in the f
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