ch 2 The Asinara Shipwreck

The maximum-security prison on Asinara Island was a hell carved from rock, an eternal shipwreck for human souls. It wasn't reinforced concrete or rusty bars that broke you, but cruel isolation: the sea roared like a hungry beast, cliffs rose like monster teeth, and a silence broken only by the wind that howled in despair, carrying with it the salty smell of rotting seaweed and drowned dreams. Vito Rizzuto, the Don who had ruled empires from Palermo to Montreal, had been thrown into that godforsaken hole, assigned to the oldest section—a complex of frigid cells that reeked of stale urine and centuries-old mold, living tombs where rats were the only visitors.

His silk Hermès ties, his tailored suits, the Montecristo cigars he smoked while gazing out over the Mediterranean—all vanished. Now he wore a worn gray tracksuit, the number 739 sewn onto his chest like a cattle brand. He was ruined: his network destroyed by denunciations, his assets confiscated by the courts, his family scattered like leaves in the wind. Anger devoured his insides, a stoic hatred that vented not in tears or pleas, but accumulated in piercing silences, in looks that pierced like knives. You buried me alive, worms. But the dead rise, and I will rip out your guts one by one.

Three days after arriving—three days of lousy meals, sleepless nights on a mattress that stank of other people's sweat—he was dragged into a bare interview room, a concrete cubicle with a rusted steel table and neon lights that buzzed like dying wasps. In front of him: Prosecutor Masi, that slimy snake with the vulture's smile, the man who had orchestrated his downfall with fake dossiers and bribed witnesses; beside him, a high-ranking official from the Department of Corrections, a fat bureaucrat with thick glasses and the air of someone who feels untouchable.

"You must sign the protocol, Rizzuto," Masi said in a greasy voice, pushing a yellow folder onto the table, the pages rustling like traitors' tongues. "Mandatory cooperation. Names, dates, bank accounts. Or you rot here until your bones crumble."

Vito didn't touch the documents. He didn't look away from those reptilian eyes, his icy calm the only weapon he had left—a stoicism forged over decades of mafia wars, where rage was a sharp weapon, not an explosion. I'd tear your throat out with my teeth, Masi. I'd make you beg like your informants. "I have something worth more than a cheap protocol," he retorted softly, his voice a low growl. "I know the names you haven't dug up yet. Those above me, in the Roman palaces, in the ministries. I can offer you unprecedented collaboration, a banquet of severed heads."

The Prosecutor frowned, his cheeks flushing with irritation. "Your collaboration is mandatory, Don Rizzuto. This isn't a bargain."

"My real collaboration isn't," Vito interrupted, leaning back with a cold smile that didn't reach his eyes, a flash of predatory cunning. "You want Serpente's head, that bastard who sold me for a promotion. I'll give it to you on a silver platter. In exchange for just one favor, to be included as an internal security clause: 'house care' treatment."

The official coughed, stunned, his double chin trembling. "Explain, for God's sake."

"I don't want a sentence reduction, I'm not a worm crawling for freedom," Vito hissed, anger seeping through like venom. "I want security. A more private block, less contact with the scum that infests this place—small-time murderers, rapists, thieves. Treatment as a 'collaborating inmate' in every respect, but without my testimony in court. No courtrooms, no cameras. Only direct information, used as you wish. I won't be a public informant to be exposed in the newspapers, but your deep throat, your ghost whispering secrets. And what's more," he added, his eyes shining with cold fury, "I don't want to give up my three hours of free time. They must be in the center of the courtyard, from 8:00 to 11:00 sharp, with no restrictions on movement within that perimeter. I'll walk where I want, I'll see what I need to see."

Masi hesitated, the official stammered something about regulations, but Vito didn't bat an eyelid. Stoicism kept him upright: You'll pay for every concession, idiots. This is my kingdom now.

Every morning, from 8:00 to 11:00, Vito went out for his three hours. It wasn't freedom—it was a cruel illusion under the gaze of the guards, with the sun burning his skin and the sea mocking him from the distance. But it was space: to walk with measured steps, to think of every traitor—Serpent, Masi, the corrupt judges—and plan their downfall.Above all, to see: the cracks in the tuff walls, the faces of the guards, the messages hidden in the wind. The Boss, number 739, still felt in control of his breathing, a chained emperor orchestrating the symphony of vengeance from the courtyard surrounded by tuff walls. Wait, bastards. The sinking is only the beginning. I will resurface, and I will sink the world with me.