Dangerous Whispers

The cobbled streets of Palermo teemed with life, but I scarcely noticed. The notebooks were tight in one hand, the pen in the other as I squeezed through the narrow lanes, trying to make sense of the scattered rumors I had gathered to this point. With each step, it felt still another layer was being lifted off a dark festering wound. 

The first man I approached, a fisherman mending his nets by the harbor, had stiffened at the mention of that name. "Hades," I had said softly, watching his hands freeze mid-stitch. 

"Non parlare di lui," he muttered, refusing to look me in the eye. 

I pushed on, trying to get him to tell me more, but he crossed himself and hurried away without saying another word. 

The second, an old woman selling fresh herbs at the market, was a little more flowering in her comments, although her voice trembled as she spoke. 

"They say that Hades punishes those who cross him," she said in a whisper, eyes darting back and forth to make sure nobody was listening, "but not like any man would. No, his punishments are... poetic. Each one made to fit the sinner's crime. Some say he goes by the rules of the underworld itself." 

"Rules?" I asked, leaning forward, eager to hear more. 

She lowered her voice further. "The sins of betrayal, of lust, of greed... Each one met with a punishment worse than death. He is not a man. He is a demon wearing the skin of one." 

A chill went through me recalling her words as I left the market, making my way to a small café near the Piazza. Here I met a very young waiter, less fearful than the others, but whose eyes held the memory of one who had seen too much. 

"Hades?" he said again, leaning on the counter while polishing a glass. "I heard about him. Everybody does. But if you think you can get to him, you're wasting your time." 

"Why?" I pressed, writing in my notebook. 

"Because he doesn't exist the way you think he does," he said in his matter-of-fact tone. "Hades is not just one man. He is a legend. A name used to cover the sins of many. But the punishments?" He hesitated, his fingers tightening around the glass. "Those are real enough. I have seen what he leaves behind." 

"What kind of punishments?" I pressed, adrenaline kicking in. 

He glanced furtively around the café before continuing in a low voice: "There was a man-a butcher-who was found with his hands nailed to his own cutting board. They said he had stolen money from the wrong people." 

I swallowed hard, hunting images in my mind. "And do you think Hades did it?" 

He shrugged, looking pale. "What I believe doesn't matter. People disappear in this city, signorina. And when they are found, it is never the police who bring them justice." 

I thanked him, but these words weighed heavily on my chest. Leaving the café, the sun was poised on the horizon, just beginning to set, throwing golden light across the city. I should have felt victorious-these were the very stories I sought for my article. Instead, anxiety gnawed at me. 

The streets were fairly deserted when I made my way back to the hotel. The air had grown cool, now laced with a hint of salt from the sea. I held my notebook tight to my chest as I replayed stories heard earlier that day. 

Then I saw them. The lights flashing blue and red against the sides of buildings. 

At first, it looked like an accident. Several police cars parked outside a large mansion at the far end of the street, their lights dancing off the iron gates. But the closer I got, the worse it got. 

A crowd had gathered, gossiping while craning their necks for a glimpse inside. Forcing my way through, my instincts as a reporter kicked in. 

"What is happening?" I asked a man on the outskirts of the crowd. 

"Another one," he said grimly, shaking his head. "Found a body. Badly mutilated." 

My stomach somersaulted. "Who?" 

He shrugged, his face paling. "A mafia guy, I think? That's what they're saying. The police aren't letting anyone close." 

I stepped forward, flashing my press ID at the nearest officer. "Evelyn Monroe, investigative journalist. I would like to take a look." 

The officer hesitated, narrowing his eyes and studying me. "This is no tourist attraction, miss." 

"I'm not here to gawk," I said emphatically. "I am doing a story on organized crime in Sicily. This could be relevant." 

After a moment, he sighed and waved me through. "Don't touch anything," he warned. 

The gate creaked as I stepped inside, and it grew quiet for me. The mansion stood ahead, naked against the night sky, its once-grand glare now grim. Police tape cordoned across the main entrance, and forensic technicians came and went like ghosts. 

Inside, the smell hit me first—blood and rot. I covered my nose and mouth and followed the officers down a long, dimly lit corridor. Eventually, they stopped in front of a room at the end of the corridor, the doorway lit by the flickering glow of the crime scene lamps. 

"You don't want to see this," one of the officers said, glancing back at me over his shoulder. 

"I have to," I replied, steeling myself. 

He stepped aside, and I walked in. 

The scene was worse than anything I could have imagined. Blood covered the floor in dark, congealed pools, its metallic flavor thick in the air. The body—or what was left of it—slumped in the center of the room, an exhibition of abstract mutilation. 

Bile rose in my throat, and I forced myself to study it closer. The fingers were gone, and the stubs were crudely wrapped in blood-soaked rags. The story was similar for the feet—or lack thereof. But it was the face that had me frozen. 

Crushed in was the nose, the bones shattered beyond recognition. The eyes…empty sockets, gaping and hollow, as though someone had carved them out with unholy precision. 

"Adriano," an officer muttered in reply to my unvoiced question."That's his name. He was one of them." 

"One of who?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. 

"The Giovanni family," he replied. "This… this was definitely Hades' work."