The Ashes of Empire

Six months had passed since the fall and death of Don Rocco Serra.

Winter gripped the city like a clenched fist. Snow fell in heavy sheets over New York's fractured skyline, blanketing the ruins of what once stood proud. From the lighthouse on the edge of the island, Luca Varga watched as dawn broke behind the clouds, casting pale gold light across the harbor. The water was still, frozen at the edges, reflecting the broken world above like shattered glass.

Smoke still curled from the skeletal remains of Rocco Serra's estate in the distance. What was once a fortress of power now lay open to the sky, its roof collapsed inward, its windows blown out. Trees bent under the weight of snow, their branches clawing at the air like ghosts trying to escape. Somewhere deep inside that ruin, Luca knew, were the bones of an empire long rotting from within.

He turned away from the view, stepping back into the lighthouse. The interior was sparse but functional, a cot tucked into one corner, a small stove burning low beside it, shelves lined with canned goods and weapons wrapped in oil cloth. A single photograph sat on the wooden table: his grandfather, Anton Varga, his father, Vittorio Varga, and his biological father, Giovanni Moretti, standing before the old Varga mansion, their faces carved by time and war. Luca traced the edge of the frame with a gloved hand before slipping it into his coat pocket.

Outside, the wind howled through the narrow stone corridors of the island. He descended the spiral staircase, boots echoing against cold metal. At the base, he opened a rusted door leading to the docks. Ice clung to the pilings. His boat, an old fishing vessel painted matte black, bobbed gently in the freezing water. He stepped aboard, untied the mooring lines, and fired up the engine.

The boat cut through the icy waters, leaving a wake that shimmered like silver thread. The city approached slowly, its towers rising from the mist like tombstones. Skyscrapers bore scars from fire and gunfire. Construction crews worked in silence, rebuilding what had been lost, or trying to.

As he neared the shore, Luca passed beneath the Brooklyn Bridge, where bullet holes still peppered the steel beams. The streets below were quieter than they'd ever been. The underworld had gone underground again, hiding in shadows, waiting for the right moment to rise. But this time, there was no throne left to claim.

Luca docked at an abandoned pier near Battery Park. The city around him was a graveyard of ambition. Cracked pavement stretched in all directions, littered with remnants of violence: shattered windshields, bloodstained bricks, graffiti scrawled in red paint. He walked without hesitation, his breath visible in the morning air.

The Varga mansion loomed ahead like a cathedral of sorrow. Its gates hung broken, vines crawling up the iron like veins seeking life. The front doors were scorched, hinges melted from the heat of the final night. Inside, dust danced in shafts of pale winter light, drifting down from the cracked ceiling. Chandeliers dangled precariously, some already fallen, shards of crystal crunching underfoot.

At the end of the long hallway sat the throne room. The double doors had been torn off their hinges. Inside, the once-opulent chamber was stripped bare. Torn velvet curtains flapped in the wind coming through shattered windows. A grand chandelier had crashed onto the marble floor, its crystals scattered like fallen stars.

And there, at the far end of the room, sat the throne.

Black leather, worn smooth by years of power. It had not moved. Not even during the fire. Luca stepped forward slowly, boots echoing in the emptiness. He reached out, running his fingers along the armrest. Cold. Lifeless.

On the seat was a single white rose, untouched by decay. He picked it up carefully, noting how fresh it looked despite the ruin around it. Someone had placed it there recently. A message. A warning. A promise.

He set the rose aside and pulled the gold watch from his pocket. It ticked steadily, the only sound in the vast silence. He pressed it into the seat of the throne, letting it rest there like a relic of a forgotten god.

Then he turned and walked away.

The city outside was waking. People emerged from their homes cautiously, like survivors after a war. Children played in the snow, unaware of the ghosts that walked among them. Street vendors lit fires in barrels to warm their hands. Workers hammered nails into new facades built over old wounds.

But Luca did not stop.

He drifted through the streets like a shadow, unseen by most. In alleyways, he left signs, burned roses nailed to doors, coins buried beneath fresh graves, names etched into walls with a knife. Whispers spread quickly. "He's alive." Some feared him. Others prayed to him. But none saw him.

He made his way to a rooftop overlooking the East River. From here, he could see everything. The Financial District, the bridges, the tunnels, the mansions hidden behind high walls. And somewhere in the distance, the Seamstress shop.

She was still around. Hiding in plain sight. She always did.

She was always known as Seamstress, Best Tailor in the City, even something more. Her loyalty had never wavered. She was loyal to Anton, Vittorio, and Giovanni, even Luca.

Luca climbed down from the rooftop and disappeared into the labyrinth of the city.

Night fell early that day, swallowing the skyline in darkness. The snow stopped. The wind died. The world held its breath.

In a candlelit loft above an antique shop, a man lit incense and laid out playing cards on a velvet cloth. He wore all black, his eyes sharp and haunted. He held a Glock 19. His hands trembled. Outside, footsteps echoed softly in the stairwell.

He didn't move.

He already knew who it was.

The door creaked open.

Snow swirled in with him.

He stepped inside.

Their eyes met.

No words were needed.

He handed him a usb drive. He took it without a word