Page 36 of Doubts of the Egoist (Egoist #3)

An official form glared at him from the first yellowed page, accompanied by a dingy photograph of a young woman.

A maroon bullet hole between her light brows looked like an Indian Bindi.

Her complexion was so pale and translucent that he could count the veins under her eyes, on her neck, and at her temples.

Pale, flaxen hair cloaked her bare shoulders, while a white sheet covered her chest. Her face was painfully familiar.

He didn’t need to see her name to guess she was related to Mio.

“An autopsy report on Milana Scarci, Mio’s mother, Yugo’s sister,” Greg explained.

“Sister?” Kuon’s gaze darted to Greg before returning to the form. “They don’t look alike at all…”

Kuon leafed through the documents. Everything was in Italian. That was frustrating.

“They were half-siblings. Different mothers.”

“Different mothers…” Kuon echoed as a new dossier revealed another photo.

A honey-blonde woman in her late thirties with fair skin, plush rosy lips, and a Slavic oval face wore a calm expression.

She would have looked alive if not for an ugly wound on her neck and a glassy expression in her gunmetal eyes—the same as Yugo’s.

“Vlasta Santelli,” Kuon read aloud.

“Yugo’s mother.”

“She wasn’t Italian?”

“No. Flavio always liked blondes. She was from Latvia, came to Milan to become a model, but met Flavio during her first fashion week. They got married pretty quickly.”

The name Santelli caught his eye. Without much hope of understanding more than occasional words in Italian, Kuon scanned the form until his gaze stumbled upon the “data della morte” field.

The date of death was the same as that of Yugo’s sister.

To make sure his memory wasn’t playing tricks, he flipped to the first page of the report and back again.

“What happened?”

“Bloodshed. Not uncommon among crime families.”

“How many casualties?” Kuon asked, eyeing the folder with renewed interest. It was at least an inch thick. Even accounting for the old, tattered paper, there were far too many pages.

“Forty-six from the Santelli family and fifteen from the Scarci, since they weren’t the target,” Greg said.

Unable to comprehend the magnitude of the tragedy, Kuon flipped through the pages.

Yugo’s father was among the dead. His face was sharp and chiseled, jaw line strong, and gaze heavy and piercing. Except for the eye color, Yugo took after him. The same features, the same air of unyielding power.

He scanned the remaining documents.

Men, women, and children whose bodies weren’t riddled with bullets were burned in a great fire that engulfed the church.

Photographs of the once-glorious Baroque church interior—now ravaged and charred—rested at the back of the binder.

Soot-covered marble sculptures of angels stared silently from the images.

“The people you saw on the videos weren’t innocent.

” Greg’s quiet comment made the skin on the back of Kuon’s neck prickle with discomfort.

He looked up, wanting to ask Greg to stop but knowing he would be told the rest of the story regardless of his consent.

A gnarled finger jabbed at the folder as Greg filled his lungs and began to speak.

“Flavio, Yugo’s father, was the head of the Santelli family—one of the most influential crime families in Sicily.

Not everyone liked that, but very few had the power to stand up to him.

He was a tough man but fair and honest. He was well respected until rumors spread that he was leaking information to Interpol to eliminate competitors.

“Many believed, especially when the head of the Artelli family, his main competitor, got arrested. The power vacuum caused the Artelli family to disintegrate; the remains were swallowed up by the Scarci, the family to which Milana was married. October 7th was supposed to be a happy, beautiful day. Yugo’s cousin was to marry a Scarci guy to solidify the alliance.

“Have you ever seen an Italian wedding? Rose petals everywhere, white doves, flowers, and a cake taller than the bride… They even had peacocks roaming around the villa for the occasion.”

When Greg paused, Kuon realized he was holding his breath. Questions burned on his lips, but he still waited for Greg to find words, noting the unfamiliar expression of sorrow on his brutish face.

“Two great families saw their end that day, the Santelli and the Scarci. Of the main lineage, only Mio, Rudolph, and Yugo survived. Mio was five, Yugo eighteen. Even with Rudolph and the support of a handful of loyal people, we could do nothing. At that time, Yugo was a simple university student; he studied law and wasn’t yet much involved in the business. ”

“Yugo wanted to be a lawyer?” Kuon narrowed his eyes, unable to believe his ears. “Bullshit.”

“Cross my heart.” Greg grinned, revealing a row of white, strong teeth.

“Well, I guess when you’re the heir to a crime family, you have to know the law to break it.”

“Yugo wasn’t going to take over. Flavio wanted out. Milana was married into the Scarci family to transfer power so Flavio could retire safely and start a legitimate business.”

“Why? Did Yugo refuse to get involved in the business?” Kuon tried to imagine the Black Duke having a normal childhood, wanting to go to the university, planning a different kind of future, and having morals but … couldn’t.

Greg hummed, his heel tapping a tune only he could hear as his mouth moved from side to side. It took him a moment to answer. “No, he did not refuse. It’s more like no one ever asked him. Milana became Flavio’s consigliere before Yugo was even a teenager.”

Kuon massaged his temple, trying to remember the hierarchy of the Italian mafia. “Your role? An adviser?”

“Yes, you’re correct. Milana had good prospects and no intention of sharing the power she had worked so hard to gain.

People liked her, too, because she knew how to win people over.

She was a woman of iron will and a thousand faces, and she used her talents to get what she wanted.

Yugo was stubborn and determined and had shown leadership qualities.

“Seeing this, Flavio feared his kids would compete, so he redirected Yugo’s energy and set his life goals toward politics.

This way, Yugo could gain the power necessary to protect his family.

For the same reason, Flavio married off Milana and transferred the power to the Scarci, so Yugo wouldn’t have enough grounds to claim his rights. ”

“So, Yugo and Milana didn’t get along?”

“On the contrary. They adored each other, but Flavio feared a repetition of the story of Romulus and Remus [4] and didn’t want to leave anything to chance. Besides, he thought that Yugo, because of his gender, would have a good chance to ensure the higher power, and thus Milana’s safety.”

Kuon had always thought that no one quit the mafia and lived, so Greg’s argument didn’t sound convincing.

“I don’t get it. Where were the bodyguards? The security? How the hell did this even happen?” Kuon tapped the brown folder with his knuckles.

“It’s a murky story. Although the Santelli celebrated weddings on a grand scale, the actual sacrament traditionally took place in the Cappella Palatina at the Palazzo Reale in Palermo.

It’s a rather small chapel, so they invite only family and very close friends to be witnesses, sometimes not even friends.

Flavio got married there, as did his father and his father’s father. You get it.”

“Why? What’s so special about it?” Kuon found himself asking a completely unrelated question.

“First of all, it’s breathtaking. Byzantine, Norman, and Fatimid architectural styles mixed together to create a place where everyone can find God.

Small as it was, it became a symbol of tolerance and multicultural cooperation among people.

It suited the Santelli best because their chosen ones weren’t always Italian or even Catholic.

Vlasta was Orthodox, and Astrid, Milana’s mother, was Lutheran.

“The Santelli didn’t believe in divorce. They believed the spirit could unite people more strongly than blood, so they liked the idea the chapel represented. As if all the gods would smile upon a couple married within its walls.”

“It’s a nice belief.”

“It is.” The look of nostalgia in Greg’s eyes made him seem a little more human as he continued, “Cappella Palatina was the place where I swore my allegiance to Flavio. When I came to Italy, I was a complete idiot with a bodyguard’s license, big ambitions, and a strange fascination with the Italian Mafia and its traditions. ”

“Couldn’t you find decent crime families in England?” Kuon teased with a smirk.

“Not really, or I didn’t think much of them at the time. For me, the old generation in Italy had a special charm. They lived by Omertà, a code of silence and honor, wore elegant suits, and carried Tommy guns.”

Kuon bit his lip to keep from laughing as he looked at Greg’s oversized suit which hung off his massive shoulders and seemed to have only one purpose—to conceal a weapon without restricting his movements. Paired with black military boots, the outfit didn’t exactly support Greg’s claim to elegance.

“My eighteen-year-old self wanted to be classy yet tough, like Don Corleone, but very few Italian crime families accepted foreigners. Imagine my joy when Flavio Santelli hired me.”

Despite everything that had happened in the last few days, Kuon felt his jaw muscles itching from a stifled grin.

“Now, Imagine my disappointment when, instead of a cool blood ritual in an abandoned cemetery or some other equally dramatic and meaningful place where other crime families accepted initiation, I was taken to a golden, glittering chapel.”

Kuon snorted, finding it hard to imagine Greg being so simple. “What blood rituals?”