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Rafaele

“ I s everything ready?” I ask as the car comes to a halt in front of the warehouse by the dock, its cold, metal structure silhouetted against the dark, foggy night. Officially, it's part of our import-export business. Unofficially, it's a “talking chamber.” It's designed for easy cleaning—extracting information can be a messy job, one I enjoy far more than I care to admit.

"Yes," Paolo replies. "They're both inside."

I nod and get out of the car, adjusting my long black coat. People say it makes me look like Death—they say it behind my back, and it makes me smile because it’s exactly what I am. Yet, every time I put it on, I can't help but remember the day I earned this reputation—the blood, the screams, the way it felt both powerful and hollow.

“You coming?” I ask my little brother, lounging in the back seat like a twenty-eight-year-old brat.

“No, it’s gory and grim. Not really our job, is it? But the sottocapo loves to get his hands dirty.” He smirks. “Do the blood and screams turn you on, Rafaele? You seem like the type.”

I look at him impassively. The notion is absurd. I've never felt the heat or pulse others seem to chase. There’s nothing about the physical—neither pain nor pleasure—that stirs me. For me, power is about control, not indulgence. It’s always been that way. Pain and punishment are my forte—hence the nickname, “Il Mietitore”—The Reaper. A name I wear with pride. Better than the one Leo has… “The Lucchese Whore.”

“This is part of the job, Leo. It’s not all parties, booze, and women.”

“You forgot drugs,” he adds with a smirk. Leo thrives on indulgence, on excess. But I’ve never needed the thrill of a random woman in my bed or the haze of a high to feel alive. My satisfaction lies elsewhere—in the quiet submission of power bent to my will.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "Now come."

He crosses his arms, scowling like he did as a kid. “You’re not our father.”

Thank God for that. I sigh, glancing at my watch, patience wearing thin. “Why do you think you’re here? It wasn’t my idea. He thinks it’s time you grew up, and I offered to help. But you know what? I’ll let him handle you.” I lean back inside. “Take him to whatever club he wants.” I close the door and tap the roof twice. Let him deal with our father. I don’t have time for his antics.

Paolo watches Leo leave with a clenched jaw, his frustration clear. He’s not just my right-hand man; he’s my best friend and the son of my father’s former consigliere. We were raised together, more like brothers than friends, until the day his father, in a fit of rage, killed his mother. My father, defying all the rules of our world, executed Paolo’s father. It was a decision that could have torn us apart, but Paolo was grateful. He moved in with us, and from that moment, he became far more of a brother to me than Leo ever will be.

“You shouldn’t let him get away with this shit.” He is one of the few allowed to speak to me so freely.

“He’s not cut out for this.” I shouldn’t say it aloud, but Paolo’s been as close a confidant as I can afford since our mandatory year in Sicily at seventeen. We spent that year with the original famiglia, learning the ropes, spilling blood, and cementing our place in this life. We returned together at eighteen, and he’s been by my side for over fifteen years.

Paolo’s jaw tightens. “He needs to step up. You can’t keep saving him.”

“I know.” The words taste bitter, frustration simmering beneath my calm facade. Leo is a liability I can’t afford. But family is duty, and I’ve never shied away from mine—no matter the cost. Responsibility is a chain that binds me tighter than blood. “We'll deal with that later. For now, let's handle this.”

We had part of the shipment disappearing—guns—and money from the betting business not adding up. Small discrepancies, maybe too small for most to notice, but I’m not most people. It’s time for everyone to remember that.

I turn toward the warehouse, the shadows embracing me as I step forward. Inside, screams and blood await—my canvas, my art. Tonight, justice will be served, and betrayal will be met with the cold kiss of death.

Inside, Sergio sits slumped in a chair, hands tied to the armrests. My cousin Sofia huddles nearby, crying and begging me to spare her husband.

Sofia’s voice cracks. "Please, Rafaele," she pleads, eyes darting between me and her husband. "Don't do this."

I ignore her as I walk to the chair, nudging him. “Look at me,” I order.

Sergio raises his head slowly, his eyes filled with fear and desperation. He knows what's coming. Sofia’s sobs grow louder, but they fade into the background, drowned out by the rush of blood in my ears and the steady beat of my heart.

“You betrayed us, Sergio. Now you pay the price,” I say, my voice cold and unyielding.

“Please, Rafaele,” he pleads, his voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to?—”

“Silence.” I cut him off sharply. “You knew exactly what you were doing.” Vargas’s listening system was more than helpful in sniffing out the traitors, and I already have all the evidence I need against Sergio, but what I want now are more names.

I get the knife out of my custom-made holder that contains both my guns and specialist knife collection. The cold metal feels reassuring in my hand.

“Raf—”

I move swiftly, pinning Sergio’s hand to the chair with a sharp thrust. He screams, a high-pitched sound that echoes in the empty warehouse.

“Do you feel that, Sergio?” I whisper, twisting the blade slowly, deliberately, until I see the raw, naked fear in his eyes. “That’s your loyalty tearing apart—every scream, every drop of blood. The only thing I want to hear from you is names. Anything else, and I’ll cut off your tongue and make you swallow it. Clear?” I pull the knife out slowly, savoring his agony, and wipe the blade clean on his pant leg.

“Rafaele, don’t do that. You’re a monster!”

I spin around with such speed that Sofia flinches, her eyes wide with fear. “You shut your mouth, Sofia!” I roar, my voice reverberating through the cold, sterile space. My gaze pins her in place, her trembling reflecting the gravity of her situation. “You should thank me for sparing you. Don't push your luck. Your husband is a traitor and a fool, and you’re a poor excuse for a wife if you say you didn’t know what he was doing,” I add, knowing that their lifestyle has been way over their pay grade for a long time now.

I turn back around and plant the knife in his other hand. “Names. Now!”

Sergio’s resolve shatters. He whimpers, then starts to talk—names and details spilling out between sobs and gasps. I listen intently, committing every name to memory, each new traitor marked for retribution.

“Fucking Russians.” My face mirrors my disgust. “With all the people you could have betrayed us with, you picked the Russians.”

I turn to Paolo. “Dispatch the Italians he named. The Russians can wait.” I turn back toward Sergio. “I traditori soffrono una morte da traditori… lunga, patetica e silenziosa.” Traitors suffer traitors' deaths… long, pathetic, and silent. I position the knife just below his Adam’s apple, feeling the slight resistance of his skin before the blade slices through. His vocal cords sever with a grisly crunch, silencing his screams into muted gurgles. With deliberate precision, I draw the knife along the side of his throat, creating a shallow yet fatal incision. Blood wells up, flowing in a slow, inexorable stream. His eyes widen in panic as he struggles to breathe, each ragged gasp filling his lungs with blood, the life slowly draining from his body. It will be long for him, seconds feeling like minutes. This silent death takes ten minutes.

I turn to Sofia, her struggles growing more frantic as two men hold her in place. "Now for your punishment," I say, my voice cold. As I approach her, I snap my fingers. One of the men hands me a roll of tape. With measured calm, I tear off a strip, forcing her eyelids open and securing the tape. "You'll watch him die," I whisper. "And remember the price of betrayal." Her eyes are wide, unblinking, filled with horror as they fixate on Sergio’s dying form. “They call me Il Mietitore because I am the silent reaper, the shadow that looms, the embodiment of Death. Betrayal ignites my wrath, transforming me into an instrument of fate—inescapable, relentless. Cross that line, and your fate is sealed, as unavoidable as dusk swallowing light. In our world, loyalty binds us; sever it, and you invoke a demise most grim and certain.”

She lets out a shout of fury. “You are a monster, Rafaele, a cruel beast. I pity the poor soul who ends up marrying you.”

“So do I, Sofia,” I murmur softly, leaning in until our gazes lock, the truth of my words sinking in. “So do I.”

I walk out, Sofia's anguished cries and Sergio's gurgles fading behind me. The night air is cold and biting, a stark contrast to the blood-soaked heat inside. This is the life I’ve chosen, the life I excel at—ruthless, relentless, and just. Tonight, I’ve reminded them all why they call me Il Mietitore, the silent reaper in the darkness. And I wear that name with pride.