The rhythmic hum of the train filled the cabin, a hollow sound that echoed through Luca De Luca's mind like a distant war drum. He stared out of the window at the scorched earth of southern Italy, the villages that had once teemed with life now nothing more than crumbling ruins. The war had devoured them all—just as it had devoured him.
Luca had been gone for nearly four years. Four years since he had last seen Sicily, his home. But nothing felt like home anymore. The war had stripped him of that feeling. His uniform, once a symbol of pride, was now a grim reminder of the countless bodies left behind in blood-soaked fields. He closed his eyes, hoping to push away the images of comrades who wouldn't return.
The train screeched to a halt at Palermo, its blackened metal groaning as though it, too, was weary of the war. Luca adjusted the officer's cap on his head and stepped out onto the platform. The familiar scent of saltwater hit him immediately, but the once-bustling port was now eerily quiet. Occupied by German soldiers and overseen by fascist authorities, the city was a shadow of its former self.
As he made his way through the narrow streets, Luca felt the eyes of strangers on him—cold, wary, distrustful. Everyone in Palermo seemed on edge, unsure of who was friend or foe. He had written only once to his father, Don Vito De Luca, during his time at the front. The letter had been brief, simply telling his family that he was alive. That was all they needed to know. And yet, the weight of expectation hung heavily over him now as he approached the De Luca estate.
The grand gates of the villa loomed before him, guarded by two men armed with rifles. They stiffened as he approached, recognizing him at once, and opened the gates without a word.
The house hadn't changed—its white walls still gleamed, and the lush gardens still bloomed with life. Inside, Luca could hear voices murmuring, the business of his father's criminal empire continuing as if war had never touched them. It was a world Luca had never been a part of, and yet he was born into it, tied to it by blood.
He stepped into the grand foyer, where the familiar figure of Don Vito stood at the top of the staircase, his dark eyes fixed on his son. The old man hadn't aged as much as Luca had expected; there was still strength in his posture, his presence commanding as ever.
"Luca," his father said, descending the stairs. His voice was gravelly, but the affection was clear, even through the gruffness. "My boy. You've come home."
Luca felt a knot tighten in his chest. Home. The word felt foreign to him now.
"Father," he replied, his voice strained. He couldn't meet his father's gaze for long, the weight of expectation pressing down on him like a burden he couldn't shake.
Don Vito studied him for a long moment before nodding. "You've seen much, I'm sure. The war… it changes men. But you're a De Luca, and we endure."
Luca said nothing, his mind still swirling with the horrors he had witnessed on the battlefield. He hadn't returned for the family business; he hadn't returned to be part of the underworld that ruled Palermo's streets. He had come back to find some kind of peace, though now he wondered if that was possible.
"I have something to show you," Don Vito said, breaking the silence. He led Luca down a long hallway, past rooms filled with underlings conducting their business—discussing shipments, bribes, and alliances with both the Germans and the Allies. The De Luca family played both sides of the war, just as Luca had suspected.
At the end of the hallway, they entered Don Vito's office, a grand room lined with bookshelves and filled with the scent of cigars. On the large oak desk lay a map of Sicily, marked with various points of interest.
"This is our future, Luca," Don Vito said, gesturing to the map. "The Germans and the Allies are both after us, but we've always been one step ahead. We control the supply routes. The black market. Even the resistance needs us."
Luca's jaw tightened. "You're playing a dangerous game, father."
Don Vito smiled, a cold, calculated expression. "Life is a dangerous game, son. You either win or you die."
Luca stepped back, his hands clenched into fists. He had fought to escape the brutality of war, but now he realized that home was its own battlefield—a war of shadows, fought in back rooms and alleyways. He had returned to a world just as ruthless as the one he had left behind.
"I didn't come back for this," Luca said quietly.
Don Vito's eyes narrowed. "Then why did you come back?"
Luca didn't answer. He wasn't sure himself.