The wind howled across the Sicilian hills, carrying with it the bitter chill of defeat. Luca sat by the campfire, his hands trembling as he stared into the flames, trying to make sense of the night's disaster. Salvatore lay unconscious nearby, his wound bandaged but still seeping blood. Only a few of their men had made it out alive. The rest were gone—either dead or captured by the mafia, left to their fate in enemy hands.
The betrayal weighed heavy on Luca's mind. Franco's face haunted him, his words echoing over and over: The Americans have already made their deal with the mafia. It was a truth that cut deeper than any wound. All of their efforts, all of their sacrifices, might have been for nothing.
He glanced at the remaining men, huddled together around the fire, their faces drawn with exhaustion and grief. They had followed him, trusted him, and now so many of them had paid the ultimate price. Luca could feel the weight of their loss pressing down on him like a leaden blanket.
He had failed them. He had failed Sicily.
The sound of footsteps in the dirt broke through his thoughts. Luca's hand instinctively went to the pistol at his side, but he relaxed when he saw it was Maria, the resistance's medic. She had been with them since the early days, patching up the wounded and keeping the men going even when hope seemed lost.
She sat down beside him, her face grim. "Salvatore's stable for now," she said softly, her voice tinged with fatigue. "But he needs more than what I can give him. We need supplies."
Luca nodded, though his thoughts were far from the immediate concern of medical supplies. "How many men did we lose?"
Maria's expression darkened. "Too many. We're down to less than half our strength."
He clenched his fists, feeling the rage and guilt rise within him once again. "Franco," he muttered under his breath. "I should've seen it. I should've known."
Maria looked at him, her eyes filled with understanding. "None of us did. He fooled us all. But we can't stay here and mourn what's lost. The mafia's out there, and they know where we are. We need to move."
Luca nodded, but a part of him resisted. Franco's betrayal had been more than just a tactical setback—it was a warning. The mafia wasn't just a criminal empire anymore; they were entwined with forces far larger than anyone could have anticipated. The Americans had decided to use them as their foothold in Sicily, ensuring their own influence over the island once the war was over.
And now, Luca wasn't just fighting the mafia. He was fighting the future of his homeland, the very idea of what Sicily would become when the dust settled. If the Americans were aligning with the mafia, what hope did the resistance have?
Before he could dwell on it further, Domenico, one of the remaining resistance fighters, hurried over. "Luca," he said, out of breath. "We've got a visitor. An American."
Luca's eyes snapped up. "What?"
"He's alone, unarmed. Says he needs to talk to you."
A cold dread settled over Luca as he stood up, his mind racing. An American? Had Franco's betrayal already reached the ears of their supposed allies? Were they here to negotiate, or worse—silence him?
Luca exchanged a glance with Maria, who stood as well, her hand resting on the handle of the small knife at her waist. "Be careful," she murmured.
Luca walked toward the edge of the camp, where the lone figure stood under the watchful eyes of the guards. As he got closer, the firelight revealed the man's face—middle-aged, with graying hair and a weary look about him. He wore a military jacket but had no visible weapons.
"You're Luca De Luca?" the American asked in heavily accented Italian, his voice steady but carrying the weight of someone who had seen too much of the war.
"I am," Luca replied, his tone cold. "Who are you?"
The man hesitated for a moment, then extended a hand. "Lieutenant Jack Sullivan, U.S. Army. We need to talk."
Luca ignored the outstretched hand. "What do you want, Sullivan?"
The lieutenant let his hand drop and sighed. "I know about Franco. I know what happened tonight. I'm here to make sure you don't get any ideas about going after the mafia without understanding the bigger picture."
Luca's jaw tightened. "The bigger picture? My men were slaughtered because of that traitor, and you're talking about the bigger picture?"
Sullivan raised a hand to calm him. "Listen, I'm not here to justify what happened. Franco made his own choices, and you're right to be angry. But you need to understand something. The mafia isn't just a local problem anymore. They've made deals that reach all the way to Washington. The Americans are looking at the long-term control of Sicily, and the mafia's a part of that plan."
Luca's heart pounded in his chest, his worst fears confirmed. "So that's it? You're all just going to hand the island over to criminals and call it liberation?"
Sullivan's expression hardened. "It's not that simple, Luca. The Allies are fighting a global war. Sicily is just one piece of a much larger puzzle. The mafia—like it or not—has the resources and the local influence to stabilize the region. The higher-ups in Washington don't care about your personal vendettas. They care about winning the war."
The words stung like a slap to the face. Luca's blood boiled. "You're no better than the mafia," he spat. "You'll sell out Sicily to the highest bidder."
Sullivan took a step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I'm not saying I agree with it. But I'm trying to give you a chance to survive this. If you keep pushing against the mafia, you're not just fighting them—you're fighting us. And that's a war you can't win."
Luca stared at him, torn between rage and the sickening realization that Sullivan was right. The resistance was small, battered, and now outnumbered. With the Americans backing the mafia, their fight seemed more hopeless than ever.
But giving up? Surrendering Sicily to the mafia's control? That was something Luca couldn't live with.
"What do you expect me to do?" Luca asked, his voice barely above a growl. "Bow down to the mafia and let them rule? Let them destroy everything we've fought for?"
Sullivan shook his head. "I don't have all the answers. But if you keep going the way you are, you're going to get yourself and everyone around you killed. Maybe there's another way—maybe there's something bigger at play here that we're not seeing. But you need to stop thinking this is just about revenge."
Luca stood there in silence, the firelight flickering across his face as the weight of Sullivan's words settled on his shoulders.
After a long moment, Luca finally spoke, his voice low and filled with resolve. "I'm not backing down. I won't let the mafia take Sicily. Not while I'm still breathing."
Sullivan met his gaze, his expression unreadable. "Then you'd better be ready for what's coming. Because it's not just the mafia you're fighting anymore."
With that, the lieutenant turned and walked back into the night, leaving Luca alone with his thoughts.
Luca stood there for a long time, staring after him, the flames crackling behind him. He knew now that the stakes had changed. The war was no longer just about Sicily—it was about the future of his people, his homeland, and his soul.