Feast of Vultures

"Bang! Bang!"

The sound of a gunshot echoed inside an opulent, darkened room. Chandeliers scattered shards of light across the marbled floor, illuminating the thick tension that hung in the air. Five men sat around a heavy mahogany table, but only four remained upright. One slumped in his chair, head tilted unnaturally back, blood pooling from the bullet hole in his skull.

At the head of the table sat Alessandro De Luca, his expression unreadable. The youngest among them, yet the most dangerous. His black-on-black shirt and trousers were flawlessly pressed, his tattooed arm still holding the freshly fired gun, now gently resting on the table like an afterthought. His dark hair slicked back, his eyes calm but sharp—like a blade hidden in silk.

"Do you know what I hate more than the sound of police sirens, gentlemen?" Alessandro asked as he tossed the gun onto the polished surface and leaned back in his leather chair.

Ricci Dominico cleared his throat nervously. "No, sir..."

He cursed himself for the slip. Alessandro was barely in his mid thirties. Calling him 'sir' felt like bowing to a storm. But the storm smiled.

"Silence," Alessandro said, voice smooth and mocking. "Especially silence soaked in betrayal."

He reached under the table and slid a thick manila folder toward them. It stopped perfectly in the center, like a loaded trap.

"Inside that folder are shipment logs. My father’s signature is forged on four of them. Each one tied to missing containers of our African rosewood. Care to guess whose names are connected to the customs clearance?"

"Alessandro—sir—it must be a mistake. Those shipments were rerouted due to customs—" Gallo Reed began, wiping sweat from his brow.

Alessandro slammed his fist onto the table, rattling glasses.

"Do not insult my intelligence, Gallo! You think I don’t know what rerouting looks like? You think I don’t have eyes at every dock, every crate, every goddamn nail that leaves our warehouse?"

"We were going to tell you—"

"Were you? Before or after your cousin in Morocco sold the cargo to the Russians? Before or after you bought that second villa in Sicily, Ricci? With money that doesn’t match your cut?"

"Alessandro, please. You have to understand—"

"What I understand is loyalty. My father built this empire with blood, sweat, and fire. He trusted you. And while he lay in a hospital bed fighting for his life, you four carved out pieces of his legacy like it was your last supper."

Mateo Reyes, the eldest, scoffed. "Did your father send you here to insult us? Where is he? This meeting was with him, not you."

"My father is me. I am my father," Alessandro growled. "Are you blind?"

"What I see is a little brat playing king."

Alessandro rose slowly. Gun in hand again. His black shoes echoed with every step toward Mateo.

"I could kill you all right now," he said, pointing to the dead man beside them. "No questions asked. Dump your bodies in the East Yard. No one would know. No one would care."

Mateo kept his nerve. "But you won’t. You’re smarter than that. We can fix this."

"Don’t tell me what I will or won’t do. That’s the problem with rats. They squeak too loud when they’re cornered."

Alessandro walked back to his seat and sat down, calm once more.

"You’ll repay what you stole. Triple. No fake invoices, no ghost accounts. Real money. In my office. End of the month."

"That’s... impossible," Gallo whispered.

"Then sell everything you own. Because if a single coin is missing..."

He snapped his fingers.

Luca Devere entered silently from a side door, dragging a bloodied crate. Three guards followed, each carrying trays. They placed one before each man.

The trays were opened.

Gasps. Dead vultures. One for each betrayer.

Alessandro opened the crate halfway. Inside, a severed hand.

"That was my father's accountant. He tried to hide discrepancies behind charity donations. Now he’ll never touch another coin again. And those vultures? They’ll be the first to feast on your corpses when I decide to pull the trigger. Think of it as your appetizer."

Mateo's voice cracked. "You’re not your father, Alessandro."

Alessandro smiled. Cold, cruel.

"You’re right. He is merciful. I’m not. He rules with respect. I rule with fear."

The silence that followed was absolute. The room suffocating.

"This isn’t about wood. This is about rot. And when I see rot in my family tree... I don’t prune it. I burn it."

He signaled with two fingers. Luca gave a slight nod.

"Understood," Gallo said.

"Good. Now get out of my sight. And pray the next time I summon you, it’s for business—not a funeral."

They rose on shaking legs, moving to leave.

"One more thing," Alessandro called.

They froze.

"If a word of this meeting slips from your mouths—to your wives, your drivers, your goddamn dogs—I won’t send warnings."

He pointed his gun at the dead man. "You’ll end up like him. Deal with his body."

They nodded and left without another sound. The door shut behind them.

Alessandro exhaled deeply, rolling his neck, his rage simmering.

Luca returned, holding a crisp black T-shirt folded in his arms.

"Boss. Here."

Alessandro took it, began unbuttoning his stained shirt.

"Get me one at the airport immediately. I need to relieve some stress."

"Already done," Luca replied.

"I hate blood staining my clothes. But they keep making me shed it," Alessandro muttered as he slipped into the fresh shirt.