Chapter 7 Echoes Of The Invitation

• The ticket arrived as promised first class to Paris, departing tomorrow night. Tucked inside the envelope were ten thousand euros, crisp and new, along with a note scrawled in sharp ink:
• For expenses.
• Come alone. S.
• Santino sat at his kitchen table, the ticket’s glossy edge glinting under the weak bulb. Salvatore Enzo. The boy who’d bolted from Naples seven years ago, swearing he’d return one day. The friend who’d vanished without a trace, leaving only memories and questions.
• His phone buzzed, shattering the silence. Vito’s name flashed on the screen. Santino answered with a grunt. “Speak.”
• “Don’t go,” Vito said, his voice tight, urgent. “It’s a trap, Santino. I feel it.”
• Santino raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “How do you even know about the ticket?”
• “Word travels fast,” Vito snapped. “Salvatore Enzo isn’t just running clubs in Paris. He’s El Amore’s right-hand man. You hear me? El Amore’s.”
• The name hit Santino like a cold wave, sinking deep into his bones. Even in Naples’s shadowed alleys, they whispered about El Amore the faceless crime lord who gripped half of Europe’s underworld in an iron fist. Santino’s fingers tightened around the phone. “What does he want with me?”
• “Could be your father’s debts. Could be your connections. Hell, maybe your head on a platter,” Vito said, his voice rising. “Does it matter? No one meets El Amore and walks away normal after. You know the stories!”
• Santino’s gaze drifted across his apartment, the bare walls chipped with age, a sagging couch, a single chair. Nothing here tied him down, nothing he couldn’t ditch in minutes. Was this normal? Was this living, counting euros in a rotting flat? He exhaled sharply. “I leave tomorrow.”
• Vito cursed loud enough to rattle the line. “At least take backup, you stubborn bastard!”
• “He said come alone,” Santino replied, his tone flat.
• “And you trust him?” Vito’s voice cracked with frustration. “After Eleven years of silence?”
• Santino paused, the question hanging heavy. Trust Salvatore? No. But curiosity burned in his chest, a fire Naples couldn’t quench. This city was a slow death, its streets sucking the life from him. “I’ll call when I land,” he said at last.
• “If you land,” Vito muttered, then the line went dead.
• Santino stood, packing light one change of clothes, his gun disassembled and tucked into a false-bottom bag, the cash bundled tight. He spent the night moving through Naples’s underbelly, settling accounts with his lieutenants. “Hold the line,” he told them, voice low. “I’ll be back—or I won’t.” Just in case.
• The flight to Paris passed in a haze champagne fizzed in flutes he ignored, food sat untouched on his tray. The plane’s hum lulled him, but his mind raced. Paris greeted him with a steady drizzle, the tarmac slick under his boots. A black car waited at the terminal, its engine purring. The driver, a wiry man in a suit, stepped out and tipped his head. “Mr. Leandro? Mr. Enzo sends his regards.”
• Santino nodded, sliding into the leather seat. The drive to Club Octana wound through shining streets, past gleaming storefronts and elegant bridges.
• Paris was a world apart, clean, orderly, dripping with wealth. Santino shifted uncomfortably, his worn jacket and thick Naples accent feeling like a neon sign of his roots. Rain streaked the windows, blurring the city into a dream he didn’t belong in.
• Thirty minutes later, the car halted before a glittering monolith. Club Octana pulsed with life music thumped through its closed doors, bass vibrating the ground. A line of beautiful people shivered under umbrellas, their laughter cutting through the rain. Santino stepped out, raindrops beading on his shoulders as he straightened his jacket.
• “Mr. Enzo is waiting inside,” the driver said, gesturing to a discreet VIP entrance on the right. “Go on.”