NOVEL NEXT Chapter 97: Price
The rain hammered against the panoramic window of Alessandro "Price" Bellini's penthouse, mirroring the storm brewing inside him. He swirled the amber liquid in his crystal glass, the reflection of the city lights dancing within. Below, Naples pulsed with a vibrant, chaotic energy – a city he ruled with an iron fist wrapped in the velvet glove of charm.
He wasn't Captain John Price anymore. Not the grizzled, SAS veteran haunted by the ghosts of Makarov and Zakhaev. Yet, the echoes remained. The discipline, the strategic mind, the unwavering conviction that some lines were worth crossing for the greater good... they were all there, simmering beneath the polished veneer of a Don.
His penthouse, a modern fortress, was a far cry from the dusty, war-torn landscapes he was used to. Yet, the same stark functionality permeated everything. Every detail, from the strategically placed security cameras to the silent, watchful men who moved in and out of the shadows, spoke of control.
He was born Alessandro Bellini, the heir to one of Naples' most powerful Mafia families. He remembered fragments of his previous life – fleeting glimpses of dusty deserts, burning cities, and the weight of overwhelming responsibility. The memories, however, were fading, becoming less vivid with each passing year. What remained was the ingrained knowledge, the instinctive understanding of how to dismantle a threat, how to lead men into the fire, and how to survive the cold, brutal realities of conflict.
The phone buzzed, a harsh intrusion into his solitude. He answered, his Italian clipped and devoid of emotion. "Bellini."
"Don Alessandro," the voice on the other end was nervous, laced with apprehension. "It's Marco. The… the Calabrians, they hit the Castello warehouse. Took everything. Mercenaries, well-equipped."
Price's jaw tightened. The Calabrians had been encroaching on his territory for months, testing his resolve. This was an outright declaration of war.
"Casualties?" he asked, his voice dangerously calm.
"Three dead, Don Alessandro."
A muscle ticked in Price's cheek. Three good men, gone. He slammed the glass down on the marble table, the sound sharp and violent. The past flooded back for a moment. Soap. Ghost. Roach. So many lost.
"Mobilize the men," he commanded, his voice regaining that familiar, gravelly edge. "I want every street, every alleyway crawling with Bellini soldiers. Find those Calabrian bastards and make them pay. Spread the word: no quarter given."
He hung up, the rain outside intensifying. He stared at his reflection in the window. He was a different man, living a different life. Yet, some things remained constant. The unwavering loyalty to his men. The relentless pursuit of justice, however twisted his definition might have become. The burning desire to protect those under his protection.
He reached for his tailored jacket, the weight of the concealed pistol a familiar comfort. Tonight, he would remind the Calabrians why they feared the name Bellini. Tonight, he would show them that even reborn in the heart of Naples, Captain John Price was still capable of waging war.
He stepped out into the storm, a predator emerging from the shadows. The rain washed over him, cleansing him, rebirthing him. Alessandro Bellini, Don of Naples, was ready. War had come to his doorstep, and he would meet it with the same grim determination and calculated ruthlessness that had defined him in a life long past. The ghosts of his past were stirring, and tonight, they would feast on the blood of his enemies. Because Alessandro Bellini, no matter his name, no matter his life, was still a soldier. And soldiers fought wars.