Page 22 of The Don's Eternal Vows

It’s like nothing I’ve known in the living world, yet something in meknowsit. Somewhere in my bones, there’s a faint familiarity.

I drag myself to shore, and my hands reach for rough, unyielding sand that is more permanent than shifting. I claw at the cold grittiness and find my way to land. Water drains from my lungs in ragged coughs as I crouch on all fours and push out all that I can.

At last, my head feels clearer. I sit back on my haunches and look around. As my vision sharpens, I realize I’m not in any forest. Not anylivingforest.

Jagged, bare trees claw at the sky, their branches twisted into skeletal fingers. The air hangs thick and oppressive. A bruised red sky hovers above me, a blood-red moon casting an eerie glow. There are no stars to be seen—not one. The ground shimmers faintly, a silver dust covering everything like a faint gleam of decay.

“Genoveva?” I call out, my voice raw, breaking the silence. I half expect her to be here, standing by me. But there’s only silence.

I push myself to my feet, taking in the surreal landscape, a chill sinking into my skin. The gypsy was right. One plunge, and I’m somewhere else—closer to Genoveva. But where?

My fingers brush the coins in my pocket, their cool weight grounding me. My mind assesses the situation, measuring and calculating. But nothing here offers a point of reference—no landmarks, no familiar faces, nolife.

And yet... in my gut, a strange sense grips me. I’ve walked through hellscapes before, but this place... I could swear I’vebeen here before. I feel it in my bones, an ancient memory stirring as if these lands of the dead are part of my very blood.

The land of the dead. Of course. The silver obols for the ferryman Charon... none of it was a myth. It hits me like a revelation, undeniable and ancient. I’m standing here, in Hades’ underworld—where souls linger, restless, bound to shadows and forgotten dreams of lives cut too short.

My eyes dart around for Genoveva as memories of my conversations with the gypsy rush back.

Remember, Gianni Montagna. In the realm of the dead, your earthly power means nothing. Only your wit and your heart will guide you back. That and the obols for the ferryman.

The Ferryman. He’s the one I must find first to get that one step closer to Genoveva. The silence is deafening, broken only by an occasional whisper of wind through the skeletal trees. It's as if the very landscape is holding its breath, waiting.

I look all around, in every direction. Which to take?

I pull out a map from my pocket. It’s worn, soft around the edges, like it’s been folded for centuries. It shows a labyrinth of pathways, places marked in symbols I can’t read. But one red spot pulses faintly right where I’m standing.

“So, that’s how it is,” I mutter. I run a finger along the river drawn here—the Acheron. And as if on cue, I spot a flicker of movement on the map: a tiny figure steering a boat.

The Ferryman. Charon. I must make my way to him and receive passage to whatever comes next.

A shuffle of shadows grabs my attention. I look up, instinct kicking in. My blood runs cold.

“Cazzo,” I breathe, barely a whisper. I know better than to move quickly. They watch, waiting, a cold silence that sends prickles down my spine.

They stand there, silent as the grave. A dozen or more... creatures. Animal-like, but wrong. That is so terribly wrong. Hunched with hollow eyes, their faces – Christ, their faces are half-eaten, flesh hanging in strips, eyes hollow and lifeless.

I don't move. Don't even breathe. My hand itches for a weapon, but I know better. One wrong move and...

"Easy now," I murmur, more to myself than them. "Let's not do anything hasty."

They remain motionless, watching. Waiting. The tension coils in my gut like a viper.

I take one step to my right, but they snarl. Something in my heart tells me they’re angry at witnessing a mortal on these grounds. Ever so slowly, I put my hand in my coat and pull out a silver obol.

“Look,” I whisper, raising it to the sky. “I have passage.”

The creatures' unnerving silence stretches on, and I can feel their eyes boring into me. Slowly, their stiff gazes soften slightly as if understanding my gesture. Their pack mentality seems to shift, transformed into something akin to curiosity.

I take a breath, steeling myself to head up North, the river to the ferryman. "Sorry, boys," I say to the creatures, my voice low and steady, "but I've got places to be."

With deliberate slowness, I turn toward the path indicated on the map. Every muscle in my body screams to run, but I maintain a measured pace.

As I move, I can feel their eyes on me. But I don't look back. I can't. My jaw clenches, determination flooding through me.

"I'm getting out of here," I growl. "I'm finding that damn ferry. And then I'm getting back to Genoveva if it's the last thing I do."

Chapter 10

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