Page 23 of The Don's Eternal Vows

Gianni

As I follow the map north, the edges of the river Acheron finally come into view, black as iron and stretching endlessly before me like a dark scar on the land. There’s a chill in the air, and I can feel my breath hitch as I step to the edge, eyes fixed on the water.

My voice echoes when I call out, “Charon! I need passage!” The sound carries across the desolate expanse, swallowed almost immediately by the silence.

Nothing stirs. The river flows in silence and there’s no sound of water lapping, no rush or trickle. The quiet is so dense it feels alive, pressing in on me from every angle. I clench my fists, feeling cold creep into my bones.

The creatures I’d passed earlier watch from the shadows, their lifeless eyes like embers, but I don’t look back. My gaze staysfixed on the river, on its inky surface that shifts and writhes like liquid night.

Time stretches. Minutes? Hours? My legs ache, but I force myself to stay rooted in place. The gypsy warned me that nothing here would obey mortal rules or bend to my demands. Charon will come when he must, and here on the edge, I suspect that patience is the test.

I force my eyes to stay on the water, to keep a lookout for Charon. I stand there, feet apart, arms folded neatly in front of me, holding a single silver obol. I stare at the river so long, that I feel it come to life right in front of me. I step closer to the water, looking down when I think I see something. My reflection, perhaps?

Slowly, the blackness begins to ripple, forming shapes. My heart races as I lean closer.Genoveva.There, flickering like a ghost in the dark, I see her. Her hair is tangled and damp, her hazel eyes wide with fear.

Blood streaks her face as she cries out, desperate, her voice a silent scream. Ghostly figures close in around her, mocking her, trapping her. They claw at her beautiful cheeks till her flesh hangs off their rotten nails, and I scream into the nothingness.

She fights against them, reaching out—reaching for me.

Desperation tears through me, and I feel the impulse to dive headfirst into the water. Every instinct urges me to move to save her.

But something in me resists, a faint echo of reason whispering that this river is the path for the dead. A soul might survive it. But a mortal? This water would swallow me whole. If I can’t save myself, I won’t be able to save her.

I force myself to stay, every muscle in my body tense with restraint, teeth clenched so hard it feels like they’ll crack.

Hold on, Genoveva. I’m coming for you,I think, gripping the silver obol in my hand so tightly it digs into my palm. But still, I need to keep watching to know if she’s okay. I bend closer to the river again, like a man who knows he shouldn’t sip from the forbidden goblet.

“No-” I whisper with a grave sense of loss as I see her face disappear from the water, my hand nearly touching the liquid, but at the last minute, I pull back, afraid that a moment of weakness could make me lose it all.

My mind races, calculating angles, weighing risks. There has to be a solution, a way to bend this hellish place to my will and get me across to the love of my life. I've negotiated with devils before, mortal though they might have been. How different can this ferryman be?

The silence presses in, oppressive and thick. It's as if the river itself is holding its breath, waiting to see what I'll do next. I scan the horizon, searching for any sign of movement, any hint that help—or at least passage—is on its way.

Nothing but stillness answers me. My hand instinctively moves to my breast pocket, seeking the comfort of a cigar. But there's nothing there. There are no earthly vices in this unearthly place.

I let out a bitter laugh. "What I wouldn't give for a smoke right now, eh Genoveva?" The memory of her playfully scolding me for the habit brings a painful smile to my face. "I promise I'll quit if—when—I get you back."

The wind picks up, carrying the faint echo of a distant wail. I straighten my spine, refusing to let this place see me waver. I'm Gianni Montagna, "The Raven" of Sicily. I've built empires and brought men to their knees with nothing but words and will.

"You hear me?" I call out to the river, my voice steady and certain. "I'm not leaving without her. So you better find a way to get me across, or I'll die here waiting if I have to."

Suddenly, I hear a sound from the distance. A soft, mournful song drifts through the air, breaking the oppressive silence. My head snaps up the river, every nerve in my body jolting to attention. The melody is haunting and ethereal—unlike anything I've ever heard on earth.

"Anime perdute, anime perdute, venite avanti, avvicinatevi…"Lost souls, lost souls, come forth, draw near.

The words twist around me like smoke, wrapping me in their chilling promise. The air thickens and grows colder. I pull my coat tighter, but it’s no use—the very life seems to drain out ofme. The song goes on, each word as heavy as the weight of this place.

"Il fiume silenzioso trattiene il vostro timore…""The silent river holds your fear."

"Per giuramenti di sangue e debiti a lungo scaduti…""By oaths of blood and debts long due,"

"Il sentiero che percorrete nessuno potrà annullare.""The path you tread none shall undo."

The cloud-like, dove-white mist in the distance begins to part. A dark shape materializes, emerging slowly from the clouds like a specter. It’s a boat, if it could even be called that, more like a skeletal frame of wood just barely afloat, creaking and shuddering as it glides closer.

The closer it comes, the more I see. At the front of the boat lies a rope made entirely of human skulls. A single lone lantern hangs off the back, giving little light to path the way into darkness.

At its helm stands a figure draped in ragged black. His cloak hangs loose over his thin, skeletal frame, his face hidden within the shadows of his hood. In his bony hands, he grips a long pole of gnarled wood, guiding the boat with slow, deliberate movements. Beneath the hood, where eyes should be, there are only hollows in the skull.

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