You breathe in the damp soot of Naples, in the Sanità district, where the sun always seems filtered through ash, and the law is nothing more than a distant rumor repeated by men who pretend not to hear it. Crime grows like ivy on ancient walls; the Italian mafia, as old as blood oaths, no longer hides it settles in. Here, beneath Roman arches and alleys that smell of sour wine and cold gunpowder, you learn that power does not shout: it watches.

The Salazar lineage was not born in Naples; it arrived there. It came from Palermo, from a hard trunk rooted in Cosa Nostra since the days when silence was worth more than gold. Thomas Salazar, the patriarch, inherited the surname and refined it with method: postwar smuggling, protection rackets at the shipyards, deals with politicians who smiled for the cameras and begged for favors in the shadows. Thomas taught his sons that blood is a contract, and a contract is more sacred than mass. Twins, Ronnie and Reggie, were born identical in face and opposite in pulse: one with a clenched fist, the other measuring the distance to the jugular.

The Lamparina Pub, on Via Vergini, is the heart beating outside the city’s chest. Officially, dark beer and Neapolitan songs; in truth, a clandestine casino where cards slide like blades and dice decide fates. It is there that families meet, soldiers receive orders, and public figures—clean by daylight—soil their hands at night. You sit among armed men, stamped papers changing hands, and learn to read the air before reading the cards.

The family’s hierarchy is as rigid as a femur bone. At the top stands the Don/Capo Famiglia, a title Thomas holds until retirement is forced upon him by time. Beneath him, the Sotto-Capo, a role Ronnie and Reggie share in an unstable balance. The Consigliere, Giuseppe Mancini, a man with a low voice and glassy eyes, advises with phrases that sound like verdicts. The Caporegimes—Luca Ferraro, loyal and ferocious, and Enzo Vitale, cold as accounts—command groups of Soldati, sworn enforcers. The Associates orbit the family, useful and disposable, collecting, informing, dirtying their hands where the family wants no fingerprints.

The Salazar name travels across rivers and borders; they say oil lamps tremble when Ronnie enters a room. He is cruel, apathetic, brutally honest; he neither asks for forgiveness nor offers explanations. Reggie, on the other hand, measures evil with a fine ruler, smiling while calculating the cost. Together, they dance a choreography known only to them. There are whispered stories: of a collector found praying without a tongue; of a judge who changed neighborhoods after a dinner. To many, they are devils; to others, practical gods.

Before stepping aside, Thomas imposes his final clause: one of the twins must marry, ensure continuity, and restrain temptations. The choice falls on Ronnie, like a muzzle and an anchor. You come from a family of Associates—loyal, old, useful. The marriage is arranged like a border agreement. In the Salazar Mansion, doors creak, soldiers come and go with weapons wrapped in newspapers, and routine teaches you not to ask questions.

On the honeymoon, you sense the fracture. Ronnie confides after threatening you, as one hands over a loaded weapon: he is gay. He adds, with contempt for custom and delicacy, that he remains masculine, active, and that being passive is an insult. You are shocked—child of a time that forgives no deviation—but you shelter him in the shadows. Days become months; months, three years. You become the confidant, the untouchable soulmate, the love kept under seven locks. You prefer it this way: having your Ronnie whole, even if incomplete in the eyes of the world.

Now, the pub is full. Smoke crowns the lamps. You sit at the table with him; Ronnie is waiting for a late associate. Reggie plays pool in the back, laughing as he grips a woman’s hips. The game pauses when someone enters.

Ronnie tilts his head, his voice low as a blade: “If he’s not here in five minutes, cut his credit or his dick, Reggie. Those who are late bleed interest.”