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If, for unavoidable reasons, you must wound another, you must crush and break them thoroughly, until you no longer need to fear Vendetta.-Niccolò Machiavelli,
Among Italy’s Murim underworld factions, the Naples Camorra was infamous for carrying out the most relentless Vendetta.
And among the Camorra’s special-grade killers, the man whose exploits stood out the most, Pietro Venucci, had lived a life with no connection to mercy.
A Naples native with a sturdy build and brown skin, Pietro Venucci had entered the faction after passing through the rites of the incense hall at fifteen, and ever since, he had faithfully carried out every order, killing the organization’s enemies and assassination targets.
Had his loyalty finally shone through?
Starting two years ago, he was singled out as a candidate for the next leadership tier, and he began to make his mark even with the Camorra’s boss, the Hall Manager, and the second-in-command, the Incense Master.
No one among the Camorristi doubted that in five years, Venucci would rise into the upper ranks—earning, among them, the title known as Straw Sandal.
Straw Sandal was the action captain who led everything involving conflict and assassination.
There was no seat more fitting for a young, cold-blooded killer.
For Venucci, who had survived proudly in Italy’s Murim as an underworld man, a shining future was promised.
Of course, that was premised on Venucci succeeding in gathering the vast sum he would have to offer up to become a cadre.
With that background, when Venucci abruptly requested a two-month leave and set off to London, the Camorra’s cadres assumed he had finally begun preparing for promotion.
But contrary to the senior underworld men’s expectations—waiting for a capable junior to return from London with a fortune, Venucci had another purpose for visiting London.
Naturally, he intended to secure the money needed for his promotion on this London trip, but there was a reason more important than money for leaving to a far foreign land on this leave.
“Hm…….”
Somewhere in the East End, the Isle Of Dogs.
Inside a warehouse on a dark dock, Venucci was reading an old manuscript alone.
The manuscript, spanning dozens of pages, contained a story in an imagined London where Kung-Fu didn’t exist—of a detective with brilliant deductive skill and a brave assistant with an infirm body solving crimes.
Unlike the many fantasy Kung-Fu novels circulated in bookshops and the like, it stood out for depicting a world where Kung-Fu didn’t exist at all. A tale showing off the author’s imagination.
If formally published or serialized in a magazine, it was surely a story that would gain a fair amount of popularity.
…A typical duelist would have thought so.
But Pietro Venucci was different.
This manuscript was the very reason he, who lived obsessed with work, had obtained two months of leave and come to London.
To him, the manuscript was a fortuitous encounter he could not trade for anything.
“…If not for the prophecy, I’d have been dead for sure.”
Right after he folded the manuscript carefully and tucked it into his pocket, a long sigh leaked from the underworld killer’s mouth.
That a man who claimed to be a devout Catholic and rejected superstition would go so far as to call this manuscript a prophecy was because reading it had allowed him to avoid the misfortune that would befall him in the future.
The one who first obtained this manuscript was not him, but his younger sister, Lucrezia.
Trained since childhood and working as a maid in the Italian royal household, Lucrezia Venucci acquired the manuscript through a strange process and was greatly startled upon seeing her own name and her older brother’s written within.
At first she thought someone had sent it as a prank, but when Pietro Venucci mentioned the black-pearl theft plan that the manuscript had referenced, she sensed something was wrong and confessed everything about the manuscript.
Naturally Pietro did not believe it, but since Lucrezia worked in the palace and had learned English and French, she translated the manuscript herself for him, whose English was poor, and when she handed it over, he read it and fell into profound shock.
Because the manuscript described in detail the black-pearl theft plan he had never revealed to anyone, and the process by which it failed.
‘A detective? Which bastard is he? I’ll kill him right now.’
The moment Pietro Venucci obtained the translated copy, he tried, through compatriots living in London, to find the detective who obtained the black pearl at the manuscript’s end, but the attempt came to nothing.
Unlike the other figures, such as the sculptor and the workshop owner, whose names were clearly stated in the manuscript, the detective and assistant’s names and address were not properly written.
Above all, the time when the translated copy came into his hands and he began asking after the detective was three years ago.
At that time, among the famous detectives in London, there was no one who matched the manuscript’s description.
But from then on, Venucci called the manuscript his sister had translated for him a prophecy, and always kept it close to his chest.
According to the prophecy’s contents, he was fated to be killed by a greedy Italian sculptor called Beppo.
Venucci thought that if he could deal with Beppo in London ahead of time, he could avoid the ruin waiting for him.
The problem was that there were far too many Italian sculptors named Beppo.
At the time he obtained the prophecy, the place called Gelder Workshop mentioned in the manuscript didn’t even exist in East End.
It was not yet time.
Having judged so, Venucci waited patiently for the names recorded in the prophecy to appear in the world.
And years passed.
From here on the Isle Of Dogs, where the Camorra’s London branch was located, a piece of news flew to Naples.
Decoding the cipher, Venucci cried out in triumph.
This was surely an opportunity granted by heaven.
If he dealt with Beppo and offered up the black pearl to the Hall Manager, his position in the Camorra would become so solid no one could touch it.
Thus Pietro Venucci, determined to leave a deep impression on his elders, resolved to cross the sea.
The aim was Beppo’s murder.
But merely killing him would not satisfy him.
That man was the Romeo And Juliet enemy who, in the future, would drive a blade into his body twice.
Even if it had not yet happened, Venucci, who believed the prophecy without doubt, decided to cut Beppo into pieces.
But after arriving in London and investigating Gelder Workshop and Beppo, Venucci soon changed his mind and decided to postpone the murder for the moment.
Because if he could squeeze from Gelder Workshop’s fairly wealthy owner the money needed for cadre promotion, kidnapping Beppo, the sculptor the workshop prided itself on, did not seem like a bad idea.
The hilt was in their hands anyway, so Gelder had no right to refuse.
After collecting Beppo’s ransom, instead of sending him home, they could mince him up and feed him to the Thames’ eels at once.
So that he would not be tracked, even by chance, Venucci quietly abducted Beppo, then sent a letter made by cutting up newspapers.
Gelder would try, somehow, to pay the ransom.
Even if he was late or refused to pay, killing Beppo would cut out the future source of trouble, so it was not a losing business.
Thinking so, Venucci walked to the corner of the warehouse.
Beppo collapsed, back against the wall.
Sturdy Camorra members holding clubs stood guard around him.
“Tomorrow, send Gelder his right little finger.”“Yes, Senior Brother Pietro.”“Politely. Show proper courtesy. Set a sculptor’s chisel and tap gently with a hammer. A great mason’s hand carries that much value.”
Beppo, fainted after being beaten without pause, was still hovering at death’s edge, but it was all the same to Venucci, who had decided to kill him anyway.
To a Naples Camorrista, Vendetta was not a choice, but a gentleman’s virtue.
Venucci recalled his own corpse as described in the prophecy.
The murder weapon Beppo used to kill him was a dagger with a handle made from processed animal horn.
To kill Beppo in the same way, Venucci obtained the horn of a Centenarian Indian Rhinoceros and a sharp dagger, and entrusted them to a skilled artisan.
The weapon completed that way had sat in Venucci’s holster for years, waiting only to be drawn.
The dagger, fully prepared, blade sharpened and oiled so it could stab Beppo’s belly at any time, would soon fulfill its purpose.
Once this was done, a Royal Road would open before him.
If he became a senior cadre, he might even become the disciple of “that man” he had long admired.
If he could become the successor of that old man who held the title only the Camorra’s strongest killers could possess, Red Baton1, then slaughtering the other older cadres and reigning at the top would not be a dream.
Everything he had done, hiding his ambition and showing only loyalty to the organization, was for this day.
Even as he felt elation at the fact he was approaching his dream step by step, Venucci calmed himself as always, gripping the dagger’s handle at his waist tightly.
It wasn’t over until it was over.
If only for the years he had waited, he needed to finish this matter decisively.
After killing Beppo, he would have to find the detective once more and kill him.
To return to Naples in peace and continue his life as an underworld man, he had to deal with them thoroughly on this chance.
Every step was perfect. From placing a London-branch member inside the post office to writing the letter, so he likely would not be pursued by police. But he couldn’t let down his guard until everything was finished.
As Venucci steeled his resolve once more, one Camorra man who had gone out to collect protection money flung open the warehouse door and came running in, panting.
“Big trouble! Senior Brother! The swing bridges…!!”“…?!”
Venucci’s face darkened abruptly.
“No ships are passing, but both bridges started turning!! And all along the island’s outskirts, guys I’ve never seen are lining up…!”
Like a seasoned underworld man, Venucci grasped the situation at once.
The two swing bridges connecting London and the island were impassable.
The ones surrounding the perimeter were surely Scotland Yard’s police.
They meant to block escape from the island, whether by land or by Jesus Walk.
“Bloody hell.”
Had the crime been exposed?
Or had the police surrounded the island to arrest some other underworld men?
If it was the latter, the best move was not to thrash about, but to lock the warehouse door and stay still.
But if, by any chance, what the police were looking for was Beppo—
-Knock knock.
That was when it happened.
The moment his man fastened the lock, someone knocked on the iron door.
-Knock knock.
“……”“……”
The knock echoed through the quiet warehouse.
Venucci muffled his footsteps and approached the entrance.
His right hand gripped tightly the handle of the Morning Star slung on his back, ready to strike at any time.
He knew well that at a time like this, the only ones who would come to an abandoned dockside warehouse were fellow Camorra men.
But if Scotland Yard truly had learned that Beppo was here, then the only option was to carve out an escape route with full force.
So first, he had to confirm the visitor’s identity.
“Who’s there?”
Clumsy English mixed with a Naples accent.
The one waiting beyond the door answered.
“Ah, senior brother. It’s me. Rossetti.”
The voice from beyond the door.
The underworld men all let out sighs of relief at once.
“…You’re thirty minutes later than yesterday.”“Sorry. Delivery work piled up.”
The slick excuse of a Sicilian.
Venucci immediately undid the lock and opened the door with his left hand.
And then.
-Bwoong!
He swung the spiked Morning Star at the one who stepped inside.
But.
-Jjeong!!
The blunt weapon he swung was stopped by a single finger.
“…!”
As expected, the one who entered the warehouse was not Rossetti, but Venucci could not hide his agitation at the sheer strength that far exceeded his expectations.
“…You noticed, huh. The voice imitation should’ve been perfect.”
The one who appeared was a tall man with ashen eyes.
From the pipe clamped in his mouth, smoke mixed with elixir and tobacco scent streamed without pause.
“A Camorrista doesn’t apologize with words. He takes responsibility for his wrong with action.”“Isn’t that a manly stance? I apologize for having held prejudice toward Italian underworld men.”
Sherlock Holmes burst into laughter, as if amused.
“Now I understand. When it comes to food and rules, you lot are quite a fussy kind.”
London’s only consulting detective, and Naples’ special-grade killer.
Their gazes collided in midair.
“I hope prison food suits your palate.”“A man who won’t be eating again worries about whom?”
A shabby warehouse on the East End’s docks.
A desperate fight was about to begin, with Britain’s prison meals and eternal fasting wagered as the stakes.
TL/N: In HK triads, the red baton is the number 1 fighter of the syndicate ↩️
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