Chapter 297

In the darkness, a group of more than ten men moved stealthily; outside a rural estate, under the dim yellow moonlight, following several hand signals from their leader, they circled the estate and scaled the high walls at different points, entering the courtyard.

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out—across this open rural land, in the deep silence of night—it carried far. In distant homes, dogs began barking incessantly; soon, the barks of several dogs merged into a continuous chorus. From afar came the sound of someone angrily cursing the dogs, but not a single house lit a lamp, not a single person came to investigate.

After the first gunshot, gunfire erupted in a barrage—shotguns, small revolvers, automatic submachine guns; in the night, no clear picture could be seen, only fleeting, cold faces illuminated by muzzle flashes. The incomplete combustion of gunpowder polluted the air, invisible but thick with the smell of smoke in every breath.

Moments later, the intense gunfire ceased, leaving only sporadic shots—the group still uneasy, methodically finishing off the bodies riddled with bullets. As the final shots rang out, came a series of violent male shouts and the wails of women and children.

On this land of Sicily, the principle still held: harm not the elderly or children. Women and children, if they understood, if they showed no hatred in their eyes, if they accepted peacefully the death of their family's pillar, were safe.

But unfortunately, the women were fine—even hatred could be concealed—yet some children were simply not likable.

The masked leader pointed to one half-grown boy and one young child; amid the woman's pleading sobs, one of his men fired two unhesitating shots—sending the children who sought revenge to meet God.

Then several men split off to search the house for money.

"Mr., all the cash we found is here: eighty thousand U. S. dollars and seventy thousand lire."

"Let's go."

Wang Yan nodded and turned to leave. The man reporting to him tucked the money away, waved to the others behind, and hurried after him. As for the many corpses inside the estate, they need not worry—the man who killed that Tang would handle it. And that dead Tang was the biggest gang boss in Messina, trafficking arms, smuggling people, and running a factory processing conch shells—powerful, ranked among the top in all of Sicily.

To be honest, Wang Yan hadn't planned to kill him so soon—he'd intended to first make contact with his subordinates and install someone to take over those channels. But the visible power gap was too great, and the plan failed. And just a few days ago, that bastard sent men to gun down Leo, nearly killing him. As a father, Wang Yan couldn't ignore it—even though he'd also wanted Leo dead…

So after preparing for several days and gathering intelligence, Wang Yan personally led the team to send him to meet Satan.

As for the money, it certainly wasn't all. With such a vast business, that amount was negligible, so Wang Yan left nothing for the remaining women and children—they'd be cared for by others.

It has been nine months since the last time he spoke with those petty thugs; now it is mid-March, 1941, and in three months it will be exactly one year since Wang Yan arrived here.

Since reconnecting through the police commissioner to his fifth-cousin-once-removed in the quartermaster's office, the entire organization's growth has entered fast lane.

Through the quartermaster, they obtained raw materials and finished goods, smuggling them abroad for sale—mostly black-market operations, handed off to local thugs or others. After collecting payment, they used the money to bribe further, bypassing the quartermaster to establish ties with higher-ups, securing larger shipments, and thus the whole operation rolled forward.

Of course, Wang Yan still remembered his plan to build factories—he bought a clothing factory cheaply, keeping the original owner as manager. He also seized a cigarette factory—not because he was unreasonable, but because after he offered a price, the factory owner threatened them, claiming to know this person and that person—so he died.

Problems, of course, arose—the Mafia couldn't be so brazen. But Wang Yan had U. S. dollars, which effectively avoided trouble and forged new alliances. Over these past six months, he'd made a fortune, everything going smoothly.

The reason he killed the Messina gang boss was purely business. After Leo made contact with higher-ranking military personnel, they entered the arms trade, selling weapons to other European nations, militias, and guerrillas—anyone who paid. Though Italian arms weren't as good as American ones, they were cheaper, so sales remained strong. But this directly undercut the Messina boss's business—hence the assassination, hence the retaliation.

It's no wonder they didn't take Leo seriously. Though the Correa family had recently gained a fearsome reputation, nearly all the Tangs on the East Coast had been replaced, outwardly they still appeared no more than a mid-sized force. Across Sicily, the gang bosses controlling the major cities didn't care about Leo. Especially since his rise was dishonorable—no other family, not even well-informed commoners, didn't know that Tang Correa of the East Coast rose to power through betrayal of his leader—no one respected him.

But this time, Leo had truly risen. With this achievement, he'd surely become a major figure in Sicily. Of course, if possible, Leo wouldn't want it at all.

Leo was smart—he did exactly what Wang Yan told him to do, and never did anything Wang Yan hadn't ordered. He spent money when given, never asked for more, and was utterly obedient. He never gave Wang Yan an opening to kill him, quietly playing his role as puppet, shouldering all the blame.

Sudden wealth and sudden nobility—few can handle it. Perhaps Leo was simply terrified of death, or perhaps he had a talent for pretending—either way, he'd shown no ambition at all, performing his mascot role perfectly.

Zoltan and Magnas, as the organization expanded and wealth surged, became utterly arrogant. Their growing power gave them false confidence; they no longer respected Wang Yan—so they didn't survive last winter. Leo, already cautious, became even more cautious.

Given this behavior, Wang Yan had never moved. Though he held authority, killing Leo without cause would severely damage his credibility. After all, everyone knew Leo's behavior—so obedient, so compliant—and if even such a man could be killed, who could be sure Wang Yan wouldn one day turn on them? So he let it be—if Leo maintained this, he'd live.

As for elite troops, after this long a time, including the original nine, there were only thirty. All elite hands, personally trained by him, forged in bloody clashes along smuggling routes—far superior to those lazy conscripts and police.

To succeed, one must not only plan, but also keep it secret—without secrecy, it's useless. More people meant greater risk of exposure, so new recruits were admitted with extreme caution—through deception and intimidation—to ensure his existence remained hidden.

The core numbered only thirty, but peripheral members still totaled over a hundred. After all, his factories weren't just in Syracuse—they were scattered across the East Coast, requiring oversight. But strictly speaking, they were merely employees—not true Mafia, still needing to pass tests before officially joining Wang Yan's so-called "enterprise."

More than ten men boarded three cars and headed for Syracuse through the night. To kill the Messina Tang and teach all Sicilian families a lesson, they'd stayed in Messina over two days—they were desperate to go home.

These cars, of course, weren't as luxurious or convenient as later models; these roads weren't as wide or smooth; long-distance travel was no pleasure. After hours of jolting, they finally returned to their outpost outside town at just past four in the morning.

Since dawn was imminent, Wang Yan didn't stay long—only sent word to Leo and arranged, as previously agreed, to negotiate with the Messina Mafia families. They'd come to negotiate—newly installed leaders needed time to consolidate power and wouldn't immediately start war; they'd meet demands if possible, revenge was certain, but later. Whether they truly wanted revenge, however, was another matter.

As usual, he circled cautiously, returning home only as dawn began to break. Soon, Malena would rise to make breakfast, so Wang Yan didn't sleep—he washed up and sat on the sofa in the corner, pondering the future.

This time, the goal was clear: rockets, spaceships, nuclear fusion, new materials—everything chaotic. But he was thinking how to operate without getting killed. A non-European-American who controlled vast wealth and resources, who could influence the course of events—his only outcome was death.

Never mind other things—if he pushed too hard, every giant on the New York Stock Exchange would become his. Whether in energy, technology, communications, or anything else, he had the ability to build them—this would be a true capital empire. But as a mortal, he couldn't possibly hold onto it.

Recently, he'd sent men to the United States—split into two teams: one to New York on the East Coast, one to Los Angeles and San Francisco on the West Coast—registering legitimate companies to run legitimate olive oil and other illegal businesses. After all, Italy, as one of the world's main olive oil producers, yielded substantial quantities from Sicily—close at hand. It had been some time since they went; no feedback yet—still waiting.

Concentrating all industries on U. S. soil was impossible—they must be dispersed globally. To stand openly on the surface was too dangerous; he must remain as he was now—install several more mascots like Leo to stand in front, while he pulled strings from behind.

His thoughts drifted to the Third Technological Revolution after WWII, then to the world's first electronic computer, successfully developed by the U. S. in 1946—a behemoth occupying 170 square meters and weighing thirty tons. It was 1941—five years until its debut. To be first was impossible—the technological foundation didn't exist. Transistors didn't emerge until the late 1950s, integrated circuits until the 1960s, large-scale integration until the 1970s.

At this point, he didn't need advanced or high-end tech—just be the first to build a small, ternary, mass-applicable computer to seize the market. Then, with a series of productivity tools developed and deployed, widespread adoption would be inevitable—and thus, could he naturally alter the world's technological trajectory?

With just over a decade, completing what should take thirty years—this would be perfectly natural, Wang Yan mused silently…

"Wang, you're back?"

Lost in thought, he hadn't noticed daylight had fully broken; Malena's voice pulled him back—he glanced at the clock: seven.

"Good morning, Malena." He turned to look at Malena descending the stairs, offering a kind smile.

Malena no longer dressed as tightly as before, but she still didn't wear tiny straps in front of Wang Yan—just more comfortable at home. After a year together, Malena had gone from initial fear, to resignation, then slowly began trying to understand Wang Yan—the Eastern brute sharing her roof.

Wang Yan, of course, didn't refuse. Under his deliberate influence, she gradually spoke more, gaining full understanding of him. Naturally, as one might expect, in matters of seduction he was still a professional. With his charm, wisdom, grace, and worldly knowledge, as Malena's understanding deepened, affection naturally grew—though here, "day" was literal; he'd been a monk for nearly a year.

Why hadn't things progressed further? Because Malena still clung to her husband, and he didn't want to force her. After so many years, he had patience. He joked about seducing her—he didn't mind. But he knew Malena would eventually receive news of her husband's death; why rush, and leave her with guilt over her former husband? Better to wait until the news arrived—then let her forget.

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"Breakfast will be ready soon, you go ahead, Wang."

Seeing Wang Yan nod in response, Malena happily went to the bathroom to wash up, then began preparing breakfast in the kitchen.

She felt inner turmoil—her husband fought on the battlefield, sending her monthly allowances, yet she'd developed feelings for another man at home. She felt she betrayed him, felt herself a shameless woman, yet she couldn't control her admiration.

Every time that man wore clothes she'd sewn, seeing his upright figure, she felt pride. Every time he happily cooked Chinese dishes, she ate until full. Every time he spoke of the world, she became lost—not in the customs of distant lands, but in his knowledge. Every time he was away for days, she worried—she knew what he did, feared losing him…

All these thoughts, Malena was certain—she'd fallen in love with the Eastern man. Yet equally, she couldn't betray her husband abroad. She didn't know what to do, endlessly torn.

But this turmoil didn't last long. As time passed and Wang Yan's presence in her heart grew larger, she gave up. For a romantic Italian girl, once she gave up, she couldn't control it, couldn't follow her heart—this was how it was.

So she cooked for him like a wife, washed his clothes like a wife, worried for his safety like a wife. Except for sleeping together—this was the last thing she could do for her husband. She wasn't sure how long she could hold on.

Each passing minute deepened her love for him; she suffered, unsure when she'd surrender—but she awaited it.

Soon, a lavish breakfast was ready; the two sat at the table to eat.

"Breakfast is excellent, Malena—your cooking has improved." Wang Yan smiled, offering praise. Of course, it was a lie—the eggs were burnt. But in such moments, who would be so unromantic as to speak truth? Still, if one must be honest, Malena's cooking had improved slightly since he first arrived.

Malena smiled shyly: "Still far worse than yours. Your Chinese dishes are wonderful."

"Want to eat them? Wait two days—I'll rest, then cook for you."

Foreigners often struggle to adapt to Chinese cuisine—just like restaurants across China claiming "authentic" flavors must adjust to local tastes.

So when he cooked, it differed from authentic Chinese cuisine, leaning more toward Marlena's tastes. Of course, even if he wanted to, it was difficult, for things had not yet blended as they would later—many seasonings were still missing. He lacked Gao Chao's superb culinary skill, the ability to awaken a dish's flavor with just simple seasonings. Thus, it was something of a mishmash—but enough to fool Marlena, who had never left Sicily all these years.

"That's really wonderful." Marlena smiled, looking at Wang Yan: "Wang, I've heard everything—Don Correa was assassinated and is now fighting for his life. Was your trip out because of this? Did it go smoothly?"

"Yes, it was because of that. I went with them to Messina. Everything went perfectly, no surprises—don't worry." Wang Yan bent his arm and patted his biceps to show he was healthy.

As for the rumor Leo had been assassinated, it couldn't be hidden—walls have ears. The fact he'd concealed it this long without exposure was all due to bloodshed. And Leo, a Mafia boss whose name echoed across eastern Sicily, was naturally a favorite topic of gossip among ordinary people. At the time, Leo had even summoned doctors—the commotion was enormous; no one could have missed it.

Sicily's Code of Silence applied only to secrets known by a few—it didn't mean family members couldn't be betrayed to the Carabinieri or police, nor did it forbid discussing common gossip. The Mafia didn't wield that much power. Old Mo and his Sorini crew were slandered to death; what's one more bunch of thugs? Nothing major.

Marlena nodded and said no more. She knew she shouldn't constantly inquire into a man's affairs—as long as he cared for home and provided a good life for wife and children, that was the fine tradition of Sicily.

Then she began chattering about trivial, meaningless things, and Wang Yan responded with half-hearted replies. By now, there was no need to preen like a peacock courting a mate. What needed to be shown had been shown; what needed to be known was known. All that remained was for word of Marlena's husband's death to arrive—then Wang Mou would take his place.

After laughing and eating breakfast, Wang Yan said he wouldn't eat lunch and would rest well, then went upstairs to sleep. He hadn't slept properly these past two days—after all, those who kill will be killed in turn. He'd stayed constantly with his men, and though he was confident no one would dare move against him with the dual guarantees of strength and money, he wouldn't risk his life testing it. After all, if no one moved once, would they still not move the second or third time? Humans were the most complex creatures—he couldn't guarantee all his men had been fully purified.

Watching Wang Yan's retreating back as he climbed the stairs, Marlena finished her glass of milk, softly hummed a Sicilian folk tune, tidied the table, washed the plates and bowls, and rinsed the knives and forks. Then she fetched a basin and washed her own clothes and Wang Yan's changed ones.

Time passed quickly; by the time she finished washing their clothes, it was already past nine. Wang's clothes couldn't be hung outside, and to avoid anyone suddenly arriving, they couldn't be left on the first floor—so she cleared a spot in her second-floor room, tied a rope, and dedicated it solely to drying Wang Yan's clothes.

After hanging his clothes upstairs, she carried the basin outside and hung her own clothes one by one on a rope stretched across the courtyard.

"Marlena…"

Someone called her name from afar, running toward her—she recognized him as a military clerk from town.

"What is it, Mr. Oliver?"

Oliver rushed up, his eyes unhidden in their lewdness, yet feigning sorrow: "Oh, Young Lady Marlena, we've just received tragic news—your husband, Lieutenant Antonino Scordia, was heroically killed during a mission in East Africa…"