The journey to Hôpital Saint-Laurent seemed to stretch on longer than it actually was. Dominic navigated the bustling streets of Marseille, hardly noticing the cacophony of honking cars, the rush of pedestrians, and the vibrant life surrounding him. His thoughts were elsewhere, weighed down by an unsettling feeling he couldn't shake.
This was his second appointment with Dr. Julien Dupont.
The first visit had been routine: an examination, some basic neurological tests, and a number of scans. At that time, there hadn't been any signs from the doctor suggesting anything was wrong. There were no urgent calls or immediate warnings.
Now, as he walked down the quiet, sterile corridor towards Dupont's office, a gnawing feeling intensified within him. He had learned to recognize the signs of impending bad news long ago. It hung in the air, dense and oppressive, pressing down on him like a heavy burden.
Upon reaching the door, he barely knocked before stepping in.
Dr. Dupont was already seated at his desk, flipping through a hefty medical file. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly arranged, and his white coat looked crisp, but Dominic noticed the tension in his expression—the way his fingers tapped the edge of the folder before coming to a halt.
Bad news.
"Monsieur Leoni," Dupont acknowledged, gesturing toward the chair opposite him.
Dominic settled into the seat, resting an arm on the desk. "I assume you have the results."
Dupont let out a sigh, tracing a line across the paper before meeting Dominic's stare.
"Yes. I appreciate your patience. I realize that waiting for answers can be challenging."
Dominic's jaw tightened slightly. "I didn't come here for patience, Doctor. Just tell me what you discovered."
A brief silence followed. Then, Dupont adjusted his posture and spoke with measured clarity.
"Your scans reveal abnormalities in the cortical areas of your brain. In light of your symptoms—persistent headaches, dizziness, occasional trouble focusing—we decided to conduct a more thorough evaluation."
Dominic remained silent, simply nodding for him to proceed.
"The findings are consistent with Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease."
Silence.
The words struck hard—silent yet devastating.
Dominic didn't move or speak. He simply stared at the doctor, his mind slowly processing the diagnosis with a mechanical weight.
"Creutzfeldt-Jakob," he repeated, almost as if voicing it would diminish its reality.
Dupont nodded. "It's a very rare neurodegenerative disorder. Unfortunately… it's fatal."
Fatal.
Dominic exhaled sharply, his fingers curling against the armrest. One year. Maybe less.
He had always imagined death would come to him violently—a bullet wound, a knife thrust, an ambush in a dimly lit alley. He had spent his life playing a perilous game, attempting to stay ahead of the unavoidable.
But this?
This was something he couldn't escape.
"There's no mistake?" His voice was calm, unnervingly steady.
"I'm afraid not," Dupont replied. "The test results are definitive. The disease progresses swiftly. Once symptoms appear, they only become worse over time."
"How long?"
Dupont hesitated.
"On average, patients live about a year. In some cases, even less."
A year.
A quiet laugh slipped from Dominic's lips—low and devoid of humor.
A year.
After everything. After building an empire, clawing his way out of the underworld, after finally leaving behind a life steeped in blood and betrayal.
Now, fate has dealt its final, cruelest irony.
"There's no treatment?" he asked, already anticipating the reply.
"No cure," Dupont confirmed. "There are medications that can alleviate symptoms, but the disease itself is irreversible."
Dominic rubbed a hand over his face, nodding slowly.
"I see."
Dupont's tone softened a bit. "I understand this news is hard to digest. If you'd like, I can refer you to a specialist for a second opinion—"
"No," Dominic interrupted.
The doctor paused. "Is there someone you'd like us to reach out to? Family? A loved one?"
Family.
Clara.
His sister, the prosecutor. The one person who had spent years trying to bring down men like him.
And Isabella.
But she wasn't family. She wasn't even really a friend. She knew him as Antonio Leoni, a businessman who had settled in her village only recently. She didn't know the ghosts he carried. She didn't know about the man he used to be.
And she never would.
"No," Dominic said, his voice resolute. "There's no one."
Dupont studied him for a long moment.
"I understand," he finally said. "Then I will respect your wishes."
Dominic stood, adjusting his sleeve cuffs. "Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your time.
"Monsieur Leoni—"
"I'll see myself out."
With that, Dominic turned and exited, leaving the burden of his death sentence behind in the stillness of the sterile, white office.
Drowning in Silence
The return drive to his villa felt distinct. Longer. Heavier.
He wasn't afraid of dying. That was the peculiar part. He had made peace with death long ago.
What unsettled him was its abruptness.
A year.
What on earth does a man do with a year?
By the time he entered his villa, the sun was setting over the cliffs, enveloping the world in shades of orange and red.
He poured himself a drink—whiskey, dark and smooth—then sat in silence, gazing at the swirling reflection of the liquor in his glass.
For the first time in his life, he felt powerless.
Everything he had built would amount to nothing.
His investments, his meticulously crafted empire under Antonio Leoni—they were merely figures on a page. They wouldn't save him.
So why keep them?
His thoughts wandered back to Palermo, to the streets where he had etched his name in blood and power.
There was significance in those days, even if it was perverse. Power meant purpose. Control equated to survival. Every action was intentional. Each choice bore importance.
And now?
He had exchanged power for solitude, control for anonymity—and what did that leave him with?
Nothing.
A quiet village in France where no one truly recognized him. A life crafted under a false identity. A woman—Isabella—who barely tolerated him on most days and didn't understand the man he genuinely was.
And now, he anticipated death within a year.
If this was the conclusion, had he really escaped anything at all?
The Call to Marcello
His grip tightened around his phone.
Marcello Russo could make anything disappear. People, businesses, entire lives.
Perhaps that was the solution.
Perhaps it was time to let it all go.
He scrolled through his contacts until he found the name. Marcello Russo.
His thumb hovered over the call button.
But he hesitated.
A small voice in his head asked, What are you really trying to achieve?
He wasn't sure.
Was he seeking to erase everything, to completely vanish before the illness overtook him?
Or was he trying to flee—not from his past this time, but from the fear of dying without purpose?
Before he could find an answer, he pressed the button.
The line rang twice before Marcello's smooth voice broke the silence.
"Antonio."
"Marcello."
"I was starting to think you'd vanished entirely. You never call me first."
something taken care of."
"Of course. What's on your mind?"
Dominic leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling. "I want to sell everything."
A pause followed, then a soft chuckle. "Everything?"
"Yes."
"Well," Marcello pondered, "that's an intriguing decision. I thought you were settling into your new life."
"Circumstances change."
Marcello was silent for a long moment, then sighed. "Alright. Your hotel chains will be easy to sell—there's always demand for high-end real estate. The energy companies might take longer, though. Tech startups… their sale will depend on the buyers."
"I don't care how long it takes. Just make it happen."
"Consider it done." Marcello paused again. "But before we proceed, let me ask you something, Antonio—are you certain?"
Dominic clenched his jaw.
"Just take care of it, Marcello."
"As you wish."
The call ended.
Dominic tossed the phone onto his desk and leaned forward, rubbing a hand over his face.
It was settled.
Or so he thought.
Doubts and Shadows
Yet doubt crept in almost immediately.
He had made the call, given the order—so why did he feel so unsettled?
He had anticipated relief. Closure.
Instead, he felt like a man standing on the brink of a cliff, ready to leap, yet unable to shake the sense that he was making a grave mistake.
Because, deep down, he knew the reality.
This wasn't merely about money.
It was about meaning.
And if he sold everything now, it would be an admission that none of it had ever held value.
That he had never held value.
The thought caused his chest to tighten, his heart racing against his ribs.
Was this genuinely what he wanted?
Or was this merely fear disguised as a decision?
An Unplanned Encounter
Needing fresh air, Dominic left the villa and drove into the village. He had no specific destination in mind, just the urge to escape his own thoughts.
That was when he spotted her.
Isabella.
She was sitting at an outdoor café, sketchbook open, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her auburn hair tumbled in loose waves over her shoulder, and for a moment, she appeared almost untouchable—a woman immersed in her world, unfazed by life's chaos.
He should have walked past.
But he didn't.
Instead, he approached, casting a shadow over her table.
"You seem serious," he murmured.
She looked up, startled. Her green eyes flickered with recognition before narrowing slightly.
"Antonio." She partially closed her sketchbook. "Didn't picture you as someone who enjoys village cafés."
"I didn't envision myself that way either."
A brief silence followed.
Then, to his surprise, she motioned to the empty seat across from her.
"Take a seat, then. Since you're here."
Dominic hesitated.
He shouldn't.
But he did.
For the next hour, they chatted. Not about him, his past, or the turmoil within him, but about trivialities—the café, the villagers, her frustration with how her latest painting was turning out.
And for the first time that day, his mind quieted.
At one point, Isabella tilted her head slightly, studying him.
"You seem… off," she stated bluntly.
Dominic smirked a little, deflecting. "Do I?"
"Yes. Something's troubling you."
He exhaled slowly.
"Do you ever feel like you invested effort into something that meant nothing?" he asked before he could stop himself.
Isabella frowned. "What do you mean?"
Dominic hesitated. He couldn't divulge the whole truth—not all of it.
"I spent years creating something I believed mattered. Now I question if it was all for nothing."
She was silent for a moment. Then she leaned forward slightly.
"It only matters if you believe it does," she said simply. "You get to decide that."
Her words settled in his chest, weaving through the storm inside him.
"Maybe," he replied.
And for the first time that day, he wasn't certain if selling everything was indeed the right choice after all.
A Decision Left Hanging
That night, Dominic stood at the edge of his terrace, gazing out at the endless horizon.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
A message from Marcello.
Buyers are lined up. Everything can be finalized within the next month. Let me know when to proceed.
Dominic stared at the message for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he typed a response.
Hold off on everything. I need to reconsider this.
He pressed send and exhaled.
For the first time in days, the oppressive weight of his decision felt just a bit lighter.
Maybe Isabella was right.
Maybe it did matter.
Maybe, just maybe…
He still had something worth holding onto