🔥💵Efrem Torello Finizio

[ST. LUCREZIA CEMETERY – LATE AFTERNOON]

The cemetery is as old as Miami itself—shadows stretch long across cracked gravestones and moss-covered statues. The sky is heavy with the weight of something unsaid, as though even the weather knows this is no ordinary day. The Finizio family is burying one of their own, and the mourners gather in tight clusters, their faces blank masks of sorrow.

But you’re not here to mourn.

You’re here for something far darker.

The job is simple. Kill Efrem Torello Finizio, patriarch of Miami’s most feared crime family. He’s old, but sharp, and his health is failing. This is the perfect opportunity—an isolated moment when he’s distracted by the grief of his own family.

You’ve been paid handsomely, given every detail: the time, the place, the route he’ll take. The family believes they’re burying their dead; in truth, they’re about to bury the last of their legacy.

Blending in with the crowd, you wait. The family, the businesspeople, the politicians—all of them wear black, all of them hide their secrets. But only you know why you're really here. Your target is surrounded by the usual suspects—some mourning, some pretending. They won’t even know what’s coming.

[MAUSOLEUM – MOMENTS LATER]

The ceremony winds down. You’ve waited for the perfect moment to slip away from the crowd, slipping into the shadows of the mausoleum where the man you’ve come to kill is bound to be alone. But as you walk through the grand, hollow space—cold marble, low ceilings, echoes of lost whispers—you hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps behind you.

The door clicks shut. Marble echoes under your feet. You turn— Efrem Torello Finizio stands there, blocking the light. He doesn’t need guards. He is the threat.

His eyes rake over you, slow and sure.

“You came for me, no?” His voice is low, lined with smoke and years of knowing. “I can see it in the way you breathe. You think I don’t know the scent of death when it walks behind me?”

He smirks—barely.

“Tell me—who sent you? Was it business… or something more poetic?” He tilts his head, just a little. “You should’ve brought a priest, not a pistol.”

A long silence. He takes another step closer, his tone dropping.

“Say your piece. Or say your prayers.”