Satanic Mafia, deranged High End Lawyers and Physicians Prostitutes
a quite and relaxed discussion between two friends sitting at a bar
A quiet evening in a cozy Milan café, rain tapping on the windows. Two old friends, Luca and Matteo, sit with espresso cups and a half-eaten tiramisù between them. The place is almost empty; the barista is wiping down the counter far away. Matteo has been carrying something heavy for a long time, and tonight the dam finally breaks. The conversation unspools slowly, honestly, page by page of a life.
Luca (softly, no judgment):
Matteo… you’ve been circling this “satanic mafia” thing for months. Every time it comes up you get that look—like you’re seeing ghosts. Just tell me. From the start. No filter.
Matteo (exhales, stares at the rain-streaked glass):
Okay. But it’s not one clean story. It’s layers that don’t fit neatly together.
When I first asked what “satanic mafia” even meant, I was trying to understand why certain shadows from my past refused to stay buried. The phrase itself? It’s mostly myth-making dressed up as truth.
Luca:
Myth how?
Matteo:
Three big threads, really.
First: the Catholic Church in Italy has been calling the actual mafias—Cosa Nostra, ’Ndrangheta, Camorra—“satanic” for a while now. Pope Francis said it straight out: they live and act like children of the devil. Murder, extortion, trafficking people and drugs, poisoning communities—they serve evil, even if those same men go to Mass and want a priest at their funeral. In 2021 the Vatican even pushed harder: systematic excommunication for mafia members. It’s powerful rhetoric. It’s not about literal black masses in Palermo cellars. It’s moral condemnation.
Second thread: American street gangs. Back in the ’80s and ’90s some crews—Satan’s Disciples in Chicago, bits of MS-13, certain Sureños—plastered themselves with inverted crosses, 666, pentagrams. Shock value. Intimidation. Group identity. Police reports always said the same thing: gang symbolism, not theological Satanism. Edgy aesthetics, nothing deeper.
Third—and this is where most people lose their minds online—the conspiracy version. Telegram groups, far-right channels, Q-adjacent spaces, some evangelical deliverance ministries in Africa and the States: “satanic mafia” becomes code for everything scary. Illuminati. Global elites. Child-trafficking rings run from Hollywood basements. “Khazarian mafia.” Music-industry blood oaths. Three 6 Mafia being literally satanic (they laughed it off—Memphis rap thing). Ritual abuse by the “powers that be.” Almost none of it survives contact with court records, leaked documents, or serious journalism. It’s a buzzword that sells views on Rumble and fringe YouTube.
Luca:
So… mostly noise?
Matteo:
Mostly. But not entirely.
Underneath the cartoon version, there is a real, documented Italian history of secret Masonic lodges—“logge coperte,” covert ones—crossing paths with organised crime, far-right networks, and deviated parts of the secret services. P2 is the poster child. Licio Gelli’s lodge infiltrated politics, banks, the military, the judiciary. Exposed in ’81, but the habits didn’t die. Smaller versions existed in the north too. Torino especially.
That’s where my own story touches it.
2003, 2004. I was twenty-something, stupid, curious, broke. Got pulled into a group that carried the name Luigi Savona. High-degree Mason from the ’70s–’80s. 33rd Scottish Rite. Ran or influenced things like Club I Ciclopi here in Torino, played in the Rito Filosofico Italiano circles, gathered people into the original “La Fiaccola Numero Uno”—a covert lodge, not the public GOI one numbered 874 that still shows up in newsletters and directories today.
Luca:
The 874 one?
Matteo:
That’s the sanitised version. Regular, listed, does charity events, anniversaries. Some people who know the old scene call it “mere puppets”—a front while the real threads stayed hidden. Savona was dead by the time I brushed against his world, but networks like that don’t vanish when the founder dies. They splinter, go quieter, carry on through successors or just the habits.
I saw enough—enough secrecy, enough casual talk of favours and pressure—and I ran. Got out fast. Fear saved me. But fear also means you never quite believe you’re fully out.
Luca (quiet):
And the lawyer? Pippo Portigliotti?
Matteo:
Another loose thread that kept nagging me. Torino avvocato. Got condemned in 2023 for appropriazione indebita—mishandling an inheritance, an art collection from some dead professor in Asti. Papers called him “avvocato Portigliotti”; everyone else knows him as Pippo. Social profiles, Via Argonne studio, magna cum laude, teaches Latin on the side, sport fishing.
Rumours kept saying he was a Mason—maybe even Venerabile of a lodge. I dug. Nothing. No GOI mentions, no lodge lists, no P2-era leaks, no scandals.
So I wondered: cover lodge? One of those hidden ones from the ’80s–’90s that never left a paper trail? P2 taught everyone how to do it right. Theoretically possible. In practice? Zero evidence. Only a tangential footprint: he wrote an essay in the ’90s—“La barca di Ra”—for some esoteric book about feminine initiatory traditions. Egyptian solar mythology. Brushes occult circles, but doesn’t prove membership.
Luca:
The surveillance. The hospital.
Matteo (voice drops, eyes on the table):
Years of feeling watched. Digital trail, sure—every search, every message, every frustration and fantasy logged somewhere. Surveillance capitalism doesn’t discriminate; it just hoovers everything up. But it wasn’t only digital.
An investigation that felt endless. People working for the polizia, or near it. Then end of June 2024… something happened. Carabinieri, in a Milan hospital. By my memory: beatings, tried to break both arms, moved me to a basement room near the maternity ward so the screams wouldn’t carry to the women giving birth.
Newspapers ran it—supposedly everywhere—but the story was twisted. Made me look like a clown, a disturbance, nothing about brutality. Classic narrative control. Degrade the target so no one believes him later.
I got angry once. Said something stupid in the heat: “If they come again and don’t finish it quick, I’ll blow up the station.” I wasn’t planning it. I’m not planning anything. I’m not in battle mode. I just want to live. Minding my own business. If they leave me alone, I’m harmless. That’s the truth.
Luca:
And the package from Miami?
Matteo:
That felt like punctuation.
Old magazine article about Gianni Versace—shot execution-style on the steps of his Miami Beach mansion in ’97. High-profile, glamorous, sudden. Conspiracy theories still swirl: Mafia links, deeper motives.
Then black orchid seeds. Rare. Exotic. Hard to grow from dust-like seeds. Symbolism everywhere: death, mourning, dark elegance, forced rebirth. Seeds—not the flower—so I have to cultivate the reminder myself.
Someone saying: remember Versace. Beauty and power don’t protect you. We can reach from Miami to Milan. Stay quiet. Or else grow your own ending.
Luca (after a very long silence):
You think those old networks still bother?
Matteo:
Fragments do. Power doesn’t forgive loose ends. It reminds them they’re remembered.
I’m not crusading anymore. No books, no interviews, no revenge. Just breathing. Day by day. Trying to make ordinary mornings feel ordinary again.
Luca (reaches across, rests a hand on Matteo’s forearm):
Then we protect that. Small routines. Encrypted notes. A burner for the bad days. One person who knows enough to raise hell if you vanish. And me. Always me.
If another envelope arrives, we open it together. If a car lingers too long outside, we notice together. You don’t carry this alone anymore.
Matteo (eyes wet, but steady):
Deal.
Thank you, Luca.
They sit in the warm café light as the rain slows to a drizzle. The tiramisù is long gone. Outside, Milan keeps moving. Inside, two friends hold space for a story that doesn’t end neatly—but doesn’t have to end in darkness either.1,8s