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“You think he’s planning something against us?”
“If he is, he has underestimated us,” I reply.
He has underestimated me.
My father's voice resonates in my mind. In our world, they'll underestimate you for your age. You must show your strength where it matters, Tommaso. Power isn't just in muscle; it's in strategy, in seizing the right moments.
I close my eyes, allowing the words to wash over me. He imparted these lessons with a gravity that left an indelible mark on my understanding of the Mafia's intricacies.
I think about Mauro's move. It feels like a direct challenge to my youth, an attempt to exploit perceived weakness. If he wants war, war it is.
Francesco's voice cuts through the silence, pulling me back. "You gave the owner more time for the sum?"
I meet Francesco's gaze, a frown on his face. "More time and a reminder.’
As I utter the words, the scene replays in my mind – the owner on his knees, the presence of my men, and the gasp I heard from the partially open door of his office. My instincts set me on alert.
I remember sending my men to investigate, to check if someone had witnessed the meeting. Yet, the doorways remained empty, and they reported that no one was there. I feel vexed. There was someone. My mind races through scenarios.
Could Mauro have sent someone to spy on our dealing? The car comes to a halt outside The Odeon’s private entrance.
‘You good?’ Francesco eyes me with concern. I nod, dismissing my doubts.
“Yeah. We can’t afford any surprises. Keep the men alert.”
“Roger.” The night air hits me as I step out of the car.
I go straight to my room. I unbutton my shirt and look for my phone. I make a phone call to Dante, to assemble more men on the territories. I look at my face in the mirror. And the reflection of my father's portrait behind me. I look at my own face again, and search for the legacy of Tiberio Verga.
I see darkness. Rage. Coldness. His absence is a grievance I have learned to live with. But it gnaws at me at times I’m alone. Makes me question my calibre. Makes me question my position as the head of his empire.
With a clenched jaw, I survey myself in the mirror and see a coy leader grappling with the shadows that threaten to consume him and his family. I hate it.
The legacy I inherited is my pride and my responsibility. I will have blood on my hands if I start this war. I hear Tiberio's voice, an echo from the past, urging me to safeguard what he built. I can’t let frailty take over. I cannot, will not, gamble with my family’s legacy and safety. I will have to be the monster I don’t want to be.
I avert my eyes from myself, as my heart thumps faster. I feel my rage taking hold of me. In a moment of frustration, I kick the armchair beside the bed, a futile attempt to vent the rising storm within. The clash reverberates in the quiet room. I squeeze my eyes shut as the echo fades and sit on the edge of the bed, grappling with the complexity of my choices. Conflicting emotions course through my veins - the longing for the past, the burden of the present, and the uncertain contours of the future.
I let myself sink into the bed. I feel something under my neck and twist to see what it is. I see a red hair tie lying close to my pillow. I pick it up, and twirl it gently between calloused fingers.
It’s hers.
‘Ella’ I whisper her name, looking at the small, forgotten relic. I immediately sit up straight, recalling the night she was in my bed.
I recall her eyes. Deep, intriguing blue. I recall her face, her kiss, her questions.
My thoughts involuntarily gravitate towards her, distracting me from everything else. A thrill of excitement mixed with arousal come back to me at the thought of her, the way her chestnut hair fell in loose waves and how I wrapped them around my fist to pull at them, the playful smile and how it took the shape of a small “o” as she came on my mouth, the challenging tone of her remarks in contrast with her begging for my cock. I open my fingers and let the hair tie slide itself to my wrist. It's a small, intimate piece of her that now rests in my hands.
The only reminder that she was here. I walk towards my study, taking a bottle of whiskey with me. Leaning back in my chair, I survey the room. Imagining her, naked, raw, vulnerable, and ever so beautiful. The need to find her tugs at me.
I regret not having asked for her phone number. I wish I had gathered something more than fragments. I try to recall the name of the magazine she works for, but my mind is too clouded.
I chug the drink from the glass and look at the hair tie on my wrist.
I think I miss her.
I am jolted awake by the incessant buzzing of my phone.
My head is heavy, and my body feels stiff from the uncomfortable slumber in the armchair. Rubbing my tired eyes, I fumble for the device on the mahogany table.
