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As we ride back from the summit, the city lights painting streaks of color on the windows, my mind tries to understand the paradox the man sitting next to me is. He's a mafia boss, yet here he is, a revered hero. Everyone worships him.
I steal glances at him, the cityscape reflecting in his eyes. I look at his sharp jawline and the perfectly set curls. He’s handsome. I’ll give him that. But it's confusing—how a man in his position commands not just obedience but respect and even adulation.
The people we encountered at the summit treated him like a king, and it wasn't merely out of fear. There's something more, something I can't quite understand.
The silence between us amplifies my thoughts. On one side, there's the ruthless mafia boss—the one who can make or break lives with a nod, the one who asked his men to beat the helpless restaurant owner over some due fee. On the other, there's the charismatic figure, the one people around him look up to.
“You were silent the whole time we were there, is everything ok?” he looks at me suddenly.
“Mhm.” I nod, still pensive.
“You surprise me, Ella. Not a lot of people do.” He says out of nowhere. “No one’s ever had the nerve to do what you did. But I don’t think you dislike the consequences of that.” He smirks.
“Well, you’ve surprised me too,” I admit.
He looks at me from the corner of his eyes. "So you’ve started to enjoy your time with me?"
I arch an eyebrow. "Perhaps."
He chuckles. "Ooh. Somebody is at the brink of losing a bet."
I narrow my eyes at him. "Keep dreaming." I scoff, waving off his words. "You've got a high opinion of yourself."
He smirks, enjoying himself. "Well, it's not arrogance if it's the truth. And the truth is, you're finding it harder to resist me by the minute."
I roll my eyes, not willing to concede defeat. "Harder to resist? Please. Your ego, God. I'm not falling for your mind games."
He leans back, with a satisfied grin. "Just wait. You might find yourself changing your tune sooner than you think." I cross my arms and stay quiet. As we step into the lavish living area of his penthouse, I can't help but feel a pang of discomfort.
Tommaso gestures for me to take a seat, but the atmosphere is thick with unspoken tension. He breaks the silence, his eyes fixed on me, demanding an explanation for my pensiveness.
"What's going on in that head of yours?" His voice is sedated.
“You have showed me the good side. But what about the one I saw earlier?” How do I tell him I still fear him when I have flashbacks of the restaurant? “You are the same man. I can’t let go of that calm expression you had on your face when your men beat up the poor chef.” I avert my eyes from him. Disgusted. Again.
I take a moment before continuing. "Your world, Tommaso. The Mafia. The… the violence, it’s disturbing. And I look at you, and I…" My voice trails off. I don’t want to make myself look weak.
“And you?” he drawls.
“I look at you and see the monster I wrote about. You scare me.”
He leans back, studying me with a penetrating gaze, then loosens the tie around his neck. "Fear is a natural reaction. But it's not as offbeat as it seems." Not as offbeat? That’s his way of justifying violence?
He notices the look on my face and continues, “Ella, it’s not some action movie for me. I operate how I do because I have to.” I still don’t understand it. I can't shake off the images of what I've heard and read about the Mafia, the brutality, the ruthlessness.
"It's not just fear of the unknown. It's the cruelty, the consequences. It terrifies me." He doesn't deny it; instead, he acknowledges it.
"The Cosa Nostra operates in shades of gray. Violence is a tool, not a first choice. A means to an end, I’d say."
The weight of his words hangs in the air, and I press further. "But innocent people get hurt. Is that justifiable?" His sigh echoes in the room.
"No, it's not justifiable. Innocence should be protected, but the lines blur, and decisions become complicated. But more often than not, the people involved are not completely innocent. Many have chosen to become entangled with organized crime, in search for wealth, power, protection or their personal interest, whatever that may be." It’s sickening.
I look at him, searching for sincerity. "You're not involved in the worst of it?"
His gaze meets mine, steady and unwavering. "I strive for balance, Ella. Violence is a tool I use when necessary, not recklessly." So he is involved in the worst of it. Suddenly I think of the blasts in Santee Alley. I saw them on the news.
"Do you know about the blasts at Santee Alley?" The words escape my lips, hesitant and fearful. I watch Tommaso's face closely for any flicker of guilt or acknowledgment. His expression remains unreadable for a moment before a dark hint of contemplation clouds his eyes.
