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My associates are already waiting for me in the main room. I need to show them I'm still in control, even if inside I'm a mess.
"Alright, let's get down to business," I announce, clapping my hands together. "Nico, any updates on our new shipment?"
"Everything's on schedule, boss," Nico replies, his voice steady. "It'll be here by the end of the week."
"Good," I nod, trying to immerse myself in the details of our operation. I need the distraction. We discuss plans for distribution and protection, and I make sure every member of my crew understands their role.
It helps, but only a little. Every now and then, her face flashes before my eyes, and I have to force myself to concentrate.
"Boss, we've got an issue with one of our suppliers," says Marco, cutting into my thoughts. "He's asking for more money."
"Then deal with it," I snap, irritated by the interruption. "You know what to do."
"Of course, Stefano," he replies, hastily retreating from my anger.
As the day goes on, I try to keep my mind occupied with the countless tasks that come with being a mob boss. I oversee deals and collections, negotiate with suppliers, and settle disputes among my crew.
But no matter how hard I try, I can't escape the feeling that something is missing – or rather, someone.
"Damn it, Isabella," I mutter under my breath, my hands clenched into fists. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"
But she won't, not as long as she remains an unresolved issue in my life. And I know deep down that I need to do something about it. What that something is, however, still eludes me.
The sun dips below the horizon, casting an orange glow across the city skyline. I lean against my office window, staring out at the world, trying to ignore the gnawing emptiness inside me.
"Stefano," a voice interrupts my thoughts. I turn to see a group of mafioso entering my office, their faces set in grim determination. "We need to talk about Isabella Torres."
"Isabella?" The mention of her name sends a jolt through me. "What about her?"
"Her never making herself present here isn't enough," says one of them, a burly man with a thick beard and narrow eyes. "She's still a threat to our organization. We demand justice."
"Justice?" I scoff. "You mean you want vengeance."
"Call it what you will," another mafioso interjects, his fingers drumming impatiently on the back of a nearby chair. "But we can't let her get away with what she's done, killing our Capo. She needs to die."
"Enough!" I roar, slamming my fist on my desk. "This is not about justice. This is about your petty need for revenge!"
"But Stefano—" one of them tries to argue.
"Silence!" My heart pounds in my chest as my anger boils over. "Do you think I don't know what happened? Do you think I don't understand the pain and loss that you feel? But this... This will only lead us down a path of destruction. Killing Isabella won't bring back those we've lost. It won't heal the wounds that have been inflicted."
"Then what do you suggest we do?" the burly man asks, his voice barely concealing his frustration. "Just let her walk away?"
"Listen to yourselves!" I exclaim, pacing back and forth, my mind racing with a thousand conflicting thoughts. "You're blinded by hatred and the need for revenge. You're no better than those who seek to destroy us!"
"Stefano, we—" one of them starts, but I cut him off.
"Enough!" I repeat, my voice cold and unforgiving. "I will not let you tear this organization apart with your selfish desires. Isabella is not our enemy. She's a pawn in a larger game that we cannot afford to lose sight of."
My words hang heavy in the air as they exchange uneasy glances, their desire for bloodshed momentarily quelled by my outburst. But I know it won't be long before the whispers start again, before their hunger for vengeance returns.
"Get out," I order, my eyes never leaving theirs. "All of you."
They comply without another word, shuffling out of my office, but just before they leave, one of the men whispers to me, "Boss, there's talk of mutiny if you don't act. Just thought you should know."
I stand, shocked and slam the desk in front of me. "Who said what?"
The air is thick with the scent of sweat and cheap cologne as I stride into the dimly lit bar within the compound, our daily watering hole, my eyes scanning the room for the mafioso who dared to defy me.
