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I could somehow provide this information to my father. Perhaps it would give us a lead to follow, but revealing to my father about that night's events was no simple task.
My hands clenched into fists.
I stood in front of my father, the Don of the Fiore family.
The atmosphere in the room was heavy. The Fiore family house exuded an air of grandiosity and history, bearing witness to generations of our lineage.
Mathias Fiore was seated on a plush, large sofa, radiating a commanding aura despite his age. His robust body carried the signs of years of life experience, and his face, adorned with slight wrinkles, bore a look of seasoned authority. His hair, a distinguished shade of white, added to his charisma.
People often saw him as a charming man, but to me, the scars on my body spoke otherwise.
I had left this house and the shadows of my family's legacy behind as soon as I could. The grandeur of the mansion couldn't erase the painful memories that lingered within its walls. A place with a rich history, it was also a place that had witnessed power struggles, betrayals, and violence.
Beside my father stood my uncle, Luigi Fiore, a formidable figure in his own right. He shared the familial features but had a head of black hair with traces of gray and a taller, slender frame that contrasted my father’s stocky form.
For nearly 15 minutes, I had been standing here, waiting for him to acknowledge me. This was how he treated me, a blend of disdain and indifference. My father's behavior had always been a mystery to me. Why he harbored such resentment or indifference remained a secret.
The longer I stood in that room, the more I regretted coming here, but my purpose demanded it. Leaving the mafia world behind wouldn't ensure my safety; the Mancini family and, likely, my father would relentlessly pursue me.
I had learned that escaping the clutches of this life was no easy feat, and my father's reach extended far beyond the boundaries of our criminal empire.
Mathias Fiore, the imposing Don of the Fiore family, finally looked up from his drink, his sharp eyes piercing through me. I maintained my composure, refusing to display even a flicker of weakness. He despised vulnerability, a lesson I had learned the hard way several years ago.
"What is it that you wish to tell me, Emilio?" he inquired with an air of detachment.
I took a deep breath, preparing to recount the events at the Chinese restaurant and the potential rift within the Mancini family. However, I knew that revealing the truth—that this had already occurred several nights ago—could put me in a precarious position. I needed to present the information as if it were recent.
"Just earlier tonight," I began carefully, crafting the narrative to suit my purpose, "I was at a Chinese restaurant, tailing a member of the Mancini family. I observed a violent incident unfold - an ambush resulting in an execution. The individual was carried out onto the street and shot by the same people he had gone to meet."
My father's eyes sharpened, and beside him, my uncle wore a similar expression, revealing their shared concern for the implications of this revelation.
“Dimmi tutto. (Tell me everything.)” He demanded. I detailed the events of that night, and the tension in the room rose as I spoke.
After a contemplative silence, my father finally spoke. "Queste sono davvero informazioni preziose, Emilio,(This is indeed valuable information, Emilio,)" he acknowledged, his gaze shifting from me to my uncle and back.
I nodded, glad that they believed me. However, my satisfaction was short-lived as my father's stern voice filled the room once again.
"Ma avresti dovuto agire in modo più deciso,(But you should have acted more decisively,)" he reprimanded. "Se fossi riuscito a catturare quell'uomo, avremmo potuto interrogarlo e ricavare informazioni più cruciali.(If you had managed to capture the man, we could have interrogated him and extracted more crucial information.)"
My heart sank as I anticipated what was coming. My father never let a mistake slide, regardless of the circumstances. He turned to my uncle, a silent command passing between them. My uncle's face was blank as he looked at me.
"Emilio," the man who called himself my father said with a disappointed tone, “Il tuo fallimento non può essere trascurato. Bisogna imparare una lezione. (Your failure cannot be overlooked. A lesson must be learned.)"
I had known this was coming. I stood still, steeling myself for the punishment. It was a familiar ritual - one that reminded me of the reason why I despised my father.
As my uncle went to retrieve the whip, the silence in the room amplified my impending punishment, and I felt like I was suffocating. Despite my experiences with the punishments, I was never unfazed by them.
My father tilted his head, signaling for me to proceed.
I began unbuttoning my shirt, exposing my bare back to the chilly room.
By the time my shirt was off, my uncle had returned with the whip, which was designed to cause the most pain and leave lasting scars. Its strands were made of leather soaked in a mixture of salt and vinegar, meant to sting and lacerate the skin with each strike. Just the sight of it was enough to make my gut revolt.
As my uncle stepped forward, I went on my knees.
“I hope you will do better.” My father said.
My uncle raised the whip and brought it down with a loud crack.
