Page 24 of Beneath the Shadows

I shift in my seat to look out the window, watching the clouds pass by.

“This will be a new chapter for me,” he murmurs. “A chance for me to build my empire.”

I bite back a sigh. It's always about him—his power, his ambitions. I wonder where I fit into his plans and how much it'll cost me.

Antonio

"Is he downstairs?" I ask Guido, one of our newer soldiers who’s guarding the entrance.

"He is. Dante brought him in through the back entrance about twenty minutes ago."

Salvatore, the man waiting downstairs, owes a substantial gambling debt—a debt that, like his arrogance and disregard for our warnings, has become quite an annoyance. The hum of voices inside blends with the clink of glasses, a stark contrast to the tension simmering below.

Adjusting the collar of my jacket, I feel the weight of the night settling over us. This issue with Salvatore should’ve been dealt with weeks ago, but Vigo insisted Dante accompany him and Alessia on their honeymoon, delaying everything. Now that Dante's back, it’s time to get to work.

"Let's move," I say as I lead the way down a narrow staircase. Each step echoes in the confined space, a harbinger of the confrontation awaiting us below. We pass through our meeting room into an unfinished section of the basement where harsh, flickering overhead bulbs cast a sickly, uneven glow across the space.

At a battered table in the corner sits Salvatore, his posture tense as he nervously taps ashes from a cigarette that burns low between his fingers. He looks up as we approach, his eyes widening with a mix of fear and defiance.

"Antonio," he starts, his voice shaky but attempting to muster some semblance of bravado. "I've been trying to explain to Dante that I just need a little more time, and I'll have your money. This is all overkill."

I stop a few feet away, my gaze fixed on him, cold and unwavering. This is where I’m in my element. There’s a strange satisfaction in the rhythm of it all. The way things unfold, the certainty of consequence. It’s not about power but the process and precision. The understanding that in our world, everything has a price.

"You've had more than enough time," I reply evenly.

“My little girl was sick,” he blurts out too fast, giving away his lie. “I needed the extra cash to take care of her.” He stabs out his cigarette on the table.

I tilt my head and lower my voice with fake sympathy. “Why didn’t you come to me? I’d never deny a child medical treatment.”

He shifts in his seat, uneasy. “Yeah, I should’ve called you. I’ll know for next time,” he says, moving to stand. Dante shoves him back into the chair, holding him down by the shoulders.

“But you didn’t call me? Did you? No. You disappeared.” Leaning forward, I plant my hands on the table. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“No, Antonio,” he stammers, his eyes darting nervously between Dante and me. “You know I don’t.”

“Then why lie to me about a child you don’t have?” I ask, my voice lethally quiet.

"I made a mistake. I can get the money, I swear," he insists, desperation seeping into his voice. "Just give me a few days?—"

"Enough," I cut him off sharply. "I’ve given you more chances than you deserve. Now you come into my house and lie to my face. It's time to settle up."

Salvatore’s shoulders slump in defeat, the weight of his situation pressing down on him like a vice. "You don't have to do this," he pleads. "I just need a little more money for a game tonight. Then, I’ll be able to pay you everything I owe. Please, Antonio?—"

I meet his gaze with unwavering determination. "It's too late for second chances," I say firmly, my voice echoing in the basement's stagnant air. "Let's get this over with, Dante. I have other things to do tonight."

The room falls silent, except for the shuffle of footsteps and the quiet rasp of Salvatore's uneven breaths. Dante drags him from his chair, forcing him to his knees. I remain poised, watching with a mix of resolve and regret. This is the price of defiance in our world—a world where debts are settled with finality and loyalty is forged through actions, not words.

Salvatore begs and pleads for his life while I pull my Glock 19 from its holster, screwing the silencer in place. The click of the magazine snapping into place echoes in the small room.

My father’s always on my case to use one of our unmarked guns to make sure nothing’s ever traced back to me. I understand his concern, but I have complete faith in our men. They make sure there’s a thorough clean-up and that the bodies are never found. Their meticulous work is why I feel entirely at ease using my own gun.

Turning, I lift my arm, aim at the man who now has a wet spot down his leg, and pull the trigger. His body slumps to the floor as blood pools around him. Calmly, I click the safety into place and remove the silencer, passing it to Dante before holstering my gun.

Without a word, I turn and leave the room. The night outside feels still, a stark contrast to the cold finality inside, but to me, it’s just another debt settled. Another reminder of what it means to cross the ComisoFamiglia.

Alessia

My eyes open, and for a moment I'm disoriented. Pushing up on my elbows, I glance around the still unfamiliar room. Even though Val and I have been back for several weeks, it still doesn’t feel like my home. The decor is extravagant, every room meticulously arranged, but it all feels cold and impersonal—like I’m a guest in someone else’s life rather than living my own.

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