Page 3 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
We are useful to them, now, working as we do, as operatives in the shadows.
So, we became conduits for deals that require old bloodlines and older loyalties.
Our businesses still run, our hands still dip into the streams of wealth flowing through this city, but always with an invisible leash drawn taut around our throats.
But, to his credit, Luca Salvatore is ruthless, but not unkind.
He values his assets.
I turn onto the private drive, the tires crunching over pale gravel.
Cypress trees line the path solemnly, their silhouettes needle-like against the moonless sky.
The building rises ahead, a sprawling villa of pale stone and wrought-iron balconies, its windows glowing with warm light.
Not opulent anymore, not ostentatious.
Just enough.
Just respectable enough to look like dignity, just humble enough to look like gratitude.
I kill the engine and sit for a moment, breathing in time along with the ticking of the cooling metal.
From here, the house looks almost untouched by the wars that gutted this city’s underworld.
But I know better.
The real wounds are not written on walls or gardens.
They are written in the silence that fills a home once crowded with brothers and fathers and uncles who lived too recklessly.
They are written in the empty chairs at the long dining table, in the echoing corridors where no one shouts anymore.
Heels press softly into the stone as I cross the wide drive toward the front door.
The night carries a faint chill, and rain begins to fall, steady and cold against my shoulders.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks, loud and sudden, before falling silent again.
The door swings open before I reach it.
Renato steps out with an umbrella already in hand, moving faster than I’d expect from someone his age.
His hair is more silver than I remember, his frame a little thinner, but his eyes still hold that old sharpness.
He lifts the umbrella over me, shielding me from the worst of it as we reach the steps.
Inside, he takes my damp jacket and offers a folded towel.
I press it to my neck and then to the side of my face, drying the worst of it while he stands quietly nearby.
"Thank you, Renato."
He understands dismissal better than most, and retreats wordlessly.
Left to my own devices, I look around me.
The marble floors are spotless, but the chandelier overhead is a relic that has seen better days.
