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☾︎❤︎☽︎❤︎☾︎❤︎☽︎❤︎☾︎❤︎☽︎❤︎☾︎❤︎☽︎❤︎☾︎❤︎☽︎❤︎☾︎❤︎☽︎❤︎

The black car was passing through the winding streets with incredible speed. The hounding man sitting on the back seat was holding a cigarette between calloused fingers, the ebony suit straining against his chest and shoulders.

"Signor Romano," the driver, Ciro, said in the security system at the gate. It opened immediately, and two guards were seen behind it. The car stopped and Ciro got out, gave up his gun to the men, and let them search him for any hidden weapons. Finding none, they stepped aside, and they continues their way to the house at the end of the route.

The glasses shone under the blazing heat of the sun, and the green of the garden popped up even more than usual. The white of the marble steps and the columns looked like it would burn anyone who touched it. The car halted smoothly in front of the winding steps, Ciro coming out to open the door for Signor Romano.

The double doors of the mansion opened and a small-figured girl with bright auburn hair up in a bun stood there, looking at her shoes. The man passed her without acknowledgment. He grunted, "Call him down. We have matters to speak of." The girl swallowed and nodded, closing the doors hurriedly.

The light was blinding, running into the room from the white see-through curtains of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was spacious, with a big bed against the wall and a grande TV opposite. Underneath was a bar with open whiskey and vodka bottles and glasses scattered all over. Above the bed stood an enormous mirror, with light coming from behind it, illuminating it.

Against the wall on the left, in front of two massive windows that had their blinds drawn down, positioned was a black leather couch, and a door leading to a walk-in closet was in the corner, while facing the bed, on its right, was another one, leading to the bathroom.

The walls were painted black, as were the bed sheets, on top of which lay a male figure. He seemed to be taking the whole space, his naked body in full view. He was quite handsome, albeit you could see his frown, and the jagged scars running along his back. He was positioned opposite to the sun, which did not allow the brightness to enter the rest of the room, adorning his head like a halo. His chest was moving rhythmically up and down, the muscles of his arms stretching accordingly, rippling the otherwise static moment.

A knock was heard at the door...

"Signor Romano, your father is here, sir," a female voice said. It was a soft one, the voice parents used to lullaby their little ones to sleep, and lovers to promise little nothings deep at night. The voice he was not accustomed to.

The man stirred in his sleep and sighed, as if understanding his rest was ending. Alas, he stayed still. His balanced breathing continued pouring into the room.

Another knock...

"Sir, can you hear me? Sir, your father said it is an important matter you need to discuss," the delicate voice said with more hesitation this time

"I can hear you, Martha. Tell him I'll be downstairs in a few minutes," the man said as he rose from the bed, sighing again.

He walked barefoot and nude to the bathroom, all his muscles tensing and flexing, the sun casting them a shadow that made him much more impending than he was. He entered the shower, turning the water to cold.

It was a habit that stayed with him since he was a boy, from the time he spent training. He pressed his forehead to the shower wall and let the water droplets slide down his body.

His back was massive, the scars running down both his shoulder blades, making him look like a fallen angel whose wings had been ripped from his body. No man would call him an angel, though.

He had small cuts and bruises all over his strong body, some new and some old that now permanently marred his skin. Both arms were tattooed, as was his back. On the inside of his right hand, one word was engraved, in a scribbled, child-like manner, that seemed to be removing some of its severity and savage meaning. That one word kept him awake night after night, again and again, trying to reconcile with the logical part of his brain that called him a monster, a sinner, a misfortune of the world. It was a daily battle to accept the true self in this destroyed form. Because this destruction would always be his ruin.

He had some more tattoos down on the back of his legs, ones that were of no importance to him, and some on the top of his neck that sometimes meant the world, and other times were painful reminders when looking at the mirror. He made it a point not to look very often.

"Sir, I'm sorry but your father-" the same voice said, in an apologetic tone

"Merda! Tell him to sit the fuck down and wait for me or I'll have his bloody balls on a silver platter fed to him!" He shouted at the poor girl behind the door who all but run down the stairs as if the devil was on her heels. Close enough.

He'd had enough. He knew what his Father wanted to say. He had the same talk with some other 'family friends', as they preferred to call themselves. Business associates. Everyone was pressuring him, guiding him, advising him. They were strangling him.

He turned the water off and stood there, his mind turning again and again to find a solution. He could not find one, but the obvious. As much as he tried, he couldn't find a way out. He had to do this to keep his head in the game while punching others down.

His nostrils flared at the idea, and losing control of his emotions, he punched the wall next to his face, the tile breaking from the force. Not being bothered in the least, he exited the bathroom, grabbed a towel on his way out to dry his body, and moved to the closet.

Everything was black, all his clothes, business suits, boxers, sweatshirts, pants. The exception was some of his button-up shirts, as he had purchased a few white ones and one or two blue ones. He opted for an Armani suit and a blue shirt since, today, he had to run by his office at the company and then to the warehouse for the new shipment from New York.

He put on his shoes, threw the towel to the floor, and put on one of his expensive watches while exiting the room.

He just then realized his right hand was profusely bleeding now and bruises were forming on his knuckles, the colors varying from yellow, to purple, to near-black. He stopped at the top of the stairs and stared at his hand, the blood continuing to flow, crusting on the open wounds.

He didn't feel the pain. Truth was, he had years to feel actual, bone-crushing pain and with this little injury, it seemed like a feather touched his hand. Like someone left a kiss and he wasn't able to take his eyes off the imprint.

"Lorenzo, giuro su Dio che se non scendi subito, salgo io" his father's voice awakened him from his depressing and absorbing thoughts. Spiders...

(Lorenzo, I swear to God, if you don't come down immediately, I'll come up there)

"Padre, che spiacevole sorpresa. Pensavo di averti detto di non mettere mai più piede in questa casa," the man, Lorenzo said descending the wooden stairs.

(Father, what an unpleasant surprise. I thought I told you never to set foot in this house again)

He entered the living room, finding his father sitting on the big couch with a glass of scotch. The man apparently didn't know which hour was appropriate to have alcohol and which wasn't, since from his childhood Lorenzo remembered him to always be drinking scotch and nothing else.

The man he called 'Father', was never one. Certainly not to Lorenzo, and of course not to his other offspring. Just the tiniest mention of their shared blood made Lorenzo's skin feel on fire, the burning deep into his veins. He took a glass from the table and poured himself some scotch as well. The sour taste burned in his throat and he scolded his face not to grimace. It wasn't his usual morning meal, but he had learned a long time ago that you have to be equal -if better was not an option- to your opponent. He glanced at his Father over the rim of the glass.

Leonardo Romano was a towering and fear-injecting man. From the manner his shoulders seemed to block the entrance of a double door, to the way his hands could kill you in a matter of mere seconds by just using two fingers. Lorenzo had seen him kill men and women alike with just one fist.

The scar running along his throat, one he gained when Lorenzo was about 10 years of age, was still as red and brutal as it was 20 years ago. It occupied the space from his left to his right earlobe and it certainly gave Lorenzo the freezing feeling of tingles, like small spiders running all over his head. He could identify this feeling even now, two decades after seeing the scar for the first time. It had caused his Father's voice to deepen and become more husky and breathy, the way other men's voices became after being kicked to the lungs time after time.

"Ah! Sono tuo padre ragazzo. Non pensare di potermi imporre regole. Ti ho cresciuto e ti ho portato dove sei," Leonardo spoke in the usual, sturdy voice he always ordered his soldiers with. He never, not once since the moment Lorenzo stepped into the room, did he look at him. He downed the glass of scotch and poured himself some more.

(Ah! I'm your father boy. Don't think you can impose rules on me. I raised you and brought you where you are)

"Cazzo, dimmi per cosa sei venuto fin qui. Non ho tutto il giorno," Lorenzo sighed and placed his glass on the table again, moving closer to the windows.

(For fuck's sake, tell me what you came here for. I don't have all day)

His hand was still bleeding, some droplets falling on the white carpet at his feet. His knuckles had adopted a scarlet, muddied appearance, and dried blood had dirtied his fingernails.

"Vedo che non sei di buon umore. Sono andato avanti e ho affrontato il tuo problema. Ti ho trovato una moglie. È obbediente, carina, e, soprattutto, pulita. Ho inviato una foto alla tua email." His father's voice was steady, and with a self-satisfied smirk, he sipped the rest of his drink.

(I see you are not in a good mood. I went ahead and handled your problem. I found you a wife. She is obedient, pretty, and, most importantly, clean. I have sent a photo to your email.)

"Chi cazzo ti credi di essere? Non hai mai avuto il diritto di immischiarti nei miei affari. Non ho bisogno del tuo aiuto." Lorenzo's voice raised rapidly. He was never good in this part. Where other men were able to keep their cool and never show emotions, he found it hard to control his nerves when it came to his Father and his private life. As private as a marriage in the Mafia could be.

(Who the fuck do you think you are? You don't have the right to meddle in my affairs. I don't need your help.)

"Attento a come parli, ragazzo!" Leonardo was looking at his son from above the rim of the glass.

(Watch your mouth, boy!)

"Non ho bisogno che tu mi compri una moglie. Sono abbastanza capace da corteggiare una ragazza e sposarla. Non ho bisogno di un uomo con due matrimoni falliti per pianificare il mio," Lorenzo's gaze never wavered, alas almost instantly it hardened and the tingles moved down his body. He felt his hands melt and his stomach grumbled from nausea. He had managed this time to keep his tone in check and not let his Father know how much bothered by this he was, and not for the reasons he would imagine.

(I don't need you to buy me a wife. I'm capable enough to woo a girl and marry her. I don't need a man with two failed marriages to plan mine)

"Sono il tuo fottuto padre Lorenzo e quello che dico vale, che ti piaccia o no. Potrei essermi dimesso, figliolo, ma ho un'autorità che non potresti mai immaginare, e conosco alcuni modi per riprendermi ciò che era mio, che questo significhi che sei nella foto o no. Quindi la prossima volta che non apprezzerai un regalo di papà, sappi cosa posso rendere possibile. Ti ho creato io, figliolo, e posso pianificare la tua rovina altrettanto facilmente." Leonardo placed the glass on the table with force and rose to his feet, eyes crazy and flying to his son's.

(I'm your fucking father Lorenzo and what I say goes, whether you like it or not. I may have resigned, son, but I have authority you could never imagine, and I know some ways to take back what was mine, whether that means you are in the picture or not. So next time you don't appreciate a gift from Papa, know what I can make possible. I made you, son, and I can plan your downfall just as easily.)

Lorenzo was shaking. He had seen red. But the words his Father said were true. If he mis-stepped, one wrong foot and he would lose his position as Don, being thrown in a cage to die with the rods, forgotten by the world. That was the fate of pentiti and scams in this business.

He lowered his gaze to the scar running along Leonardo's throat. A hitman from a rival Family had tried to kill him, and Lorenzo was present that day. It was the first and the last time his father had protected him, as he was the only heir he had. It had seemed almost impossible for his father to survive, but he did. That scar always reminded Lorenzo how much of a better job he had to do. Of how much his Father had failed, that someone had gotten so close to the Boss and did a good enough job that had nearly taken him out.

So, for the time being, Lorenzo said nothing. He stood still, his composure stiff while his Father passed by him. "Guarda la foto e chiama quella dannata ragazza. Corteggiala, se vuoi. Ma devi sposarla, senza stronzate sentimentali e grandi discorsi, Lorenzo. Non diventare come tua madre." With these words, he was out of the door, and Martha came closer to the living room, in small, reserved steps.

(Look at the picture and call the damn girl. Romance her, if you want. But you have to marry her, without sentimental crap and great speeches, Lorenzo. Don't become like your mother)

"Martha, have someone prepare my suit. I have somewhere to be tonight," he said, eyes focused on the couch in front of him. If his Father wanted to get him married so soon, he would do it on his terms.

"Yes sir," the girl nodded. She was young, maybe around 18 or 19. Her small frame more often than not made you think she was younger and as vulnerable as she appeared. Her blazing red hair gave her an exotic beauty that was missing in these parts. He had known Martha since she was born probably, but he didn't remember much. Her mother, Rosà was his nanny and thus, he had grown up with her daughter. Well, he had grown before she was even born, but the meaning stayed.

Secrets filled this house, as secrets are wont to do, and found ways to come back into your life when you least expected them. They hunted you for years and years until you dropped dead. Secrets tormented Lorenzo from his first breath, and they would follow him until his last. Maybe that was the only true inheritance his Father offered him. Forever problems and forgotten ghosts.

"Sir, the car is ready. Would you like-" The driver, Rocco, entered the house in his business black, and used as he was in the business, he immediately noticed the stains of blood on the carpet and his Don's frayed temper. His eyes traveled throughout the house, lingering for a moment, and then they were hard, cold-blue again.

"I'll drive," Lorenzo cut him off. He took his previously glued eyes from the room and moved to the open door, Rocco following closely behind.

Yes, today was going to be hard.