VINCENT VALENTINO
Cold, heartless, arrogant and insipid. Vincent Valentino, Underboss to the Italian mafia, is met with the terrible reality that he's no longer 17 anymore and therefore has to get married. But not just to anyone.
ELENA MACHINOVIA...
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In the dimly lit room, tension hung thick as the Russian operative met my gaze with a defiant glare. My lack of Russian fluency intensified the challenge of the interrogation, prompting Vito and Matteo to exchange a knowing look.
Frustration gnawed at me as I attempted to convey questions through gestures and my limited Russian vocabulary. The operative remained stoic, unyielding to my attempts. It became clear that Vito, Matteo and I couldn't get him to talk.
Vito stepped forward with a cold determination in his eyes, Vito was a quiet menace, a strategic lion who hunts his pray.
Or something like that.
As Vito's words cut through the air, I observed the subtle shifts in the Russian's demeanor. Fear flickered in his eyes, a response to the tone and words that transcended language barriers. Matteo's presence alone seemed to unnerve him.
Vito pulled out a knife and cut his wrist, blood tickled down his hands to his shoes. "Talk, Russian scum."
In this trio of interrogation, each of us played a distinct role. I, with my understanding of the broader context, directed the flow of questions. Vito's linguistic prowess dissected the answers, while Matteo's silent intimidation added a layer of unspoken threat, leaving the Russian caught in a relentless web of pressure.
The Russian, realizing the futility of defiance, began to unravel. Vito's questions were relentless, extracting morsels of information that could potentially unveil a larger conspiracy. "Can I please get the blow torch" Matteo said.
"No. We're not that far he might crack."
"The son of a bitch can't even speak English and we can't speak Russian." I hear my brothers voice say. This bloody kid is mental.
He's not actually a kid anymore.
He acts like one so it counts.
"Any luck?" One of my torturers, Kayden, pops her head around the corner. I shake my head at her. "Want help?" She looked up at me with hopeful blue eyes.
She smiled, thinking she'll get her way but she won't. She's been trying to sleep with all of us since the day we first hired her. I keep her around because she does get some information. Not much but some.
"No. Go back to work." I tell her, she frowned but went away nonetheless. "Okay. Fuck this. Keep trying I'm gonna figure out what I can do." I tell them.
Walking out of the dungeons, I take the elevator up to the offices. I walk to mine and close the door.
I pushed open the heavy door to my office, the scent of aged leather and cigar smoke enveloping me as I stepped into the dimly lit sanctum. The room, a clandestine haven nestled within the heart of my mafia base.
Dark mahogany furniture, adorned the space. Antique maps adorned the walls, tracing the intricate web of alliances and territories that defined our empire.
