Snapping Point

1.

This was me, lounging in my corner of the TIF Estate, nestled in my angular chair, indulging in a sip of whiskey from my glass. The music didn't quite hit the spot. Don't get me wrong, I dig Benji & Fede, but when you're at a party thrown partly in your honor, and the hosts aren't exactly a sight for sore eyes, retreating to the solace of your own space becomes necessary.

Being here, alone in this dim, chilly expanse, it made me feel valuable—far more than my title as Capo (though, I preferred Honcho) ever could. I was reveling in my own company, savoring my drink, glancing at the small flat screen hanging on the wall opposite me, casting a faint glow across the room, reminiscing about the speech I delivered earlier.

Morelli had tapped my shoulder and thrown me a resolute nod once I came down from the rostrum. "Good job, il figlio." That usual admiration had lingered in his dark gaze.

I smirked to myself, thinking about the weighty task ahead of me. It wasn't as straightforward as it seemed during the ceremony, but it carried significant prestige—far more than I had anticipated.

I now held the reins of the Rossi Family, and held the fourth highest position within the Three Italian Families—a powerful alliance that, in conjunction with the government, controlled the murky underworld of Bologna.

Morelli. Rossi. Amato.

It was Morelli, the venerable A. J. Morelli, who had chosen me after nine years of proving my mettle. Amato represented the third crime family in our web of operations. Each faction had its own domain and function, all geared towards lining the pockets of Morelli and his associates with the kind of wealth they could never accumulate through legitimate means.

The TIF was a union of three different families that simply wanted one cause—wealth. However dirty it was.

Morelli reigned as our Don, Amato served as the consigliere, and my father held the title of Underboss. Now, having demonstrated my worth, they had bestowed upon me this elevated position, relegating my former role as a mere soldier to the past.

My task seemed straightforward: maintain appearances.

Simple, right?

Then try this on for size: maintain order. And by "order," I meant the Morelli Estate and the sectors of the businesses entrusted to our family's care. I wasn't just an enforcer; I was a predator, relentlessly pursuing our adversaries, haunting them, and turning their lives into a nightmare along with those of their associates. My duty, alongside the new squad I had assembled, was to ensure nothing slipped past our vigilant watch.

I was compensated to neutralize threats and eliminate enemies before they posed a danger. Having just been inaugurated to oversee the entire family's security, operations, and terminations, it was no wonder I craved solitude.

The immense burden of making decisions, often trivial, with only my second-in-command by my side, now rested squarely on my shoulders—even though I had been groomed for it.

I retreated to my quarters, seeking a moment of introspection and acceptance of my newfound responsibilities.

The jubilant family could manage without me for a while. After all, this was just another party.

Seconds stretched into minutes, then hours. When I felt ready to rejoin the weary revelers, I rose from my seat, slung my coat over my shoulder, and gathered my essentials: Glock, wallet, keys, and cellphone.

As I stepped into the long hallway with its opulent gold railings, I glanced down its length. A magnificent chandelier, worth a small fortune, hung from the ceiling, casting its glow alongside the gleaming wall lamps.

High-status whores glided through the crowd, obedient to the beck and call of the men who sought their services, while the wives and daughters of the TIF appeared weary—an understandable reaction. If I had witnessed my father and husband treating these women as though they were more valuable than their own kin, I might have worn the same expression. But being a man, I had grown accustomed to such scenes long before reaching puberty.

Leaning against the balustrade, I scanned the room with a watchful eye, taking in the sight of Morelli in his impeccable three-piece suit seated on the crimson upholstery chair with wooden armrests, my father beside him, and the other influential figures of the family—soldiers, dealers, politicians, all present. And then, amidst them all, a face caught my attention—one that seemed entirely out of place. One I hadn't seen until just now.

She was a lady, perhaps in her mid-twenties or slightly older. Dressed in a burgundy-colored silk dress that modestly concealed much of her skin and did little to accentuate her figure.

Her presence hinted at something out of the ordinary; she wasn't here to engage in the usual exchanges driven by money, performed by my father and the others. Her dress was that telltale sign. A woman who wanted money driven up her hose wouldn't wear a dress so modest.

So, I observed her closely, following her movements to decipher her intentions. Whether she was a journalist, a mole, a friend of the family, or an undercover agent, I could discern it by observing her actions over the next few minutes.

And so I did.

She remained in the background, serving drinks to the men at the rear, never making her way to the forefront. The reason was unclear to me, but I knew I would find out soon enough.

I reached for my phone to call Ottavio—my newly appointed second-in-command, though we had been friends for as long as I could remember. He was Morelli's adopted son, a year older than me. When it came down to choosing who to share this glorified post with, I didn't think twice to pick the man that had always had my back. From covering my notoriety up, to keeping the Boss's eyes off my gazillion shortcomings.

"The guest of honor's a no-show at this damn party!" Ottavio's voice blasted through the phone, his youthful enthusiasm evident even from this distance as he grabbed a drink from a passing waiter.

"Parties are a snooze fest," I muttered, feigning disgust. "How about we stir up some excitement?"

"Who's our target, Head Honcho?"

He had hit the nail on the head. Excitement meant different things to different folks. For me, it boiled down to three things: one, hunting down a fucking enemy. Two, driving a punch into a traitor's face. Three, guiding a beautiful woman into my bed.

"There's a redhead at your three o'clock"—Ottavio looked there as I laid out the order—"she's not a whore. Find out why she's here."

Ottavio wasted no time, approaching the woman while asking, "Should I make a scene or handle this discreetly?"

Without hesitation, I opted for the latter. If the Don and his thugs stumbled upon her and she turned out to be an innocent bystander, they wouldn't hesitate to silence her permanently. It was their standard procedure. My standard procedure. However, tonight, I was willing to make an exception, especially for a woman who I seemed eager to explore despite the risks.

Moreover, today marked the inauguration of a new Head Honcho. If she wasn't for us, it was unlikely she was unaware of the TIF's true nature. Anyone could do anything with such information, which was why anyone privy to such sinister knowledge rarely left the premises alive.

As I paced to the right, I mentally projected myself to where Ottavio stood with the woman, anticipating what information he would bring back to me.

I couldn't make heads or tails of their hushed discussion in the corner, so I decided to call Ottavio back myself.

"Stubborn?"

"I'd say lost," he responded, ushering the woman quietly towards the imposing door. He navigated through the crowd with discretion. "Meet me at the forecourt now."

Ending the call, I scanned the room briefly to ensure no one was paying attention to Ottavio, and that I could slip away unnoticed as well. Satisfied, I circled around the balustraded hallway and descended the stairs.