Turning Point||Book 2

6: Romano.

The lounge in Morelli's mansion was filled with a sense of old-fashioned grandeur, as the soft light and the aroma of aged leather and cigar smoke created a rich atmosphere. Ottavio and I shared a moment of laughter about how I had silenced Verde at the meeting earlier today, which was interrupted by the arrival of a malignant voice.

Santo was a symbol of strained relationships. His presence was like a jagged edge in the smooth fabric of connection. I detested him.

As he croaked, the joviality deflated. My gaze shifted from Ottavio to the older man, the lines etched on his weathered face reflecting months of discord. Since that fateful night he'd discovered I and Vilma's dark relationship, I hadn't seen him crack a smile in my direction. I was not willing to apologize for my actions, so there was no warmth or familial respect in the acknowledgment of his presence, no matter where I encountered him.

"Mr. Superior, I need the room," Santo rasped his snide words, his tone cutting through the room like a strident note in a fine tune, "I need the room...with just you in it."

Ottavio, attuned to the underlying tension, exchanged a knowing glance with me. In that unspoken language, he dismissed himself. He left the study with a measured step, closing the door behind him.

Left alone with Santo, the air grew heavier. My uncle had never seemed like he would ever want to be in the same room as me intentionally, so I didn't know what to expect.

"What do you want, Vitrol?" I put a pause on my actions, staring at my drink with no intention of sipping.

Every movement and shift in posture carried the weight of something darker than we both could imagine. A subtle tightening of the jaw, a flicker of disdain in my eyes — they were nuances that spoke of an uneasy conversation.

Santo was about to shatter my peace with whatever words awaited me. That simple fact, I knew.

"To talk! It's been ages, you'd agree." He ambled toward the well-stocked bar. His presence was like a daring shadow.

The polished mahogany seemed to protest under the weight of the simmering tension. He reached for a crystal glass with an air of nonchalance, each step echoing like a ticking clock in the room.

"You've really made yourself at home, Romano." A mocking grin etched on his face, his eyes swept over the opulent furnishings.

I watched him, my expression stoic but the disdain seeping through. "I don't know what you are talking about."

"Drinking the good stuff, I see," he continued, filling his glass with a generous pour of vodka. "Must be nice living high and mighty while the rest of us break our backs."

A sardonic chuckle escaped him as he raised the glass to his lips, the liquid inside swirling like a storm. "You always did have a taste for the finer things, just like your father. The difference is, he knew how to covet while looking his victim in the eyes. He wasn't a coward. Can't say the same for you."

The room seemed to close in as he downed the vodka in one swift motion, the bitterness of the alcohol a fitting echo of the acrimony that lingered between us.

Setting the empty glass down with a sharp clink, Santo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then, he held a twisted satisfaction in his eyes. "But I guess if the shoe fits, wear it, right?"

He reveled in the discomfort he had stirred, his gaze challenging as he awaited my response.

Perching on a stool adjacent to him, I couldn't help but let out a bitter laugh. "My father spoke of you, Vitrol. Painted a picture of rebellious spirits and unbridled nonconformity. He once mentioned that you were such a handful, your old man decided Sicily was the best place for you."