Darkness and the light DO NOT mix. But what if they did? What kind of precipitate would result from such a union?
"He and I, are polar opposites. I am short-tempered, while he does his best to tame his anger. He is a killer, a destroyer of life, a b...
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The pic above is of Alfonso...
So now, I'm sat next to Leandro, inside a black limo, while Costello and Giovanni, remain perched on the leather seats, directly opposite the two of us. All three men have champagne flutes half-filled clutched in their palms, fluently conversing in Italiano, occasionally nodding at this, chuckling at the other.
Therefore, feeling left out, I let my mind wander free, explore more. This evening, I'll desperately need to keep my cool. These people, are, after all, persons operating under the mafia, and therefore, any irrational talk that'll come tumbling down my tongue, could end up being my one way ticket to the land of the dead. Without a shadow of doubt, it'll be difficult pulling through, but for the sake of my life, and that of my baby, I'll have to keep myself on an invisible leash.
"We are here," Costello announces, causing my eyes to blink repetitively, as I work to discard all thoughts. We are currently parked before this huge glass dome, a seven star hotel of sorts, and all around us, stand a ton of powerful vehicles of various models, shapes, hues.
And this right here, is what I like to think of as filthy rich. Costello and Giovanni alight the limo, and Leandro follows shortly. He stretches out his arm, gives me his hand, and I take without so much as protesting or contemplating, because in this very moment, he's the closest thing to safety, and I am not taking fucking chances.
Resting his palm softly against the small of my back, he walks us into the building in silence. The harmonious mix of saxophones, tunas, violas, harps, and trumpets, infiltrate my ears, and for a minute or two, my head sways gently in appreciation. Costello and Giovanni just happened to vanish amidst the throng of persons, but if I'm being entirely honest, I could care less where they'd go, seeing as they are two grown ass men, who can take care of themselves perfectly fine.
And of course, there's the mix of individuals seemingly from high-class societies, dressed in shimmering, fitting gowns, gleaming, gold and silver rings and bracelets, designer dresses that flow in soft tides, dragging against hard, marble floors, civilized-looking men, clad in expensive suites, blazers, fancy slacks, diamond wrist watches, and gold chains dangling loosely around their necks, laughing at one thing, hotly discussing about another.
Then there's the fancy, classy waiters and waitresses treading lightly, gliding from one corner of the room to the other, clutching trays of champagne flutes half-filled, wine glasses holding maroon-coloured liquid. One waitress, a pretty, five foot ten or so redhead, walks up to us, bows her head right before us, presenting a tray of champagne flutes.
"Càpó, fancy a glass?" Leandro grabs one, motions for me to do same, gives me a curt nod and an arched brow. I grab one, of course, because I need not make a scene, but still, I eye him warily, brows knitting together. There is no freaking way, no way near hell, I'm drinking this shit. I don't drink, and I most certainly don't plan on breaking the principle now, especially with my condition.
