LXXIV. MATTEO ROMANO (POV)

LXXIV. MATTEO ROMANO (POV)
“Che vuoi?” the old man asks what I want with disdain, his voice dry as he studies my face, shoulders, hands, and tattoos—and his brow furrows even more.
“Cigarettes.” I cross my arms and straighten my posture.
“Do I look like a store?” His eyes drop to the beers, then lift again.
“Do you sell them or not?” I lift my chin slightly, showing my impatience. I don’t want weed. I don’t want cocaine. I’m already too messed up tonight for that.
“Usually, people come looking for something more... illegal," he says, staring at me for another second, gauging my mood.
He opens the door more, but just enough to reveal a narrow, dark hallway behind him.
“I have some,” he adds. “Cheap stuff.”
“Fine by me.”
The old man looks at me for another second, trying to figure out if I’m stupid or just having a night where any wrong answer could get teeth on the ground. Maybe I’m both. Then he glances around, making sure I’m alone and not some fucking snitch ready to report his failing operation. As if anything about how I look could give that away, but fuck it.
“How many?”
“Ten packs.”
He raises an eyebrow, and something in his expression tells me I’ll probably regret that answer. But I don’t want to have to come back here, and I don’t know how many days I’ll be staying in Milan. I’m not going back until I dig deep and find out how far the Società’s rot reaches into enemy territory.
“€22,” he finally says, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe but not relaxing. His hand stays firm on the doorknob, and the other one is hidden behind the door.
My eyes follow the imagined path through the wood and bars.
Based on his posture, I’d say he’s neither a coward nor naive. He’s a man who knows exactly what kind of work he does and the risks involved. Someone who doesn’t open the door without a gun aimed at the chest of whoever is on the other side.
And from the way he holds it, I can tell—there’s one aimed at me right now.
He notices my stare, the understanding passing through my mind, and his expression hardens, swallowed by shadows that extend far beyond the street’s darkness.
“Money up front.” His voice sounds grumpier now, rougher, and his eyes harden, his body straightening instinctively, finally recognizing I’m a predator… and that he shouldn’t be worried that I’m some fucking cop.
I snort, my smile rising with broken humor, and I pull another fifty-dollar bill from my pocket. One thing you learn in the underworld is that no money is better than the kind you hold in your own hands. Credit cards and that virtual money nonsense are illusions.
Traceable illusions.
The price you pay for convenience is privacy, the freedom to know that every move, every step of your life is being watched by white-collar men who preach one thing but do worse when no one is watching. Men like Bianchi and his blind justice.
Fucking hypocrites.
The old man takes the money before I even finish the movement, then disappears down the hallway without inviting me in. Better that way. You don’t invite a demon inside, no matter how close you think hell is.
I wait outside, still and silent, listening to a pipe drip somewhere deeper inside. The city feels distant and colder from here, like it always does when I’ve gone below the surface to a place where things lose their names. My breath forms short clouds, and the metal bars chill my fingers.
But my mind is empty, and there’s nothing really left—then she comes back into my head again, filling the corners with her presence no matter how much I don’t want her there.
I squeeze my eyes shut and rub them until I see stars behind my eyelids. Even so, the image is imprinted there. That expression on Marina’s face, the one that always tears me apart and enrages me the same.
The way she looks at me without backing down.
The sound of her voice.
The curve of her mouth when she’s about to say something she shouldn’t.
Her fucking perfume.
And the way my whole body recognizes her before I even think about it.
Fuck.
The door opens again, and the old man pushes a bag through the gap in the bars, not caring about it. Maybe he’s suspicious, or he just realized I’m not his usual customer, because he clearly wants me to get the hell out of here.
I open the bag, counting the slightly crushed packs and inspecting each one in the dim alley light. Smuggled, of course. A copy that doesn’t even try to look authentic. Low-quality stuff.
And he still has the balls to charge two euros for each of these pieces of junk?
This isn’t something that enters Italy through our ports. Salvatore is very strict about the quality of products that come into the country under our name. Damn, since when are we desperate enough to import counterfeit cigarettes?
“And I can find more of this at the tobacco shop, if I like it?”
The old man doesn’t answer—he simply yanks the door shut again with a bang that echoes loudly through the empty alley, and the snap of the lock signals that the conversation is over.
The corner of my mouth almost moves. Almost.
I gather the bag into the same hand holding the pack of beers and get out of there before the urge to take my night out on the insolence of an arrogant old man grows for no reason...
Even though the idea of painting Milan red is extremely attractive to me.
I open one of the beers without caring where I am, using the metal edge of a post to rip off the cap. The crack is sharp, and the first swallow goes down bitter, cold, useless.
Then I light a cigarette with the lighter that, just like the Società tattoo on my back, I carry with pride. The little metallic jingle that always comes with the repeated motion, from before I learned to smoke and from the moment my pyromaniac urge started pushing at me, is comforting, but it doesn’t even scratch the surface of what I need.
Once again, I have the urge to see everything burn. But instead, I put the not-so-cheap imitation between my lips and take a drag.
Fuck, it tastes like shit. Too strong, too harsh, like I’m burning wet newspaper and calling it relief. Even so, I keep the smoke in my lungs for a few seconds before letting it out slowly.
The nicotine hits weakly, but the ritual helps. It keeps my hands busy. It gives my anger something to do besides look for a target. However, things are becoming harder to ignore.
Because there’s no way this stuff got into Italy without us noticing. And even so, it’s burning between my fingers and filling my lungs.
This didn’t come from the south.
Which means smuggling is coming through the ports of Genoa— a port we’ve been trying to take for generations, but the Bianchis always find a way to interfere, even after that stupid peace agreement.
It means someone’s getting in the middle of our business.
Suddenly, the cigarette tastes even more bitter, and my phone vibrates again. This time, when I pull the device out of my pocket, my chest is already tightening, and my lungs are protesting against the nicotine trapped inside.
💬 “I’m coming to get you.”
💬 “Personally.”