LXXXII. MATTEO ROMANO (POV)
⋄ MATTEO ROMANO ⋄
My mood is shit today.
Not quite as shit as the cheap nicotine filling my lungs, but pretty damn close.
I take a short drag from the garbage cigarette and tap the ashes into the ashtray beside the couch. The leather sticks a little to the skin of my arm, and the silence has that uncomfortable, threatening weight that puts every instinct on alert, even when you’re completely alone.
The morning light feels softer here, and the absence of sea air makes my breath drier and more ragged than usual.
There’s no wind coming through the window, no constant sound of waves crashing in the background, no salt on my lips, no sand tracked in by someone’s feet, none of the little annoyances that, in the end, remind me of my messy home.
Even though this is the official headquarters of the Società in Milan, I can’t feel at peace. Sure, I’ve visited the others—like the one in Rome, more political and institutional bastards, and the one in Catania, responsible for counterfeiting and, nowadays, the digital black market. Kind of boring, yeah.
Trapani is more interesting, though. They manage the reception and redistribution of luxury shipments. It’s not something that moves in large quantities, but the money involved is significant… which also makes it harder to clean things up.
But my real favorite is Napoli. That’s where the drug and weapons shipments come in from the port of Palermo for territorial distribution. A truly fun place.
Besides, among the Dodici Fedeli—the twelve faithful—the Russo-Ferri are the hottest-tempered houses of all. Loud, unstable, unpredictable. The kind of people who smile while they threaten you and raise a toast while deciding who’s going down first.
My favorite type of person.
Nothing like these pretentious pieces of shit from Milan. They look at me with contempt, as if they’re better than me. Like I’m not worthy of the last name I carry or the blood running strong through my veins.
I see how they question my loyalty to the Società, even though they’re the ones forgetting that, in the past, they used to kiss the backs of my ancestors’ hands.
Now they walk through marble halls as if the city were built on their shoulders, suggesting Milan’s cold elegance could overshadow those who laid its foundation with hands stained by soil and blood.
I take another drag, shorter this time, and fuck, the taste really is awful. Even after getting used to it, it still tears at my throat and coats my tongue with a cheap chemical flavor.
But I hold the smoke for a second before slowly exhaling, watching the cloud drift lazily and fade into the still air of the room.
The ashtray gets another heap of ash, and I lower my eyes to the crumpled, badly made pack of cigarettes. Honestly, I’d say trying this poorly is an insult. There’s no quality in it. Even in Catania, they’d make a more legit piece of junk.
This trash lacks any refinement. Even the bitterness feels devoid of personality. It’s just a dead, industrial, soulless flavor that clings to the back of my mouth, leaving me feeling like I’ve been chewing burnt paper and cheap poison.
I hear someone approaching behind the double doors just as I’m about to bring the cigarette to my lips again, out of the simple urge to punish myself. I stop before the filter touches my lips and listen carefully to the footsteps, light and hurried, along with the wheels of the cart that follow.
The knocks come right after—exactly two. But there’s no waiting for my response, and the door opens. Which is kinda good because I had no intention of giving one anyway.
Yet the insolence makes something ugly twist inside me.
I take the next drag, looking at the slightly gray sky through the open balcony door, while one of the house staff pushes in a polished silver cart that shines far too much for my mood.
She enters with perfect posture, chin lowered, movements controlled in that disciplined manner Milan likes to cultivate in those it considers replaceable. Young, probably in her twenties, wearing a dark uniform with the collar button just loose enough to hint at something, and her brown hair loose but neat.
The woman doesn’t look at me right away. First, she guides the cart to the low table, lines up the wheels, and only then glances at me.
“They asked me to bring fresh coffee, Signore,” she says, her voice low and soft, but not quite shaky, which sets her apart from the others in a way. There’s a certain boldness in how she stares at me, with a subtle gleam of ambition that you often see in women in this world.
Women who enjoy flirting with danger but aren’t truly prepared for what might happen.
The irony doesn’t escape me.
I let the smoke out slowly, without blinking or looking away from her, and that makes her hold her breath for a moment, even though she tries so hard to pretend she isn’t affected.
It might’ve been cute if I didn’t hate her type.
With a quick flick of my fingers, more ash collects in the ashtray, and I tilt my head just enough to let her know that I’m just as unimpressed as I was the moment she walked through the door.
But she takes my silence as permission because ambitious people often mistake the absence of a response for an opportunity, and begins arranging the low table with nearly ceremonial care.
I extinguish the damn cigarette with a controlled gesture.
“Where is Bernardi?”
“Pardon?” She looks at me with her head lowered—a look she probably thinks is coy, and that only works on dirty old men who need medication to get their dick hard again.
“I asked where Bernardi is,” I lean back, crossing my arms, watching how she stiffens at my question. “Not for you to serve me coffee.”
The girl takes half a second longer than she should to answer, and that half second says more than any words. Enough to irritate me before she even opens her mouth.
“Signore Bernardi is in the middle of an important matter,” she says at last, setting the coffee pot back onto the tray. “They said he would come up as soon as he was available.”
A quick smile tries to form on my face but disappears before it turns into humor.
“And what could be more important than meeting with me?” I tilt my head back slightly, revealing the marked skin of my throat. Skull and thorns, like a warning.
“It’s not my place to judge Signore Bernardi’s priorities,” she answers, careful, low, and restrained… but now there’s a new stiffness in her.
“So you don’t know.” My voice comes out slow and lazy, meant to break more pride than bones.
“I didn’t say that.”
My eyes slowly lift to meet hers. “No?”
She pauses for a moment, then straightens her shoulders.
“Where is he?” Now, I smile properly, but not with a shred of kindness. “And you know better than to not answer.”