LXXXIII. MATTEO ROMANO (POV)
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Just like the maid, I open the door without knocking.
But unlike her, though, I have the fucking right to do it.
Bernardi’s office, at the Società headquarters in Milano, is exactly what I expected—the kind of place built to convince insecure men believe they’re gods: dark wood, thick rugs, ridiculously expensive artwork on the walls, a glass cabinet full of aged liquor, and a wide view of a city that insists it’s above the rest of the country.
But what really annoys me is how the smell of cigars and roses hits my nostrils the moment I step over the threshold. What kind of man chooses to fill a room with damn roses?
Bernardi is behind the desk, holding a low glass with two fingers of amber whiskey at the bottom, even this early in the morning. And judging by the tension in his shoulders and the locked jaw, he really does seem busy. At least, that wasn’t a lie.
To his left, sitting with his legs apart and wearing the arrogant expression of someone born in the North, is Vittorio Sala, the luogotenente who took over the position last year. He had already been filling in since his father got sick, but it only became official after the old man died. It was a shame, truly. He was loyal to the core.
Either way, it’s good that both of them are here. It makes my job easier. After all, the responsibility for what happens in a casate falls on its two leaders.
“Matteo,” Bernardi says by way of announcement, clearly tired, as if he also spent the night awake. The procedures meant to hide his age are completely useless right now. He’s aged ten years in just a few hours. “I thought you weren’t coming to headquarters.”
“I changed my mind,” I say simply, closing the door behind me with my fingertips, unhurried, letting the click of the lock echo through the office like a low, final warning.
Vittorio’s gaze lifts to me with that old dislike, badly masked beneath Milan’s studied composure, and I almost feel like laughing.
But again, there’s too much chaos happening in this city for me to have any remaining good mood.
“Do you have any news about Gianni De Angelis?” I cross my arms, stopping in the middle of the room like a guard at the door—nobody gets in or out of this shit without giving me the damn right answer. “I figure you’ve had more than enough time to find something, huh?”
“We’re looking into it.” Bernardi pinches the bridge of his nose, as if an old, familiar migraine is throbbing there. “It isn’t easy—”
“I don’t give a single shit,” I cut him off, the impatience growing in my guts, but not in my tone, which stays dangerously limp. “I want to know what the hell is happening in this city and why the Romano name is losing respect around here.”
Bernardi lowers his hand slowly, but the pain remains etched in the furrow between his brows. Vittorio, beside him, shifts in his chair like a dog scenting a fight before deciding whether to lunge or wait for its owner’s command. Truly pathetic.
“So?” I press, dragging my eyes over both of them, a bit more irritated. “Care to explain why?”
“The Società is not losing ground in the North,” Vittorio says, and neither his tone nor his words goes unnoticed. Not Romano—but the Società. He emphasizes that subtly, probably thinking I’m too stupid to understand what he means. “We’ve just had a few setbacks.”
“Setbacks?” I snort, a genuine laugh echoing in my chest. “That’s what you call the disappearance of a possible traitor?”
“We’re not sure—”
“Ah, statti mutu, pezzo di merda,” I snap back sharply, noticing both men’s eyes widen. “Your loyal missing man is involved in the attempt on my life, and you dare question the shit I’m saying?”
Bernardi looks surprised, but not truly offended. He just sighs, forcing himself to relax back in the chair, not even a little willing to pay for this fight. No wonder he’s managed to keep his head on his neck for so long.
Vittorio, on the other hand, suddenly stands up, but doesn’t take a step toward me. The fury on his face isn’t because of the insult, but because deep down, he knows I have what it takes to erase every trace of him from this world and make everyone doubt he ever really existed.
“Sit down,” Bernardi says without raising his voice. There’s no authority in his tone, only in the habit. Too many years of ordering around men who mistake manners for weakness.
Vittorio pauses for a second or two, deciding whether it’s worth playing the hero, but clearly doesn’t. He lacks the wisdom that comes with age, as his leader does, let alone the kind earned from life’s hardships.
A man in a suit from the North will never understand what it’s like to grow up on the docks of the South, Società or not.
Luckily, for his own sake, Vittorio inhales through his nose sharply and sits back down, irritated but obedient. Whether it’s out of shame for being held back, wounded pride, or simply respect forced upon him, he avoids my gaze again.
“I dug deep. I had to call in a lot of old favors and create new debts that, honestly, won’t be easy to pay back.” Bernardi turns the glass between his fingers, watching the whiskey hit the side. “But I managed to gather everything we have on Gianni, especially a detailed report of the last twenty-four hours in which he was seen.”
“And why the fuck isn’t that already in my hands?” I hold out my palm, impatient, and I don’t like the way Bernardi and Vittorio exchange uncertain looks that last just a moment too long.
Bernardi gets up and opens the desk drawer with the calm of a man who knows any sudden movement could be seen as a mistake. He pulls out a slim, dark leather folder marked only by a crease in one corner, and hesitates again.
“Because there’s one part of it,” he explains, cautious, weighing every word, keeping his fingers on the cover for a second longer than he should. “That I would’ve preferred to confirm.”
“I thought I’d already made it clear that you’re not hiding a damn thing from me anymore, Bernardi,” I say, taking two steps and stopping at the opposite end of the desk. “So you’d better start talking before I mistake your caution for fear of getting caught.”
Bernardi sighs and finally slides the folder across the desk, slowly, offering me poison and daring me to drink.
I pull the folder closer, but I don’t open it. I keep it resting shut beneath my fingers while my eyes remain fixed on the older man, noticing every inch of his face, every miserable shift in expression, searching for cracks, weaknesses, or anything that shows he’s more involved than he claims.
“Again, there was no reason to be suspicious of Gianni,” Bernardi insists, making my eyes narrow even more. “But it seems he was keeping up some… outside activities.”
My fingers tighten slightly on the folder. “Meaning?”
“Do you know who Savio Coppola is?” Bernardi laces his fingers together above the desk.
“Should I?”
Bernardi nods, “He’s one of Enzo Bianchi’s men.”