? Woman in the Center ?
The kitchen was small, quiet, and faintly lit by the single bulb swaying above the table. Giovanni sat there, elbows on his knees, coat unbuttoned, his eyes roaming the modest space of the woman he would do anything for—anything, just for a chance.
To his surprise, it wasn’t spotless. A few dishes waited, half-submerged in gray water at the sink. The tiled roof was mottled with a patch of old mold above the window. But the place was neat, carefully arranged—like someone had done what they could, and then ran out of time. He understood. Lucia worked evenings at the bar, paid rent, cared for a bedridden mother, and somehow still carried herself through the day. That alone must’ve hollowed her to the bone.
He didn’t hear her enter until her coat brushed the doorway.
Lucia stood at the threshold, still dressed for the street, her jaw tight, fingers clenched at her sides.
“How is your mother?” Giovanni asked gently.
“She’s… asleep.” Her voice was low, cautious.
He stood. She flinched. Just slightly—but enough. He noticed.
But instead of moving toward her, Giovanni stepped past and rolled up his sleeves. He went to the sink and began scrubbing the dishes without a word. The soap was cold. The sponge smelled faintly of lemon and mildew. He didn’t mind.
Lucia watched him. Watched as he washed each cup, each plate, each fork with the same quiet diligence, like it was the most natural thing in the world. For once, she didn’t see hunger in his eyes. No sly glances. No bold words. Just a man, doing something without asking for anything in return.
When he finished, he dried his hands and returned to his seat. He glanced up—caught her looking. She turned away quickly.
“Do you…” she started, then cleared her throat. “Do you want a glass of water?”
He chuckled. “You finally asked.”
Then, with a little warmth, “No. Thank you. But why do you still have your coat on?”
She blinked as if surprised by it herself. The fabric clung to her like armor.
“I’ll keep it for now.”
“Are you cold?”
“A little.”
He stood again, but didn’t come close. Instead, he shrugged off his own coat and offered it across the room—an open hand, not a demand.
“Try mine.”
“It… won’t fit.”
“Oversized,” he said. “That’s why it can be warmer.”
She hesitated. Her hand twitched forward. For a moment, just a second, Giovanni’s heart caught in his chest. But then she pulled back.
“That’s alright,” she murmured. “It’s not that cold tonight.”
He let the coat fall back over the chair behind him, hiding the small disappointment in his eyes. That moment—whatever it could have been—had passed.
“I wish, just for tonight, you’d stop seeing me as the mob man.”
She didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. He could see it in her posture—less afraid, maybe, but still cautious. Still braced for the worst.
“Men look at you and see the beautiful waitress,” he said. “They don’t see your pain. They don’t see your sick mother, or your quiet strength. They don’t see the fight it takes just to make it through the day.
“But I do, Lucia. I see you.”
He leaned forward. “Can’t you, just once, do the same for me? See me not as the man with a gun—but as someone who wants to help you? Be with you?”
She looked at him. Just looked. A faint blush touched her cheeks, uninvited, confused. The words had landed. They rang too close to truths she didn’t have the strength to face.
But then—
“A waitress is… very different from what you do,” she said quietly.
“I carry a gun for protection,” he replied. “Not to hurt the innocent.”
She shook her head. “But your kind still causes harm… directly or not.”
He drew a slow breath. “The family’s weak now. If anything, we’re the ones being hunted.”
Then he rose. Walked toward her. Slowly. Carefully.
Lucia tensed. The instinct was there—hardened by years, by men who didn’t listen when she said no. But Giovanni kept his pace soft, his steps unthreatening.
“Please,” he said. “One chance.”
Their eyes met—her gaze wary, his quietly pleading, hoping as his hand rose, gently, toward her shoulder.
But she stepped back. The chair behind her scraped the floor with a dull screech. Lucia shook her head, not meeting his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
And Giovanni, still standing there with his hand half-raised, lowered it slowly.
“I understand.”
He meant it. Even if it hurt.
"But I'm not giving up on you... You will come around. One day, you will."
With that, Giovanni went to the small couch outside of the kitchen to sleep. The conversation just now and Lucia's rejection still lingered in his mind, refusing to leave, but he kept believing... that maybe today was the start.
DAY FOUR
Giovanni walked briskly through the midday crowd, the city pulsing around him with its usual chaos—vendors barking prices, crates of fish and citrus being hauled from carts, the heat pressing down from above and rising off the cobblestones like breath. His gaze passed over it all, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
Lucia’s voice had followed him down, low and tired. She’d let him in—just for a while—past the guarded threshold to the cramped apartment she never mentioned. It wasn’t much, but it had felt like something was shifting.
Maybe, finally, she was beginning to trust him.
He snapped himself back to the present.
Something felt off.
Too many faces turned away too quickly. Too many idle men loitering near archways, pretending to read papers they hadn’t flipped. Then he saw them—three, no, four men in black coats, too heavy for spring. They weren’t chasing him. But they were closing in.
“Dominick's men?” Giovanni muttered under his breath. “In broad daylight?”
Still, he didn’t break stride. Didn’t run. Running meant guilt. Meant fear. Meant they were right to chase you. He tracked their movements, calculating angles, paths of escape—but in doing so, he missed the man coming straight ahead. A civilian looking man, with modest clothes, clean-shaven, polished like he stepped out of a painting. His face was oddly expressionless—plain, smooth, but unsettling, like something slightly unreal.
Vince. Dominick’s right hand man.
He stepped into Giovanni’s path casually. The latter’s eyes snapped to him too late, feeling a firm pressure against his stomach.
A gun hidden in Vince's pocket. Pointed. Close. Concealed.
Giovanni froze for half a second, flinching just slightly as the man lifted his gaze and offered a calm, almost pleasant smile.
“Damn it. They distracted me with the big men…”
“We’re not hurting you." Vince said. "Just come with us for a moment.”
Behind him, the other men in black coats had closed the circle. They just stood—tall, quiet, confident. As if they’d done this dance many times before. Giovanni’s jaw flexed. He could make a scene. Draw a knife. Try his luck. But that pressure at his stomach said otherwise. So did the calm in the man's voice.
He gave a short nod. “Alright.”
And Vince led the way, with the rest of the henchmen following, melting back into the crowd, like nothing at all had happened.
The shutters of the old bar were drawn tight, its windows covered in thick dust. A crooked sign dangled above the door, long faded and forgotten. Inside, the air hung heavy with the musk of aged wood and spilled bourbon, the place long since abandoned by patrons but not by ghosts.
Giovanni stepped in, flanked by Vince and the black-coated big men. He took in the scene: cracked mirror behind the bar, rusted cash register, broken stools. A single table near the back still stood steady, and at it sat a man in pristine black—Dominick. A chair faced him. Empty, waiting.
Giovanni let out a short laugh.
“What’s the matter, Dominick? Need all this muscle just to take me out?”
Dominick smiled faintly and gestured.
“Have a seat.”
From a silver case, Dominick drew out two cigars, clipped the ends with practiced precision, and offered one across the table.
“Try it,” he said. “Your bosses don’t pay enough for this kind of taste.”
Giovanni took the cigar without a word, lit it, inhaled slowly. It was good. Real good.
“What do you want? If you meant to kill me, I’d already be dead.”
Dominick nodded with a faint, pleased hum.
“You’ve been with the Marcettis a long time, Giovanni. I remember. Not close—but I remember. You led the attack on our cargo a couple of weeks ago. Don Enzo must be fond of you.”
“I owe that man my life.” Giovanni answered without hesitation.
Dominick leaned back, smoke curling around his head like a slow wreath.
“But he’s losing, Giovanni. Your family has been bleeding for years. Emilio, Carlo, Silvano—the three dons have taken the docks, the unions, the gambling dens. All that’s left for Enzo is a couple of bars and a few worn out casinos.”
Dominick’s voice lowered, calm, persuasive.
“You’re a smart man. You don’t have to go down with a ship that’s already underwater. I could use someone like you.”
Giovanni raised an eyebrow.
“And you’d trust me?”
“I wouldn’t,” Dominick admitted with a smirk. “Not yet. But I want to end this with as little blood as possible. Enzo’s pride is the only thing keeping this war alive. And it’s going to burn through you. Through all of you.”
He leaned in. “But I can offer you a way out. A clean slate. I’ll test you, watch you. If you pass, you’re in. Or—if you prefer—I can give you a name, an identity, and you disappear. Start somewhere new. Safe. Quiet.”
Giovanni exhaled smoke and grinned. “If I wanted to disappear, I’d have done it already.”
His tone shifted—lower, sharper, full of weight. “You know how I met Don Enzo?”
Dominick sat back, listening.
“I was seventeen, getting beat up for stealing food." Giovanni carried on, "Enzo took me in, gave me food, a coat, and a knife. He said, ‘You’re not a monster, just a boy who never had a choice. I’ll give you one.’ He made me family.”
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He met Dominick’s gaze, unwavering.
“I’d be proud to die rejecting the thought of betraying him. So go ahead and kill me if you want.”
Dominick studied him. Giovanni's hands were still. His breath, even. Not a trace of fear.
Dominick sighed and gestured to the henchmen.
“Take him away.”
Giovanni’s eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“You heard me,” Dominick said, rising. “I don’t want bloodshed."
"But remember—I spared you.”
Vince and the others stepped forward. They relieved Giovanni of his guns, frisked him fast, then guided him out of the old bar without a blow or a word. Giovanni threw one last glance over his shoulder—at Dominick still seated at the table, as calm as a priest before a funeral.
Outside, sunlight burned. He squinted and vanished into the crowd.
Back inside, Vince lit the second cigar, leaned on the counter.
“You think he’ll talk?”
Dominick chuckled.
“He’s stupidly loyal. Fine. That’s what I want him to do anyway.”
And he did. According to plan... the plan only the Undertaker knows so far. Not Vince. Not Dante. Not Alex. No one.
The sun had dipped low when the old Marcetti mansion filled with footsteps. The marble floors echoed with quiet tension, men moving between rooms, whispers and glances like a gathering storm. In the parlor, Don Enzo sat in a high-backed chair beneath the cracked portrait of his father, cane resting against his knee, glass of wine untouched at his side.
Giovanni stood before him, tense, shoulders squared.
“Dominick did what?” Enzo asked, voice cool but heavy.
“You heard me,” Giovanni said. “He offered me a way out. To switch sides.”
Enzo’s fingers drummed the cane.
“So we’re still enough of a thorn to bother him. Or he’s running short on muscle.”
Giovanni nodded.
“He’s trying to draw us out. Trying to get ahead of the bleeding.”
Robert, arms crossed in the corner, shifted.
“But… he just let you go like that ?”
The silence that followed was thick—dense with unspoken questions. The kind that couldn’t be asked out loud. The kind that made loyalty crackle like a matchhead in a room full of gas.
Giovanni finally said, “Didn’t sit right with me either.”
Enzo looked up at him with a glimmer of thought behind his aging eyes.
“You could’ve accepted, you know. Pretended. We’ve lost our man inside. Frank, the bartender we bribed was gone. We need eyes.”
Giovanni shook his head.
“Even that I can’t do. I couldn’t fake betraying you.”
The old don looked at him—longer than a man normally would. Searching. For hesitation. For a lie. Then he smiled faintly and patted Giovanni’s hand.
“Yes. Of course… not you.”
But in the corner, Robert didn’t smile. He watched Giovanni. Eyes narrowed, mouth tight. Still stung from the night before, from Dante’s taunting. Still trying to climb up in the Don’s favor. Still trying to prove something.
DAY FIVE
The docks stirred beneath fog and salt— ropes strained, gulls wheeled, and crates scraped planks. Giovanni stood at the edge, coat damp, posture deliberate. His ship was half-loaded, already drawing steam.
Two uniformed officers waited by the gangway. Not hostile— just present.
“Morning,” said the older one, adjusting his collar. “Hold order came through before dawn. Routine inspection. You’ll have to wait.”
Giovanni glanced at the vessel, then back. No cargo, no companions, no weapons. Just passage papers, signed and stamped.
“I was cleared yesterday,” he said.
“You were,” said the younger. “Nothing flagged. But once the notice goes through... could be an audit. Or a mix-up.”
“How long?”
“Might be an hour. Maybe two.”
He stepped back without protest and leaned against a mooring post, hands in his coat pockets, hat brim shadowing watchful eyes.
An hour passed. Then another.
Was this just bad luck... or had someone bought him time to miss something?
He couldn’t know. Not yet.
Around the same time, the sky was pale with dawn when Lucia stepped out of her modest home, wrapping a worn shawl around her shoulders. The stone street still glistened faintly with the night’s dew, and the market stalls down the alley were just beginning to stir with the rustle of burlap and sleepy chatter.
She paused on her doorstep, fumbling with the grocery list in her apron pocket—when she saw him.
A man stood at the edge of her walkway, as though he'd been waiting. Tall, young, broad-shouldered in a wool coat too thin for the morning chill. He straightened when their eyes met.
“Good morning,” he said, a little too quickly. “I—uh... I'm Robert. I work with Giovanni.”
Lucia’s lips parted in surprise. Her eyes, large and dark with sleep, blinked at him with a kind of instinctive caution. She tightened her grip on the basket in her hands.
“M-May I help you?” she asked, softly.
Robert swallowed. For a second, words slipped from him. This close, she was prettier than he’d imagined—finer-featured, more delicate than the girl he’d seen once or twice from a distance, always half-shadowed in streetlight or framed in a window. The soft curve of her voice, the nervous grace in her stance—it disarmed him.
“I was looking for Giovanni,” he said finally, keeping his voice level. “He didn’t show up for work this morning.”
Lucia hesitated.
“No... Why would I know ?”
“Right,” Robert nodded, glancing at her door, then back. “But... people talk. They say you two are—together.”
She stiffened slightly, her expression freezing. Her eyes darted downward, to her basket.
“We’re not,” she said, flatly.
Robert studied her.
“Then what about the rumors he spent the night here?”
At that, Lucia’s hand clenched at her arm—an involuntary motion, barely perceptible, but he saw it. Her breath caught. She looked away.
“I’m sorry. I have to go.”
She stepped past him. Not a word more. Her footsteps quickened down the path, as if the conversation had left a bruise.
Robert watched her retreat, jaw tight. His thoughts churned.
Giovanni missing work. Giovanni spared by Dominick. Giovanni, rumored to have spent the night here. That girl—quiet, gentle, the kind you’d want to keep safe—was trying to hide something.
And maybe, Robert thought, if Giovanni was turning, if he really was selling the family out to Dominick, it wouldn’t just be Don Enzo’s approval he’d earn by catching it first.
Maybe he could be the one to protect her. Save her from whatever game she didn’t even know she was caught in.
He turned back down the street, walking slower than he needed to. Eyes narrowed. Every step heavier with resolve.
He’d find out.
And Dante watched it all from around the corner.
NIGHT FIVE
Dante – Via Sarto street bar
The night had settled quietly over the street, the moon casting a pale glow upon the worn cobblestones. Dante stood by the same bar as the night before, leaning against the shadowed corner with a small pouch of his usual wares—twisted bits of metal, clock hands, and fragile wires. The city’s restless buzz had softened to a low murmur, as if holding its breath.
From around the corner, Robert appeared, still thinking about the beautiful woman he talked to this morning, his gait stiff and troubled, his face drawn and deep in thought. At first, he did not notice the boy standing in his path.
“Oh you! Good evening!” Dante called out, his voice light, almost cheerful.
Robert frowned but said nothing, attempting to pass. Dante stepped deliberately into his way.
“No, no. I need to speak with you.”
“I told you—I’m not buying anything,” Robert replied sharply.
Dante shook his head. “It’s not about that. Truth is, I’ve got something for Giovanni.”
Robert stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing.
“You two work together, right ? That’s what the guys said in the bar the other day.”
“Some man wearing a black,” Dante began, choosing his words carefully, “handed it to me.”
“What kind of man?”
“Kinda like you… except that later I saw him talking with someone with a very different aura, scarier.”
“What is he like ?”
“Uh… all in black, wears glasses, blonde, facial hair… what is this about ? You guys work together ?”
Robert’s gaze darkened as realization dawned. “Dominick,” he thought.
Dante shrugged with a sly smile, neither confirming nor denying.
“Meh I don’t care… he gave me coins, even bought some junk. Said all I had to do was get this to Giovanni. But, well, I can’t read, so…”
Robert’s eyes fixed sharply on the boy. “Give it here.”
Dante’s smile turned sweet and conspiratorial as he slipped the folded note into Robert’s hand. “Just make sure he gets it, alright?”
Without waiting for a response, the boy turned and disappeared down the street, humming softly.
Robert remained still, staring down at the folded paper. His fingers crept over the rough, hurried handwriting inside:
Smuggler and boat ready on the agreed date.
Just you three, the woman and the mother.
— D
His eyes scanned the lines again and again, the furrow between his brows deepening with each read. His grip tightened until the paper crumpled slightly.
Meeting Dominick and walking away.
The excuse of being held out at the docks for inspection.
His obsession with Lucia.
Dominick’s men and his dons always being two steps ahead.
It all made sense... at least to him.
He glanced back toward the fading silhouette of the boy, but Dante was already swallowed by the night.
NIGHT FIVE
Alex - Guilder street bar
Alex swept the worn wooden floor of the bar, the broom’s soft scrape barely covering the quiet murmurs and clinks of closing time. His eyes kept drifting toward Lucia, who stood by the counter, her usual bright energy dimmed to a fragile flicker. She wasn’t quite herself tonight.
Alex thought, heart tightening, "All I did was… work in a bar and report behaviors stuff. It doesn’t sound bad. But I have a very bad feeling about this."
"What happened the other night with Lucia and Giovanni? Did I do the right thing telling Dominick?"
Tommaso’s gruff voice broke through his thoughts.
“Alex. Go clean the chairs again.”
Alex hesitated, about to remind Tommaso he’d just done that, but something in the older man’s tone told him this wasn’t about chores. He nodded and moved away silently.
Tommaso turned toward Lucia, his eyes sharp.
“Did he touch you?”
Lucia’s voice wavered, but steady.
“No… I swear not. He slept on the couch.”
Tommaso’s jaw clenched.
“Lucia, don’t give me that. He went inside to sleep on the couch?”
Lucia hesitated, her fingers clutching her own arm as if it gave her strength.
“He is... very persistent.”
Tommaso’s expression softened, but his tone stayed firm. “I’ll try talking to him and his boss.”
Lucia nodded with gratitude.
Suddenly, Tommaso barked,
“Alex! Come back here! Who told you to clean the chairs again?”
Alex spun around, startled.
“W-What? You just told me!”
Tommaso’s eyes narrowed playfully.
“No, I didn’t! You accusing me of lying? You’re fired!”
“W-What?!!!” Alex sputtered.
Lucia glanced between them, then spoke quietly,
“Mr. Tommaso? You did.”
Tommaso’s face broke into a reluctant grin.
“Oh… I guess I did if Lucia says so.”
He waved a hand.
“Sorry, Alex. Age is catching up with me.”
Both Alex and Lucia exchanged confused looks.
Tommaso chuckled,
“Come on! It was a joke! I just wanted to cheer you both up a little…”
Lucia managed a weak laugh, and Alex followed, the tension easing ever so slightly.
Then the door opened.
Giovanni walked in, tall and silent. Lucia stiffened the moment she saw him. Her jaw clenched. She turned away, like she did since that night. Giovanni caught it—and looked down, guilt and pride fighting behind his eyes.
“Good evening,” he said, subdued. His voice didn’t carry its usual confidence.
Tommaso was the one to respond.
“Giovanni, I’m going to talk to you later.”
Alex glanced between them. The room was laced with unease again. He opened his mouth to speak to Lucia when the door opened again.
A deliveryman stepped inside, holding a large, elegant bouquet—lilies and violets wrapped in blue silk.
“Uh—hello. This is Guilder Street bar, right?”
Tommaso answered from behind the counter.
“We’re not open yet, just a few minutes—”
“Oh no, sir, I’m not a customer.” The deliveryman looked at his clipboard. “I’m delivering flowers for Miss Lucia?”
Everyone went still.
Giovanni’s heart kicked against his ribs. His eyes locked on the flowers, then on her. She looked genuinely confused. And that made it worse.
“Does it say who?” Giovanni asked, his voice sharp.
The deliveryman checked again. “Uh, yes."
"...One second."
"Robert Cavazza. There’s a sealed envelope too.”
The name hit the air like a gunshot. Giovanni’s stomach twisted. Robert? His partner?
Lucia was startled. But not denying it. She did meet Robert.
Giovanni thought, darkness rising in his chest.
"Is that why she turned me away? Is that why she didn’t want me?
He stepped forward and snatched the bouquet from the man’s hands.
“Go,” he growled.
The deliveryman fled, stumbling slightly as he pushed out the door.
Giovanni ripped open the envelope and read:
Can’t wait to see you again.
Thank you for reading :)
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