1
Dante
If only the Ancient Romans could see Florence now, I muse while walking down the uneven cobblestone streets in my brown Ferragamo loafers. I take pride in the fact my ancestors built these roads, and I’m not ashamed that I’ve spilt blood on them in my family’s quest to carry on the family business.
Ducking inside a café I can’t keep my mouth from watering as fresh bread is pulled out of the over and set on cooling racks. I check out commuters standing at circular high tops with no chairs. I order a cappuccino al cacao and watch the attractive fair skinned woman in her mid-thirties steam milk until it froths. She’s my type, dark hair, dark eyes. Italian with a capital I.
It’s harder to find an Italian woman to date as I’m getting older and getting married isn’t my end game. And with good reason as my job is notoriously dangerous. I’d hate to inflict that on anyone unknowingly. Nor do I wish to have children even though the birth rate of Italian’s has been in a decline for decades. Admittedly I’m have no plans pulling those statistics up.
This barista is cute and probably has a husband based on my profiling capabilities so I check her ring finger. Bingo. She’s wearing a thin gold band and her fingernails worn down to the quick from hours of serving customers coffees that are made to order and washing plates and cups with little conversation as these transactions are as mundane as taking a piss every morning.
No flashy engagement ring--that’s not the European way. Unless you are incredibly wealthy that is. And I am. But would I every buy an engagement ring? I scoff at the mere thought of it. My family knows I’m never getting married as much as my mother may hound me, I’m committed to my plans.
I might be the most sought-after bachelor in the city, but I don’t need to be married to have wicked sex with any woman I desire, and I’m not obligated past the hookup. Plenty of women tell me what they think I want to hear just to get a piece of me, but I only give them as much as I want-a night filled with sex as hot as our summer sun and little conversation. At times I feel like a poser when I don my dignified legitimate businessman routine that causes women to swoon at my feet.
Like bees to nectar, it’s too easy and it bores me. My only obligation is to my family, the interests I have to protect and the things I need to do to ensure our survival in a ruthless dark world, one that sharply contrasts the normalcy afforded most individuals who know what to expect every day of their life.
This train station is always busy, so it’s a perfect spot for me to blend in and remain invisible, and for the most part, it works. Only my enemies and my trail of broken-hearted ex-girlfriends would spot me in public. To everyone else, I’m a face without a name, and I like to keep it that way. It’s safer for me. It’s safer for everyone.
To avoid danger, I stay on the move and avoid repetitive patterns in my daily routine. I learned this strategy at an early age from my grandfather, Diego Micheli. These days, he lives on a tiny island off the coast of Tuscany and watches the beautiful sunsets at night over the Tyrrhenian Sea, but at one time, he was the most powerful don in Italy.
I rarely have time to visit him anymore as I’m too busy to take time away from work, and I know he understands. Afterall, if my dad didn’t die so young, I wouldn’t have been called upon to head the businesses we run.
I’m also too busy for love. Love is strictly off-limits, a luxury I can’t afford. It’s a blessing and a curse, but that’s what it means to be at the head of the table.
I take my eyes off the female barista long enough to check out the sandwiches in the case. The ham and cheese panini looks particularly good. So does the caprese.
There is a clink as the ceramic saucer is set on the marble counter and my cappuccino is in front of me. The white froth is in the shape of a heart and is dusted with cocoa.Perfetto. I use the stick of sugar crystals resting on the saucer to slowly stir the hot brew, giving it a minute to cool. For a moment, I can relax and almost forget that I’m the head of an organized crime family based in central Italy.
When she asks if I’d like anything else, I order a chocolate-filled cornetto. This café gets their pastries handmade by local bakers and I’ve always been partial to them. They aren’t overly sweet, but that doesn’t prevent them from being irresistible.
The woman brings me the cornetto wrapped in wax paper to go. I finish it in two bites before downing my cappuccino in one gulp. I pay the cashier and exit, stepping onto the cracked sidewalk.
The temperature is still cool but will increase as the sun rises. I stroll back to my Mercedes SUV and ignore the judgmental stares from the elderly men sitting at the outdoor neighborhood café. No doubt they think I’m greedy for having a gas-guzzling vehicle. My tires have been slashed for that in the past. I smile and say “Buongiorno” as I pass them, but they say nothing.
Ordinarily, I’m a man of few words and my work face is stoic. I haven’t met a woman yet who can make me change my ways. I only let my family see the human side of me, the one that is capable of a chuckle if the situation warrants it. Mama worries about me, but she worries about everything incessantly. That’s an Italian mother for ya.
Cars speed past and horns honk as I approach the city, which is bustling with early morning activity. I have an important meeting with a contact and my bodyguard, Riccardo, will meet me there.Normalmente, he is with me, but I like to keep life simple and enjoy a few minutes in the morning to be myself and not the monster I’ve had to become to keep things going after Babbo died. In most places he’d be called Papa, but here in Tuscany, we say Babbo.
The early death of my father from a heart attack two years ago was a blow to my family. I had hoped it might spell the end of the long-standing feud with the Conti family in the south, but it was not to be. Babbo always said ‘once an enemy, always an enemy’, and with good reason—Babbo was younger than me when he lost his brother in a turf war with the Contis, and in fact, both families lost a son before the killing spilled into the streets.
I’d like to think we are more civilized than other countries, but I’m not so sure.
I make my way down to the non-touristy area of the magnificent city and drive past warehouses owned by Chinese, Russian, and Albanian companies. I keep going in the direction away from my mansion in Fiesole, overlooking the city of Florence. To get there, one has to ascend a long and winding road, so it provides a good vantage point over possible intruders, which was a selling point for me.
I maneuver down the crowded streets until I arrive at a café and park on the street. I see Riccardo waiting for me, standing by the door dressed in a black dress shirt and black pants.
I leisurely stroll towards him until I’m close enough to say, “Good morning,” and he smiles.
We take a seat at a small metal table and wooden chairs overlooking a neighborhood park near the Arno River.
“Well?” I ask.
“I think we found her; we’re just waiting on Michael.”
I nod. Without asking, an espresso is placed on the table next to me—they know me here—then I pour a packet of sugar into the strong brew and take a sip to taste it. Ah, I can never have too many in a day.
Michael arrives dressed in a tracksuit and pulls up a chair. He’s a trusted associate, a man for hire to do whatever we may need. He’s a decent man and accepts that his job description is always subject to change.