I know now where I've heard that name before and feeling like unlocking level a thousand of a mystery game, I stand up to reach for my safe box and pick up the letter my father left me years back before he was killed.

I place the cigarette in the corner of my lips, with the smoke burning my eyes, and forcing them to squint in a thin line while I unfold the letter and roll my eyes on the lines till I reach his name.

Vincenzo Benito. The very man that my father fought against and died by his hand. I always believed that my father left me silly things written here.

I almost didn't believe that this man ever existed. He sounded like he was out of this world. All the stories I've heard from Grandpapa about Don Enzo seem like fantasies of a creature that goes to extreme courage melting into madness.

Yeah, I know. That's how the mafia has worked before but today those stories are for books and movies.

Much like the book, I'm reading on that damn app, and I can't get enough of it.

Truth be told, I would have loved to live in those times when a raid was a battlefield, and the winner was taking it all.

Today my men hardly know where they have tossed their guns and probably need some training to get used to them again.

But not me.

Mine is always glued to my right hip, always on my nightstand or under my pillow. Grandpapa Capozzi always told me that my gun was my best friend, my life savior and that's what she is, my best companion.

I am today my grandpapa's creation, nothing less and nothing more. I've never been close to my father, barely seeing him at home and then he was killed and frankly, my attachment to him grew even lower after his death. Grandpapa was my father figure.

When he gave me the legacy letter my father left me, I didn't mind it much. Names mentioned there meant nothing to me. I know my mother only by her name, I've heard very few words about her growing up under the care of Grandpapa's Capozzi. I didn't even wonder why he never spoke about her.

I only know about my mother that she moved to the States at an early time in her life and she has come back to Italy only once, when she gave birth to me.

One year later she was back to her life in the States, and I grew up having grandpapa Capozzi and grandma Olivia as a family.

Now I have only grandma Olivia and she's the only constant in my life, the most precious thing to me.

Other names in the letter didn't even stir my curiosity, even the name of the man that my father said was his Nemesis, and now I find myself crossing my way with his, messing up my deals and making me lose a fortune.

The legendary devil seems to be real, the Don I've heard to be the first and the last ever Italy's mob has trembled even at the thought of him.

He is real and he is alive.

"I knew I heard this name before," I mumble and take back my seat behind my desk.

"Which name?" Fabio asks sipping from his glass.

I delay my reply and lean on my back, staring at the letter and sucking deeply from the cigarette.

"What do you have about Vincenzo Benito?" I ignored his question.

"Well, not much. Ex-Don in Napoli moved to the States seventeen years ago and has a huge corporation in NY and some other small ones. If you ask for a meeting with him is like asking for a trip to the moon. Nobody refuses you, but he never shows up. He has all sorts of "right-hand" people who run openly the businesses but never breathe unless he knows. Or he approves," Fabio details and it doesn't make me happy.

I absently hum, bothered that the guy keeps being a ghost because, with the amount of money I'm losing by his hand, the only way to solve it is to deal with him directly.

"Address? Family? He can't be living in another fucking dimension," I spit.

"You would be surprised, but he does. Address?! No fucking way! Unknown, untraceable. Family?! He is the son-in-law of Lucas Tate, his father is dead, his elder brother is dead, mother lived in Italy for many years, is deceased. No other family member found," he speaks by heart like a fucking database.

I can tell he really did his best. But unfortunately, a ghost is a ghost, no matter how much you try to find it and that has just increased my adamant self to find his whereabouts and confront him.

"Call Andrea. We travel to NY on Monday," I decide while snapping on my feet and throwing the letter back into the safe box, pushing carelessly the door that clicks its lock.

"Monday?! What for, Raffa? It's impossible to find the guy, trust me. You're not the first to try. I met Claudio in NY. He says Vincenzo Benito can be dead for what he believes. Nobody has known anything about him for years now and his family has vanished."

"New identity?" I ask trying to find a logic behind all of this mystery.

"Probably. And if not, he must be damn good at hiding."

"He's not good at hiding, he's just fucking powerful and most probably rotten rich. This kind of life, away from any reach requires a hell of a lot of money. And the kind of businesses I'm losing because of him make him make the motherfucker even richer," I speak my mind out loud, making Fabio hum, pressing his lips in a thin line.

"You have a point. But what if Lucas Tate is behind this?"

"That means we are in the same shit, but I don't think so. Have you ever heard about a funeral? He was a Don who made history in Napoli, quite hard not to know about his death. The word would have spread, and I was pretty sure he would have been buried here, in Napoli."

"True. True," Fabio agrees and stands up from the chair he has been lazily sitting in and walks to the minibar to leave the empty glass.

"I'll take Pretti with me and try to find out if anything like this exists and if it does, I'm sure I'll find it. He knows people," he completes and grabs his phone from the coffee table.

"I also want to know who is handling his business here. I want to meet him on Sunday after church," I extend my demands.

"Church?!" he asks, and I can almost feel this smile burning my forehead, making me raise my eyes and throw him a deadly look.

"I'll take Nonna to church this Sunday, jackass," I clear it for him with an unhappy smirk for the meaningful look he has given me. (Grandma).

"Not that you're a sinner, but..." he mumbles to himself, and I grab a file from the desk throwing it in his head while he ducks, running towards the door.

He laughs loudly making me smile and relax. Sometimes even I don't understand how he can put up with someone like me. We've been friends since childhood and while I'm always cold and stiff, he's joyful and cheerful and always manages to put a smile on my face.

Well, almost always.

"Will I find you here tonight? I'm going to talk to Pretti and hopefully, I'll have news," he asks grabbing the doorknob and making a half turn towards me.

"Yes, I'll be here tonight. Don't be late, I know you love Friday's girls," I replied, diving deeper into my leather armchair and smirking at him, happy to pay him back.

"Right! Um... what were you doing when I came in?" he remembers and becomes curious, wiping the smirk on my face in a millisecond and darkening my stare, making me shift in the chair as if it suddenly has grown thorns.

"Not your fucking business," I reply taken by surprise and not knowing what answer to come up with.

"Not my fucking business?! Raffa..."

"I don't want to talk about it, okay?" I snap. "Do you have to know fucking everything?!"

"Alright!" he shouts back, lifting his hands in surrender but his eyes betray worry.

I don't know what to tell him. Fuck, I can't even explain to myself what the hell is going on with me. I'm sucked into this shitty... stupid... romance shit and I can't understand why.

But it makes me feel good. It's a place where I like to dive every fucking Friday evening, somewhere I can't wait to be.

When I read, I completely forget that I'm a Don and I have the weight of a mob business hung on my shoulders. I almost feel like a normal person, with a normal life, living normal fucking normal days.

Fabio is still standing in front of me, waiting for a reply and I keep avoiding his look which I barely stand, somehow feeling suffocated in the stiff space of my office.

I ran a hand through my hair feeling uncomfortable being here, so I snapped on my feet and walked past him towards the door.

"I'll see you later," I mumble embarrassed with my reaction, not less surprised than he is.

I make my way to the exit, passing by the waiters and dancers preparing the club for the evening and sparing no look around.

I feel the need for fresh air, I need to get the fuck out of here before I grab my gun and shoot a few bullets just to ease my frustration, but God knows where the bullets will reach.

It's already dark outside and I inhale a good chunk of air once I feel the chilly air, walking past my bouncer who greets me and turns right, distancing myself from my club and walking carelessly, without a target, with hands shoved into the pockets of my pants and my mind traveling far, somewhere I don't even know if it fucking exists but from where I simply can't keep myself away.

My car drives behind me at low speed, ready to pick me up once I'm done walking which, by the way, I'm doing regularly. They are used to this.

On the right, I spot an entrance to a bar. I don't give a fuck what kind of a bar it is, I only need something to burn my throat so, I make my way in.

It's like I left this world and accessed a different dimension, a dark one, hot like fuck, smelling of all odors of the planet, making me cringe, feeling it crawling on my skin, but I keep walking and once I'm at the counter I order in a raspy voice.

"Whiskey. Dry."

The bartender confirms with a nod of his head and places a glass in front of me filling it to half with booze and I smirk, knowing by the color of it that surely it has been fucking baptized. They do that in some places.

Cheap fucking places! I mentally say but still, I grab the glass and throw the content down my throat, feeling it going down to my stomach, weak and tasteless.

I raised an index, asking for one more.

A light hand grabs my right arm in something meant to be a sensual touch and I lazily turn my head meeting a smiling young face, filled with fucking makeup like it is some kind of wall decor.

"Hey, handsome," she breathes glaring between some long, thick, healthy eyelashes.

She can't be more than eighteen and her youth compensates for the lack of class she has.

"Hey to you, too," I reply keeping our eyes connected.

"Are you alone?" she says.

"Yup. Are you?" I asked with a small smile.

These cheap girls most of the bars have sometimes can be treasures in the wrong place, at the wrong time with the wrong opportunity.

"Well, I can be for you, if that's what you like," she replies.

I hum and grab the back of her head in a hasty move, pulling her ear close to my lips and I can feel her shivering.

She's scared and she has the right to be. These places have the lowest scum as customers and many of the girls working here cross hell while trying to make a living.

"Would you like a more quiet place?" I ask her and she swallows a huge knot in her throat that I can almost hear.

She turns her eyes to me, and now, having her closer I can tell the beauty under that heavy make-up, making her look ten years older.

Her blue eyes stare at me while she evaluates my proposal with a deep mix of feelings, but I know she won't say no. I stink of money, and she knows that coming with me tonight means she won't have to work for a month.

She finally nods, still staring in disbelief but I ignore her, grab her hand, and plant a kiss on its back, a deed worthy of a princess.

"Good," I praise her, being sure that she's a valuable asset for my club, a gulp of fresh air, and happy she has agreed so fast, I'm thankful I don't have to waste my time in this dumb anymore.

I turn around to finish my second glass and when I meet the bartender's eyes I get he's a bit anxious, holding his hand pinned to the counter with the bill under and when I shift my eyes to it, he taps his index twice as a message and I know immediately what to do.

It's a sign that bartenders usually do whenever something is out of normal standards, and it seems now it's the case.

I nod, take the bill, and turn it to the other side where it is written: "She's sixteen".

It cringes my brain in anger, and I mentally curse the motherfuckers that run such places where they take advantage of women's desperation and not only, underaged girls as well.

Well, he'll be out of business by tomorrow morning, I make myself a metal promise and after paying the guy for the booze, and wink at him, reassuring him that my intentions are the opposite of what he expects, and he nods.

I like him. He's smart.

"Ready?" I ask the girl, planning to take her out of here, to send her to my mansion where she'll be royally treated for the weekend and paid a month's worth.

I'll be at the cottage anyway and she'll have the entire house for herself with an army of servants.

Don't ask me why I'm so adamant about offering her some comfort. I must become fucking soft as I grow older.

I grabbed her hand after giving the money to the bartender and I walked us both out of the bar, finding my car at the exit with Giancarlo standing next to it.

He opens the back door for us, and I let her get in first then I follow. I can almost feel the amazement she's floating in while being treated like a human, something she hasn't felt before, most probably, and I smile, bragging about the power money gives me.

I might be showing off, I can give you that. Some might call me charitable. No, I'm not.

But tonight, I feel like doing something good for someone, and she has crossed my way at the perfect moment.

"So... where are we going," she whispers shyly when the car is in motion, holding her hands on her lap, and playing with her fingers.

"Well, I'm going back to my club, and you'll be going to my mansion," I replied.

"Oh..." she says and shifts her eyes towards the window, glaring outside.

She's noticeably quiet, you can barely hear her breathing next to you and I can already tell she's not the kind of tramp that usually you find in places I've taken her out of.

"Tiffany."

"What?" I rasp.

"Tiffany. My name is Tiffany. What's yours?" she asks, shaping a small, innocent smile.

"I'm Raffa," I reply. "How old are you, Tiffany?"

She stirs in her seat and lowers her eyes. There we go, a lie is coming.

"Eighteen," she mumbles, and fuck, she's so young and innocent that she can't even spell a stupid lie.

"I see," I reply in disbelief.

The car stops in front of my club and Giancarlo prepares to get out and open the door for me.

"No, Giancarlo. Portala al palazzo. Fabio mi accompagnerà a casa stasera. Dì alla signora Maria che Tiffany è nostra ospite per il fine settimana e che deve essere trattata come un'ospite. Domenica, riportala a casa sua," I give my orders before getting out of the car. (No, Giancarlo. Take her to the mansion. Fabio will take me home tonight. Tell Mrs. Maria that Tiffany is our guest for the weekend, and she is to be treated as a guest. On Sunday, take her back to her place).

"Mr. Raffa..." she calls before I close the door, with her big, shining eyes staring at me.

"Si," I reply bothered by how stupid her way of calling me sounds. (Yes).

"What will I do alone at your home?" she asks.

"Sit, enjoy, stay at the pool, eat, sleep, whatever a girl of sixteen years old like yourself should do," I reply and close the door leaving her staring back at me even while the car drives off.

"Questo è troppo basso, ancheq per te, Raffaello!" I hear a voice behind me that literally freezes the blood in my veins. (This is too low, even for you, Raffaello!).

~~~~~
Dear Reader, thank you for being here. 🤗