LEONARDO 'LUGER' CERUTTI - DON

The rain transformed Carroll Street into a mixture of neon and gray, where each taxi light was drawing a line across the wet road. Caffè Verità was that one particular coffee house that was giving the impression of normal — tiny tables, a battered jukebox in the corner, that kind of espresso that would burn your throat and make you feel alive. Tonight it was like the setting was made for a play: the stage was set, the audience was just seated, and Leonardo “Luger” Cerutti was the one playing the role who dare not improvise.

He had been sitting there for quite a while. The person he was expecting had sent him a text with the kind of excuse boys give when they want some time alone: wrong address, sick aunt, something forgettable. Leonardo’s tolerance was a myth, but tolerance and politeness were not the same thing. Disrespect, intentional or unintentional, was a different game — and he had been up long enough to figure out which game was his to win.

He played around the idea of a message to the man's partners - at first, he thought of it as a gentle reminder. Then, the thought turned into something less polite: a silent visit to the port where the liaison kept his worries and his merchandise; a friendly night in a room too cramped for both a liar and a conscience. The idea took hold like a chunk of cold iron in his stomach. You lost the game with chess pieces; you had to pay the price with lives in his world. The family could ill-afford to have sons who were not sharp. He was keeping an eye on the door. The lighter he was using clicked twice, and the silver flash synchronized with the rise and fall of his temper.

He played the whole scene in his mind: a car in a deserted alley, faint sounds of someone emptying their pockets of stories, and finally a hush over loud words. He was pondering whether the contact deserved a lesson or not when the bell attached to the café door made a sound, and the tempo of his plan got stuck.

They came in like they were characters from a different tale — drenched, coats stuck to their bodies, hair soaked, eyes looking around the place as if the rain had washed away their fear. They exhibited a sort of unreflected confidence that made Leonardo react with dislike and, oddly enough, interest. They were not afraid. They were not showing off. They were just there, as if it was nothing to take cover behind the storm and they were not invading the bully's turf.

A cup slipped at the counter; a barista swore silently as hot liquid flew toward a table and splashed near Leonardo’s unconsumed espresso. The little homey turmoil picked at the fine texture of his annoyance, and he went to watching more than he was scheming. The plan to give the absent contact a lesson remained at the back of his mind — an order still active — but another movement had already started: a relaxation of the steel inside him. There was a weight in those unanticipated interruptions, a gentleness he seldom permitted. For reasons he could not yet explain, he did not rise up to set the plan in motion. He simply watched.

Their eyes met for a moment through the rain and coffee steam and Leonardo experienced something unexpected: no danger, no irritation, only an unusual and strong magic. It was more than a sword's point that had surprised him. He had been lured, trained, and put through the wringer by more dangerous storms; in fact, the very worst he had ever experienced hadn’t left him utterly naked in the presence of an unknown, average gaze.

He snapped the lighter shut with an audible click that cut through the mellow sounds of the café's jazz with precision. His subsequent speech was calm and thought-out — the sort of voice that did not need to rise to get the point across.

“Rain has this peculiar way of revealing the true nature of people,” he mentioned, still gazing out the window.

“Some hide while others see it as an opportunity and go through it pretending they are not getting wet.”

He now did a slight movement, shifting the unhurried look of his eyes towards the storm that was depicted on their coat, the little steam that was warming it in the café was just to point the ghost of a smile that came to his lips.

“My companion was to come and meet me here one hour ago,” He continued.

“If a man makes me wait, I start to think if I’m being tested... or disrespected. Usually, both answers lead to the same end.”

The words stayed there — constant and icily — until he slowly took one more sip of the espresso and then put the cup down again, the porcelain giving a faint tap against the saucer that sounded like a closing statement. And, yet, quieter:

“However, it is strange. You come all of a sudden, and I again begin to reflect on patience.”

His gaze from the window was distracted for the first time and it was entirely on the audience now — the curious one, the unhurried one, and the quietest one that was just intrigued.

“You seem to be no problem,” he said in a whisper, but the way he spoke gave it away that he did not know if that would be a disappointment or an attraction.

“But I have learned not to take first impressions at face value. Especially the pretty ones."

He reclined in his chair, and there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, all power and curiosity. “Consider it as a compliment,” he said after a pause, voice smooth as if confessing.

“Most people manage to bore me even before they open their mouths. You, stranger... you have already earned a second look.”

And it was only then that night that the Brooklyn Don acknowledged the rain outside was not the only thing that could steal his attention.