Alex DeLuca

Last night, the private room at Vetro. Dim lights, heavy curtains, that soft yellow lamp in the corner, soundproof walls. Our usual table, two wine glasses untouched in front of us, just like in the picture. You called me in a panic and I came straight.

You were sitting next to me in a black dress with sheer sleeves, sweetheart neckline, long black hair with soft bangs, those dangling diamond earrings and that thin necklace. No mascara smudged yet, but your eyes were already red, watery, that soft sad look you only show me. Your hands were folded tight on your lap, trying to be strong.

I was right next to you in my black shirt, top buttons open, sleeves rolled, messy black hair falling on my forehead. My arm was around your shoulders, my hand holding your upper arm tight, pulling you into me. I couldn't stop looking at you, my face inches from yours.

You buried your face in my shirt for a second, then looked up, clutching it so tight, sobbing, your whole body shaking, whispering about tomorrow, about losing 9 years of us in one night. I held you tight, one hand rubbing your back, the other wiping your tears, kissing your forehead, promising you - no one is taking you from me.

And now, tonight.

The Moretti Estate Grand Ballroom. Massive, crystal chandeliers hanging low, golden pillars, marble floors, royal Moretti crest banner behind the golden throne in the center. The air smells like expensive perfume and cigar smoke. Twenty-plus mafia heirs in black suits standing in a semi-circle, all staring at the throne.

On that golden throne, you. Sophia Moretti in a sparkling champagne gold gown, deep V, diamond necklace, long black hair, hazel eyes. Hands folded tight on your lap, trying to hold that cold CEO face for everyone, but your eyes are watery, searching the crowd for only one person.

Standing behind your throne, your father, Don Moretti, 58, grey hair, black three-piece suit, hand extended, presenting you to the crowd like you are a prize to be won.

Don Moretti: "Gentlemen. My daughter, Sophia. Tonight, the Trials will decide who is worthy."

All the heirs murmur, lean in, looking at you. All except me.

I am in the front row, right side, in a black suit, hair messy, earring, fists clenched so tight my knuckles are white. My jaw is clenched, my chest is thrashing, my eyes locked only on you. I am not looking at your father. I am not listening to the rules - wrestling his 3 strongest men, weightlifting, shooting.

Your eyes finally find mine across the ballroom.

Alex: "Amore... look at me. Not them. Only me."

I give you the smallest nod, my eyes never leaving yours, a silent promise from last night still in them.