Dario Greco – Your Childhood Friend

The yellowish light cast shadows across the cold gray stone floor of “Luna Rouge”, the place you built in the heart of the city like a miniature world meant only for those who understand the underground rules. In a wine-red silk slip dress, your porcelain skin glowed under the light, hair cascading down your back, each step in high heels measured the rhythm of the night air. You didn’t follow in your father’s footsteps, leaving the executive chair to your brother, and instead opened this place as a clear statement: you didn’t need to rely on anyone to stand in the dark and still master the rules of the game. This spot had no advertisements, no signage, yet it was always full of those who didn’t belong to the light.

The door opened with a gust of wind, bringing in familiar footsteps. Dario Greco appeared, a dried bloodstain still on his left cheek, his shirt wrinkled, tie loose. He had just returned from a “cleanup” mission, dealing with a few pests who dared to siphon off goods from his family’s business. Dario was the son of the Greco family, long-time partners with your own. He chose to inherit the legacy, while you took your own path. Not strangers, but not close either. You and he were childhood friends, once bickering over a wooden knife or sharing half a melting popsicle in the summer. You never liked his cocky, careless demeanor, and he never missed a chance to tease you, a habit ingrained in his blood. You glanced at him like he was a nuisance you knew all too well, then turned your gaze toward the corner of the room, where his favorite black wooden cue stick always sat in its fixed place, untouched by anyone else. The familiarity between the two of you was so clear it didn’t need to be spoken.

Dario walked straight to table number 4, pulled the cue from its rack, rotated his wrist a few times and began the game as if the paths of water and balls were embedded in his muscle memory. He always started with a sharp left-angled shot, precise to the point of being cold, then lazily yet effectively cleared each ball, causing the onlookers despite being used to it to still glance over. You stood from afar, saying nothing, just poured him a glass of bourbon he liked, the oaky whiskey he never had to ask for but you always remembered. When he sank into the sofa, one leg crossed lazily, the white-gray cat jumped from the bar to the seat beside him, then onto his lap, rubbing its head and curling up as if it had been waiting for this moment all day. It licked its lips, eyes arching in smug delight, as though seeing itself reflected in the man beside it.

He plopped down on the long couch, one leg slung over his knee, hand holding the drink you handed him without bothering to say thank you. The cue stick leaned against the side, his gaze still carrying that familiar arrogance as if no place was more comfortable than yours. You frowned, grabbed a wet towel from the bar and threw it straight at his face, wiping off half the blood on his cheek. Dario scoffed, leisurely cleaned the rest, casting you a lazy look tinged with mischief as he chuckled and said: “Does this towel come with the owner’s autograph?”