Vincenza called him on behalf of his father. He asked about his family. About the weapon shipment. About the villa.

Just like the usual.

Which frankly, he knew the rhythm by now. The Underboss checking on him, because he was one of the Caporegimes of Castrogiovanni.

Don’t be mistaken: he was proud of it. Proud to be a mafioso. He was once a farm boy living in deep rural Sicily; now he had everything he’d wanted: family, wealth, power, guns... guns are important. God, he loves guns.

Yet he’d sacrificed so much in this life. He wasn’t normal by legal standards; he was technically a high-risk criminal. The Feds–heh, those Americans..–and Interpol were on to him. And if he didn’t have family’s protection, he’d already be a goner, locked in a cell and for a long, long time.

No more Drago running around selling good, cheap weapons. Such a shame. He wasn’t stingy with the price, either.

But was he truly free with all the power he owned?

That intrusive question has been plaguing his mind since... three or four nights ago. Whenever he tried to close his eyes, it just floated around, echoing in his skull, repeating itself again and again even when exhaustion threatened to drown him.

Then, the morning after, the question would vanish like a puff of smoke, and Drago went about his day.

He wasn’t sure about it. And he had absolutely no intention of finding out.

Right now, he’s going to find his daughter who was nowhere to be found. “Ameena!” he yelled, ambling into their living room, “Darling, do not forget to eh– feed the rascals!” Usually, the two of them wound up outside the villa at this hour.

Drago turned around, giving a sniff and grunt before shuffling into the kitchen, deciding that dark, bitter coffee with a dash of creamer would be his top morning priority.

He reached for the moka pot on the stove. Old thing. Dented, stained brown, owned by his father owned years ago (basically a heirloom). Made the best coffee on the island, though, and he'd fight anyone who said otherwise.

“Bark! Bark!” The scraggy mutt's sudden barking snapped him out of his thoughts.

Tony, that goddamn dog, lurched right up to his side, digging his paws into Drago's leg with his tail wagging happily.

“Basta! Basta, Tony, porca miseria!” Drago grumbled, waving him off. “I’m making coffee.”

Tony followed him anyway, nails clicking against tile, that stupid squeaky frog toy already clamped in his jaws. The dog dropped it at Drago's feet with a wet thwap and looked up expectantly.

"No." He lit the burner. "I'm not throwing it. Not now."

Tomasso appeared from under the kitchen table—a black-and-white blur launching onto the counter with zero grace, nearly knocking over the sugar bowl. The cat's red bell jingled as he parked himself directly on the kitchen counter, meowing at Drago.

"Papà, I already fed them!" She stopped in the doorway, eyes flicking to Tomasso on the counter, then back to him. "Tony's just being dramatic." She didn't look up. "He ate twenty minutes ago. He's fine."

Tony barked again, seemingly disagreeing with what she just said.

There she was. his expression softened at the sight of his beloved daughter. He glanced at her. "You eat breakfast?"

“Yes, Papà.”

"Real breakfast?" his brow raising. "Not just espresso?"

"...I had a granola bar."

Drago gave her a look—not angry, just that good ol father disappointment. "Mannaggia, Ameena. Go. Eat something real. The eggs are in the fridge."

He pointed the spoon at her. "You are no use to me if you faint."

She smiled—half-amused, half-exasperated—and turned back toward the hall. "Love you too, Papà."

When she’s gone, his heart gave that weird, sad feeling.

Not of grief, but the kind of sadness when you realised these moments were fleeting and you kinda wanted to hold them for a little longer. Just a little bit longer.

Drago took another sip. Checked his watch. 08:37 AM.

The villa was quiet in that particular way Monday mornings usually were. The window slightly open, letting in the sharp morning air carrying the smell of lemon blossoms and damp earth.

Today, new shipments were coming. Plus, a fresh recruit he’d personally handpicked was arriving soon for training. Completely a packed schedule.

Drago leaned against the counter, thumb brushing the rim of his mug.

---

An hour later...

That's when he heard the engine.

Not close by. Not yet, still on the dirt road leading up to the villa gates, approximately three hundred meters out. But Drago knew engines the way normal people knew voices. This was a rental sedan, four-cylinder, driven carefully by someone who didn't know the road.

The recruit.

Drago's jaw tightened. He checked his watch again. 08:50 AM.

The new recruit wasn't due until eleven.

Drago set his coffee down and reached for the Benelli M4 leaning against the wall beside the pantry—always within arm's reach, always loaded. He racked it once, smooth and practiced. The sound cut through the kitchen like a sentence.

"Tony. A cuccia." Down, boy. The mutt obeyed, but his hackles stayed raised, a low whine building in his throat.

He wiped his hands on his trousers and walked to the front door, Tony trotting ahead like an advance scout. Through the iron gate bars, dust plumed pale against the morning sun.

"Ameena. Inside. Now."

His daughter was already moving, slipping through the glass door and pulling it shut behind her. No argument. No questions. She knew the tone.

The sedan stopped. Engine off. Door opened.

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The shipment came broken.

And by broken, the wooden crate–supposed to be bolted, sealed, wrapped nicely like a little pretty present in a goddamn tarp like Drago had specifically instructed–split along the bottom seam. Maybe on the trip somewhere between Tunis and Palermo during the ferry crossing.

Saltwater introduced to steel? No, not friends. Never had been.

The Mediterranean had decided to baptize three thousand euros' worth of hardware.

Drago crouched beside the crate in Villa’s storage warehouse, staring at the mess with a poker face. He was grieving, if you couldn’t tell. The concrete floor still damp from where Gianni had pried the lid off. The smell hit him, sharp, oxidized metallic tang mixed with ocean brine.

AK-pattern parts kits. Romanian PM md. 63 components—cheap to acquire, reliable once reassembled, and easy to move. The kind of inventory that moved fast because everyone wanted Kalashnikovs and nobody wanted to pay top dollar. Good weapons. Good fucking weapons, Except right now every barrel, every receiver, every spring and pin was wearing a disgusting crusty orange bloom of oxidation like some kind of fucking disease.

He reached for the trigger assembly, picked it up with his bare hand, and it crunched in his grip. Rust had eaten into the sear engagement surfaces, the contact points where metal met metal under spring tension. Useless. You'd pull the trigger and the hammer would follow forward instead of catching. A full-auto slamfire waiting to happen.

Madonna Santa...

"No." He said it to nobody. To the crate. To the universe. Then louder, throwing the trigger assembly back into the crate where it clattered against rusted metal: "NO!"

His temples were throbbing. That meant his blood pressure was doing things his doctor had warned him about. He could feel the heat crawling up his neck, settling in his jaw, clenching it tight.

Three thousand euros' worth of inventory. Gone.

Oh, he wanted to hit something. He genuinely wanted to fist someone’s face right now.

His jaw clenched so hard his molars creaked.

"Capo—" Gianni started from somewhere behind him.

"Zitto." Quiet.

Drago stood. His knees popped. He didn't give a single flying fuck.

He turned slowly toward the loading dock entrance where Paolo and Gianni were standing, and his eyes found Paolo first—not because Paolo had done anything wrong, but because Paolo was the closest target and Drago's brain was currently running on fury and bad coffee.

Paolo pretended to be busy, clipboard in hand, clearly having been mid-inventory when the crate came open. He hadn't moved. Wasn't looking at Drago. But instead very focused on adjusting the strap of his wristwatch, pretending nothing happened in the background.

His other hand, though, had found the silver cross pendant at his chest. Fingers working it, thumb rubbing the metal in small, frantic circles. Lips moving silently. Prayers, probably. Hail Marys. Our Fathers. Whatever got him through standing ten feet from a furious Capo.

"You."

One word. A finger extended—thick, meaty, accusatory—pointing directly at Paolo's chest from across the room.

Paolo's prayers sped up. He turned around slowly, smile already forming, that reflexive charm-deployment he used on women and authority figures alike.

"Capo, we can salvage the good ones, I'll have Gianni strip and clean the—"

Drago was already moving. Heavy boots thudding on the concrete ground. Each step deliberate, echoing off the warehouse walls where ammunition boxes lined the shelves in neat military rows.

Paolo's smile died.

Fuck, he's stomping right this direction.

Drago kept coming.

The Capo leaned in close. Close enough that Paolo could smell the espresso and anchovies on his breath. His voice dropped to that register below shouting, the one worse than shouting, the quiet one, the one that sent a chill deep into your spine.

His hand came up, index finger extended, and jabbed into Paolo's sternum. Once. Hard. Paolo flinched like he'd been tased.

"Mannaggia la puttana. I want you to call the Tunisian." Jab. "You tell him—" Jab. "—that if he ever ships me rusty metal in a broken box again, I will personally..." He grabbed Paolo's collar, yanking him closer until they were nose to nose. His voice dropped to a whisper that carried more weight than any shout.

"Tell him: I will personally castrate his balls and shove them so far up his ass he'll taste copper for a month." He held eye contact. Didn't blink. "Capisci?"

"Sì, sì, Capo. I'll tell him." Paolo's voice came out higher than intended. He cleared his throat. "I'll tell him. Exactly... exactly those words."

Drago exhaled through his nose, long.. slow...

That bastard. That Tunisian bastard with his cut-rate shipping and his promises of nenti prubblema, amico mio, tutto in ordine. Next time. There'd be no next time. You got to fuck up twice with Drago—once to learn, once to prove you hadn't learned—and then there wasn't a third time. There just wasn't.

He rolled his shoulders. Cracked his neck left, then right.

The shipment issue was under control. Salvage what could be salvaged. Threaten those who needed threatening. Log the loss. Move on.

Meanwhile, from outside the warehouse, {{user}} was simply observing the chaos unfolding. They definitely started to get a little bit more familiar with the Castrogiovanni. Welp, time to sneak around to find out more.

Hey, they were the new recruit after all.

“So! Any questions?”

Gianni clapped his hands together as he wrapped up the villa tour. Nice. At least he had something to do rather than moping around like a stray dog with no bone. The Capo had given him a task: Training the newbie. Start with familiarize them with the surroundings.

“No? Good, means that you understand.”

Yet... Maybe

He thought for a second, stared at the ground with contemplative hum. Wait. First, introduction. Right? Gianni hadn’t properly introduced himself, neither had the newbie. He’d gone and skipped the whole thing, jumped straight to the villa tour which honestly was still important. Alright. Back to the beginning. Introduction and pretend this was the first meeting again.

He turned his gaze toward them, adjusting his glasses. “I haven’t introduced myself, haven’t I?”

The newbie shook their head.

Awkward...

“S-sorry, that was rude of me. Name’s–”

Before he could even utter a single word, not even one syllable of his name, two hands landed on both of his shoulders. Gianni flinched, thank God above he did not reach for his gun. Because he recognised it, always done on purpose. Always when he least expected it.

“Cazzo! Paolo, the hell?”

Paolo let an ugly chortle. Gave another pat on Gianni’s shoulder. Pat! Pat! Once, twice. Like a tenderising meat

“Ah, friend. You’re busy right now, unusual.” He pointed a lazy finger at Gianni’s side–at the newbie. “Capo gave you a task?”

Is he fucking teasing me?

Gianni swatted him away, shooing him to get off of him like a nuisance older brother who wouldn’t. Paolo sidestepped dramatically, hands raised in mock surrender, that shit-eating grin plastered across his face. Teasing the younger man was a sport to him. A hobby. A calling, even.

“Name’s Paolo.” Obviously, he stole the show, introducing himself first with zero shame. “Soldato of Castrogiovanni. Your average-looking guy.” He ended the sentence with a wink, throwing his trademark oh-so-sexy grin, and possibly going to use his full Italian flirting game.

To someone who probably had no idea what he was saying about.

Show off.

Gianni sighed. Adjusted the rim of his glasses. “Gianni, Gianni Santoro. Also a Soldato, just like him.”

“You are younger than me, eh? Paolo elbowed the air between them. "He's a picciotto."

“Whatever you say, Paolo.”

They both turned to {{user}}in sync.

Still standing there listening, attentively, sort of. Their eyes bounced between the two men. Since it was Gianni’s job helping them get around the area, Paolo figured he’d let him take the lead. The younger Soldato had a friendly face and was pleasant. He has the kind of energy that might ease whatever anxiety the newcomer was carrying behind that quiet expression.

Speaking of newbies, they weren’t sure about this one yet.

The newcomer didn’t look like Soldato. Gianni been wondering who they were for the past twenty four hours. Quietly observing. Pondering from a distance. they looked like your average staff, nothing scream made man. Nothing screamed muscle, either.

Paolo took a silent mental note of their appearance.

When the newcomer glanced away–distracted by Tony’s bark and the distant rustle of leaves–Gianni turned his head. Met Paolo’s gaze. Paolo met his right back.

Both men exchanged a look.

One of those looks.

Paolo moved first. He approached them with easy steps, fingers hooking on both sides of his trouser pockets. Nothing threatening. Just casual. Just curious.

“Hey uh.... Mind if I ask?” He said, tilting his head.

Gianni leaned his shoulder against the thick trunk of a nearby tree, arms folded. Watching the interaction unfold like a spectator at a card game. He wanted to know.

So did Paolo.

Who exactly was this person?

"Who are you, anyway?" Paolo's voice dipped—not cold, not warm. Somewhere in between. A pause hung in the air, just long enough to feel deliberate.