5
SALVATORE
The surveillance room exists in perpetual twilight, banks of monitors casting blue-white shadows across concrete walls. I settle into the leather chair before the central screen, my fingers moving across the keyboard with precision. The timestamp reads 15:47:23 as I pull up the footage from this afternoon's performance.
Rosaria appears on screen in high definition, every detail captured by the cameras I had installed throughout the hall. The angle shows her profile as she positions herself beside the piano, spine straight, hands clasped with a professional posture. Even through the lens, her beauty strikes me with the same force it wielded in person.
I watch her mouth open, though the audio feeds through speakers that transform her voice into something clinical, digital. The real performance lives in my memory—the way her voice filled the space between us, how it seemed to originate from an ethereal, otherworldly place. But the footage reveals what I missed while drowning in the sound of her.
She never looks at me directly. Not once during the entire aria. Her gaze fixes on points beyond my chair, above my head,anywhere but my face. Even when she finishes and finally meets my eyes, the camera captures the moment of surrender before she rebuilds her walls.
I replay the sequence, studying the way she holds herself. Control radiates from every line of her body, from the careful placement of her feet to the deliberate stillness of her shoulders. She performs with the discipline of someone who has learned that survival depends on perfection.
But there are cracks, microscopic fissures in her composure that the cameras catch in ruthless detail. The slight tremor in her left hand when I circle behind her. The way her breathing shifts when I move closer. The pulse visible at her throat when I mention valuing what I own.
I pause the footage on her face during that moment, zooming in until her features fill the screen. Her dark eyes reveal nothing to a casual observer, but I see the truth hidden beneath her performance. She felt it—the pull between us, the way the air changed when I stepped into her space. She can deny it with words, but her body betrays her.
The control she maintains fascinates me more than her voice, more than her beauty. It represents a challenge that quickens my pulse in ways I haven't experienced since taking power. I want to see what lies beneath that perfect façade. I want to be the one who shatters it.
"Boss?"
Bruno's voice cuts through my concentration. I don't turn from the screen, but I gesture for him to continue.
"Got word from the Rome warehouse. Three trucks came through tonight, all Costa marked."
Now I swivel the chair to face him. Bruno stands in the doorway, his military bearing unchanged despite years of civilian service. His expression reveals nothing, but his tone carries weight I've learned to read.
"And?"
"One truck we tagged. Clean insertion, no detection. But the other two..." He pauses, choosing his words. "They were scrubbed. Professional work. Someone knew we were watching."
The news doesn't surprise me, but it confirms what I've suspected. Emilio Costa didn't build his empire through carelessness. He's been watching us as carefully as we've been watching him, and the game has escalated beyond simple surveillance.
"How many men do we have on the warehouse?"
"Six, rotating shifts. But if they made us on two trucks?—"
"They made us on all three." I turn back to the monitors, pulling up feeds from the Rome operation. "The one they let us tag was the message."
The warehouse appears on screen in grainy night vision, its loading docks busy with legitimate commerce. Costa's legitimate commerce, running alongside his more profitable enterprises. The trucks Bruno mentioned sit in formation near the south entrance, their drivers probably unaware of the deadly chess match being played around them.
"What are your orders?"
Before I can answer, Gianni appears behind Bruno, his thin frame filling the remaining space in the doorway. My consigliere's face carries the expression I've learned to associate with bad news delivered with careful diplomacy.
"We need to talk," he says, glancing at the monitors. "About escalation."
I gesture both men inside and kill the feeds. The surveillance room suddenly feels smaller with three bodies occupying space designed for solitary observation. Gianni moves to the corner where he can watch both the door and my face, old habits from years of navigating treacherous waters.
"Speak."
"Moving on the warehouse now triggers a war we're not ready for." Gianni's voice carries the measured cadence of someone who has survived by choosing words carefully. "Costa has twice our manpower in Rome, and his political connections run deeper than ours."
"His political connections won't help him if he's dead."
"Getting to him requires getting through his defenses. Getting through his defenses requires resources we don't have." Gianni steps closer, his voice dropping to the tone he uses when delivering unwelcome truths. "We push too hard now, we lose everything."
Bruno nods agreement, though his soldier's instincts clearly favor action over patience. "Gianni's right about the numbers. Costa's been fortifying his position since word spread about our expansion. He's ready for direct confrontation."
