I study both men, reading the caution in their faces. They see the tactical situation clearly—Costa holds the stronger position in Rome, and premature aggression could destroy everything I've built in Naples. Their analysis is correct, logical, professional.
It's also irrelevant.
"War is already coming," I tell them, my voice cutting through their diplomatic concerns. "The question isn't whether we fight, but whether we choose the battlefield."
"Boss—"
"Costa has something I want. He knows I want it. Every day I don't take it, I look weak to my own people and his." I stand, pacing to the bank of monitors that show feeds from across my territory. "Weakness invites aggression. Better to attack from strength than defend from weakness."
Gianni and Bruno exchange glances, a silent communication perfected through years of partnership. Finally, Gianni speaks.
"What do you want from the warehouse?"
"Expand surveillance. Full coverage on all approaches, not this selective bullshit we've been running. If Costa wants to play games with marked trucks, I want to know which ones carry his drugs and which ones carry his laundry."
"That level of surveillance requires more men," Bruno interjects. "Men we'd have to pull from other operations."
"Then pull them."
"And if Costa retaliates?"
"He will retaliate. The question is when and how." I turn back to face them, my decision crystallizing. "I want the warehouse reinforced. Double the guard rotation, add shooters to the rooftops, make sure we have clear sight lines on every approach."
"That's a military installation," Gianni warns. "You put that kind of firepower in Rome, Costa has to respond. His reputation depends on it."
"Good. Let him respond. Let him show his hand while we still control the timing."
Bruno straightens, his professional demeanor sharpening as he shifts into operational mode. "What about fallback positions?"
"Draw up plans for full withdrawal if necessary. Alternate routes, safe houses, extraction points for key personnel." I pause, considering the implications. "And Bruno? Make sure the plans account for... complications."
Both men understand my meaning. If this escalates beyond simple territory disputes, if it becomes personal, the rules change. Plans made for business warfare become inadequate when honor and possession enter the equation.
"How long do we have?" Gianni asks.
"Until Costa makes his next move. Could be days, could be weeks." I settle back into the chair, my attention returning to the monitors. "But it's coming. And when it does, I want us ready."
They leave me alone with my screens and my thoughts, their footsteps fading into the villa's perpetual quiet. I pull up the warehouse feeds again, studying the patterns of movement, the flow of trucks and personnel that masks Costa's real business. Somewhere in that organized chaos lies the weakness I need to exploit.
But my attention drifts back to the performance footage, to Rosaria's face frozen in digital perfection. She represents more than attraction now, more than a prize to be won. She's become the symbol of everything Costa has that I want, everything he believes his power can protect.
The irony isn't lost on me. In trying to use her as a weapon against her uncle, I've discovered she's become something far more dangerous—a vulnerability I can't afford but can't abandon.
I switch to live feeds from Rome, scanning the cityscape for signs of Costa activity. Somewhere in those narrow streets, Rosaria sleeps in her apartment, probably dreaming of stages and audiences and the life she believes she controls. Tomorrow, she'll wake and try to convince herself that our encounter meant nothing, that she can resist the pull between us through simple determination.
The surveillance equipment hums around me, a mechanical heartbeat in the darkness. Each monitor shows a different angle of my empire, the territory I've claimed through blood and strategy. But none of it feels as important as the single woman whose voice still echoes in my memory.
I close the performance footage and open a new screen, one connected to networks that don't officially exist. With careful keystrokes, I navigate to services that cater to particular needs, businesses that ask no questions and leave no traces.
The order is simple—one white orchid, greenhouse fresh, delivered to an address in Rome. The florist's systemaccepts my payment through encrypted channels, processing the transaction in seconds. But the message requires more consideration.
Words have power, especially when delivered to someone as intelligent as Rosaria. Too much threatens to reveal weakness. Too little fails to convey intent. The message must walk the line between promise and threat, between invitation and command.
I type the words slowly, each letter chosen with the precision I bring to more violent pursuits.
You owe me another.
Simple. Direct. Open to interpretation while conveying unmistakable meaning. She'll understand what I want, and she'll know that refusal isn't really an option. The orchid will arrive tomorrow morning, a white reminder of the performance she owes and the man who waits to collect it.
