Tonight, I learned that my carefully constructed world has cracks in its foundation. Tomorrow, I'll discover just how deep those cracks run.
3
SALVATORE
The Steinway arrives at dawn, its ebony surface gleaming under the estate's crystal chandeliers. Six men push it through the main hall's double doors on rollers, their movements careful and reverent. They understand the value of what they transport—not merely in currency, but in the satisfaction of a man who tolerates no compromise in matters of quality.
I watch from the marble staircase as they bring it from the parlor and position the grand piano at the main hall's center, its curved silhouette cutting an elegant line against the Persian rugs. The acoustics in this room are perfect—high ceilings, hardwood floors, stone walls that will carry every note with crystalline clarity. I had it tested years ago when I first acquired the estate, though I never imagined the space would serve this particular purpose.
"Signore." Marco, the head of my domestic staff, approaches with the hesitant gait of a man bearing unwelcome news. "The piano tuner is requesting access."
"Send him in."
The tuner is an elderly man with fingers stained by decades of working with piano wire and wood polish. He moves around the Steinway with the reverence of a priest approaching an altar, his touch gentle as he opens the instrument's lid and peers into its mechanical heart.
"Beautiful piece," he murmurs, running a finger along the strings. "Concert quality. When was it last serviced?"
"Yesterday."
His eyebrows rise slightly, but he asks no further questions. Men in his profession know that moving a piano, even from one room to another, is grounds for service. One slight bump and something could be out of tune, and this piano must sound perfectly today. He sets to work with methodical precision, adjusting tensions and testing harmonics until each key produces exactly the sound it should.
While he works, I direct the lighting adjustments. The hall's original illumination is too harsh for this evening's purpose—fluorescent overhead fixtures that belong in an office building rather than a performance space. I have them replaced with softer alternatives—table lamps positioned to cast warm pools of light, candles arranged on the mantelpiece and side tables, the chandelier dimmed to provide ambient glow without creating shadows.
The effect transforms the hall from a formal reception space into something more intimate, more personal. The piano sits in a circle of golden light that will highlight every movement of the performer's hands, every expression that crosses her face as she sings.
"Perfect tuning,Signore," the piano tuner announces, closing the instrument's lid with reverent care. "She'll sing beautifully."
He departs with his payment and a substantial bonus for discretion. The fewer people who remember this evening's preparations, the better.
I test the piano myself, running through a simple melody my mother taught me decades ago. The notes flow with liquid precision, each one hanging in the air for exactly the right duration before fading into silence. Rosaria's voice will find perfect resonance in this space.
The thought of her voice fills me with anticipation that borders on hunger. Last night's encounter in her dressing room revealed layers I hadn't expected—intelligence, defiance, the kind of inner steel that doesn't bend easily under pressure. She agreed to one performance, but I suspect that single evening will not be enough to satisfy what has awakened in me.
"Signore." Marco returns, his expression carefully neutral. "Chef Benedetto is asking about refreshments for this evening."
"Espresso. Nothing else."
"Nothing else,Signore?"
"You heard me."
Food would be a distraction, an unnecessary complexity that might shift focus away from the evening's true purpose. Espresso serves a dual function—it will keep her alert, focused, while also providing a small ritual of hospitality that maintains the illusion of civility.
Marco nods and retreats, his footsteps echoing against the marble floors. The estate falls quiet except for the distant sounds of preparation—staff moving through rooms with the practiced efficiency of people who understand their employer's expectations.
I retire to my study to address business that cannot wait for the evening's conclusion. The leather chair behind my desk has molded itself to my body over years of use, its surface worn smooth by countless hours of planning and decision-making.The view through the tall windows shows manicured grounds extending toward the hills, but my attention focuses on the papers spread across the desktop.
Contracts. Shipping manifests. Territory maps marked with red ink to denote areas of expansion and conflict. The business of power requires constant attention, endless calculation of risk and reward.
The intercom buzzes with mechanical precision. "Signore, Gianni Torrino is here for your appointment."
"Send him in."
Gianni enters with the measured pace of a man who has survived thirty years in this business by knowing when to speak and when to listen. His suit is well-tailored but not ostentatious, his gray hair perfectly groomed, his hands clean of any evidence that might connect him to the violence his position sometimes requires. He is my most trusted lieutenant, the architect of negotiations that have expanded our territory throughout Southern Italy.
"The Costa situation," he begins without preamble, settling into the chair across from my desk. "Emilio is stalling."
"Explain."
