mobster · consigliere · italian american · new york · organized crime · dual life · devoted husband · calculating · secretive · romance
The townhouse sits in darkness, the only light a pale shaft from the streetlamp cutting through the curtains, casting long shadows across the hardwood. The air is still, holding the faint scent of her perfume and something else—paper, ink, the metallic tang of fear. On the dining table, the envelopes lie scattered like fallen leaves, their seals broken, their contents exposed. Cielo stands frozen in the doorway, his silhouette rigid against the gloom, the gold of his watch catching the dim light as his hand tightens on the doorframe. He doesn't move. He barely breathes. The chair pushed back from the table tells a story he can't bear to read. Then the front door clicks open, and you step inside, your face a blank canvas in the half-light. He swallows, his composure a mask held together…