Ottavio's call came through. Something like a glimmer of hope sparked in my core. Perhaps he had succeeded in distracting the men at the control room and doing what I'd asked.
Thirty minutes earlier, I had dialed his number, instructing him to disable the security system for a brief five-minute window. My goal wasn't just to whisk Xenia away from that dreaded execution room unnoticed, but to usher her all the way back to my room within that narrow timeframe.
"It's done, but you've only got three fucking minutes or you're going to get caught," Ottavio's voice hissed through the line. "If you don't get her out of there, I won't know who you are, and I won't know why the cameras failed to capture your exit...If they suspect the glitch and Morelli starts asking questions."
"I'll take care of it," I assured him before abruptly ending the call. With a snap of my fingers, I motioned for Xenia to follow me.
We emerged from the Crypt, and I quickly scanned the surroundings for any unwanted company.
None.
Midnight was approaching, the day's festivities drawing to a close, with all attention turning toward Don Morelli's concluding speech. Soon, the after-party would kick off for those who relished such affairs and had little regard for sleep. My own speech was scheduled in just a few minutes, adding urgency to the task at hand.
I needed to swiftly retrieve Xenia, return to my quarters, and have Ottavio reactivate the security system before it registered me leaving the Crypt and heading to the hall. And about the creating a dead body, I had a different plan for it before the day's end.
I was going to opt for the garden area. A discreet door was there at the back that led to a staircase ascending to the upper hallway. As we made our way to that door, the low murmurs of a few guards reached my ears, prompting me to halt abruptly near the wall of the crypt and pull Xenia back, even though she'd already attempted to duck.
Great survival instincts.
She let out a gasp when her back grazed against the wall, instinctively muffling the sound with her right hand. Her eyes brimmed with apology for the unintentional noise.
I shrugged off my suit and dumped it into her unresponsive grasp. "Stay still," my voice took on a hushed tone, one hand over her mouth, before stepping out into the open where the trio of guards loitered.
One of them clutched a bottle of cheap liquor, another instinctively reached for his gun, while the third swiftly assumed a submissive posture as he recognized my presence.
"Who's guarding the rare entrance into the west wing?" I simply asked.
The guard clutching the bottle, genuinely taken aback by my sudden appearance, stammered nervously, "Uh, it's just me, Honcho," before hastily passing the bottle to his colleague, as if sensing my disapproval. "Any p-problem?"
"You two can leave," my command was addressed to the remaining pair with a snap of my fingers to get their full attention. Pointing back in the direction they had come from, I directed, "Not this way, that," and it prompted them to scurry out of sight, leaving the solitary guard behind with me.
A sinister thought crossed my mind as I observed him standing alone. He could prove useful, considering I needed a body to dispose of from the crypt tonight.
"Unlock the door." I closed the distance between us as he stood there, confusion furrowing his brow. "I said, unlock the door."
"Are you suggesting your you take the rear, sir?"
"And now you're questioning me?"
The guard quickly acquiesced, bowing in submission. "Not at all." Retrieving a set of keys from his pocket, he fumbled through them until he found the right one.
Then, the door creaked open, but before he could sense my intentions and turn around to defend himself, I swiftly wrapped my right arm around his throat, forcing him to his knees. He struggled, attempting to pry my arm away, likely trying to scream, but my grip silenced any protests before they could escape his lips. His gasps were loud and clear, similar to the many times I had rendered a man breathless in such way.
Not even a fleeting pang of guilt washed over me. It was a sensation I never experienced. Every action I took was usually analyzed and deliberate. If I hadn't thoroughly considered it beforehand, I refrained from acting. So, once a decision was made, there was no room for regret.
It was a fundamental aspect of being a man, of orchestrating the movements of pawns and determining which sacrifices were necessary for the greater good of those around me. The woman had done nothing to earn my protection in the conventional sense, yet she had also done nothing to be denied it.
As the life drained from the guard's body, the his form slackened, his weight bearing down on my muscles before he collapsed entirely. With his body now a deadweight, I dragged him back to our previous location, briefly locking eyes with Xenia, whose expression registered sheer shock before she averted her gaze.
Ignoring any judgments she might have harbored, I continued to haul the body along the gravel until we reached the crypt, where I unceremoniously discarded it.
Reentering the noxious confines of the building meant increasing the distance between myself and my quarters, but it was a necessary risk.
In exchange for the life a seemingly innocent stranger, I had sacrificed that of our loyal guard. Thinking about it brought nothing but satisfaction to mind. Maybe because I told myself was doing it for the right reason.
I saw a streak of tear in the woman's eyes as I approached. Briefly, I wondered if it was my ruthless act of killing the guard for her sake that provoked her emotion, or if it was the realization that I was genuinely aiding her.
Without dwelling on it for long, I seized her wrist firmly and pulled her into the corridor, swiftly locking the door behind us after securing the key.
Individuals with pure intentions typically didn't resort to using the back doors to their quarters when the front entrance was available. Given that this particular door was rarely accessed by residents of this wing, the absence of the guard would likely go unnoticed until his colleagues reported it. And even if suspicions arose, no one of significance would dare entertain the notion that I had anything to do with his disappearance. Moreover, with the surveillance currently offline, the guard was effectively erased from memory.
Reaching the top of the stairs, I found myself in the familiar hallway leading to my room, though from the opposite direction this time. I walked ahead cautiously, with Xenia trailing behind, keeping an eye out for anyone approaching from below.
During festivities, the guards stationed in this area usually descended to reinforce security in the front yard, leaving the upper floor relatively deserted. I towered over Xenia by a foot, so her presence would remain discreet until anyone came into closer view.
Guiding her close to the walls, I ensured she stayed nearer to the solid surface than to the balustrade, where anyone below might spot us if their gaze happened to drift upward. I finally arrived at my door and inserted the key. I turned the lock.
As I pushed the door open, my grip on Xenia's arm slackened slightly, causing her to stumble and emit a soft yelp as she fell into the darkness of my room with a dull thud.
Before I could locate the switch, Xenia had already begun to rise from the floor. "Sorry about that," I muttered and collected my suit from her.
Though she didn't verbally acknowledge my apology, I sensed her silent assent.
Gesturing toward the conversational area nestled in the living room, I directed her attention to the two black chairs and the small wooden table, upon which lay a pack of cards. Ottavio and I had been engaged in a game of blackjack before the festivities began.
"Wait there for me."
I dropped my eyes in resignation after watching her stagger to the chair and glance out the window like the thought of jumping registered in her head. Then I lifted it to hold her figure. The glow of the night sky filtering through the glass transformed her maroon dress into a shimmering cascade of red.
The very sight of her standing behind that view, gently placing a hand on the table, it triggered a sense of déjà vu, like I'd crossed paths with her in another life, maybe as a woman of the night strolling the alleys. Dio, her red dress hinted at her dangerous glamour, keeping me hooked on the paradox she carried in those eyes.
I had glanced at her numerous times since our first encounter, but it wasn't until this precise moment that I truly saw her — not with suspicion, wariness, or the need to spare her, but with a recently discovered appreciation for her beauty. In that daring moment, her appeal seemed magnified, almost to an exaggerated degree.
Her gaze bore into mine, eyes conveying a depth of sadness that didn't exactly mirror the relief of someone whose life had just been spared. Paradoxical. I pondered if she had any family waiting for her return asides her friend, then remembered she'd said none was here. Where then? But now wasn't the time for further inquiries; my window of opportunity seemed to have closed. Yes my desire was to move, I found myself rooted in place, as if her eyes alone had immobilized me.
"Make yourself comfortable," the words were intended more to break the spell that seemed to bind me in place than to provide her with any genuine reassurance.
Turning to face the door leading to my room, I entered and approached the mirror. I ran my fingers through my malleable brown hair. I loosened my meticulously knotted tie and unbuttoned my shirt. As the fabric fell away, a plume of smoke emerged from the skull tattooed over my heart, peeking out from beneath the now unfastened shirt.
I examined the shirt, noticing subtle stains tracing a path downward, likely left by the product on the guard's hair as he met his demise. I tilted my head and observed faint scratches on my neck, prompting the memory of his futile attempt to fight back. With a sigh, I wiped away the congealing blood and then scrubbed my hands clean against the fabric of the shirt, now bunched up in my fists.
After a brief search for a replacement shirt, I selected a fresh white one and swiftly redressed myself, discarding the ruined one into the trash bin.
I never put on a shirt I had killed in, not because the stains were typically impossible to remove or because I could discern any difference among my countless shirts, or even because it might retain a lingering scent of death despite dry cleaning. No, it was more about the problem of carrying the burden of a life lost.
No matter how many I'd killed before this man or how many I'd kill after him, random deaths weren't interesting; they were simply...inevitable.
I returned to the living room and sought Xenia's gaze, finding her staring at me with confusion and that hint of fear again. But her opinions of me held no significance. I was a murderer, not a saint, a predator, not a redeemer.
I didn't have to, and wouldn't attempt to erase her notion and replace it with a nonexistent one because I cared to be glorified.
"Do not answer the door; I wouldn't knock. I've got my key," I instructed firmly, ensuring she understood the importance of remaining quiet and hidden, just in case I was sought before I could make my way to the hall.
In a matter of moments, I navigated my way to the crypt and dialed Ottavio, delivering my news to him as he swiftly reactivated the security system.
For years, I had pondered why the Triad forbade surveillance cameras inside the crypt, consumed by curiosity each time they entered without me and emerged without leaving any evidence of their actions to feed my curiosity with. But now, I found myself grateful and understanding, realizing that not everything needed to be captured on film.
I placed the dead guard's body in a body bag but made no attempt to carry it. I had a party to rejoin, my car waiting at the other end of the estate, and my shirt now stainless again. I would return for the body later, after the festivities had concluded, or rather, subdued.
Rolling the body to one side, I dragged the nearby table over to provide adequate cover. Hopefully, no other woman dressed in maroon with red hair would require torture tonight.
After smoothing down my hair, I pushed open the door with my suit in hand and began to dress where the cameras would catch me. It was a performance for Morelli's benefit, though he had yet to demonstrate enough distrust to warrant such a spectacle.
I lingered outside, attempting to relax as if I had just overindulged. However, the truth was far from it, and I needed the fresh air to calm my nerves after committing the unthinkable with clear premeditation. I swore to myself that Morelli would never uncover my actions, because if he did? Well, let's just skip to where he never discovered it—that was far less demoralizing to visualize.
Pulling a stick of tobacco from my pocket, I lit it and took a few drags to steel myself for rejoining the crowd. When I finally felt prepared to bid them farewell, I made my way to the hall.
###
Ottavio paraded the forecourt of the East wing while I stood nearby, casually observing him with my left leg crossed over my right ankle. It had been just over three hours since my speech, since we left the party, retrieved the body from the crypt, and found a less than ideal resting place for it.
Six feet under wasn't exactly a comfortable place to be.
The East wing belonged to the Morellis, the South to us Rossis, and the Martini family occupied the North. The West wing was shared by all ranked men, sheltering the don, my father, and the chain of command leading up to the consigliere. The front and right regions of this wing were heavily guarded, as it was where business matters were conducted—matters that didn't concern the rest of the family, to be more precise, the women, children and servants.
The West wing accommodated rooms for everyone with a rank in the Family here in Bologna, ensuring that matters could be attended to without interruption from mothers and wives and children, even if they extended for days on end.
That's precisely why the crypt was situated in that wing. Any issue that couldn't be resolved through words or papers was settled with more decisive methods—guns, rope, chains, whips, you name it.
But for me, it was more than just a place of business—it was my only home. I hadn't slept in my room back at the mansion designated to the Rossis since I traded cozy sheets for the cold realities of the streets.
There was no way to leave the West wing without crossing into Morelli's territory to the North or ours to the South, if one wished to exit through the gate located in the East.
Xenia was effectively trapped here, no matter how I considered the situation. Contemplating her escape had nearly dulled the intellect of two seasoned criminals.
Well, that's because Ottavio wasn't thinking —he wasn't feeling this particular crime. He wanted no part in it, yet as my loyal partner, he was unavoidably entangled in the scheme, even without actively participating.
"You're in the wrong, thats the only way I fucking see it," he spat out some more garbage. He checked his watch, a sense of urgency creeping in. "You cannot, for whatever reason, counter Morelli's order."
I couldn't argue with his logic—it was true. But then... "Tell me you haven't, not once in your life, felt the slight urge to do something right?" I posed the question, leaning against his Ford for support.
He halted his pacing, considering my words carefully before shaking his head. "Right is what we do, what we are. Wrong is what you're about to do."
I held my breath, knowing that this conversation could stretch on for hours without resolution. Ottavio and I had always maintained a strong relationship over the years since we were boys, rarely disagreeing, but our differing perspectives on this matter threatened to drive a wedge between us. We couldn't afford to falter now, or I'd find myself in a world of trouble.
"You telling me to cut the cameras for you to get her to your bed to fuck is not a recipe to save her from Morelli," he continued firing at me ceaselessly. "You said a quick fuck, you didn't say prison break."
"How many times will I give you reason? She's innocent!"
"Now when did that start to matter to you?" Marvelous question. I'd killed both innocent and guilty without a doubt that it was a well-deserved death, so why did this matter to me? "It doesn't make a damn difference, she's still a threat to the Don. And the rule says—"
"Well, to hell with the rule." I backed him, then leaned forward against the car, huffing a breath of deliberation. "Breaking them is just as thrilling as following them, ain't that right?"
Those were Ottavio's own words from months ago when he had proposed drugging Mancini, an associate, to conduct unauthorized surveillance. He couldn't seek approval from either my father or his own because that mission was solely for Ottavio Morelli's benefit. It was against the rules to spy on an associate without proper authorization, yet he had proceeded with it anyway.
We weren't all saints here, and if Ottavio continued to make me feel like the sole rule breaker, I had more than enough fingers to recount his own transgressions against the organization. Perhaps he had dismissed them as innocent because they involved him directly.
Turning to face him again, I chose to dismiss mine as innocent.
After a prolonged silence, Ottavio cleared his throat to draw my attention to his next words. His gaze briefly shifted to the ground before meeting mine, and he fidgeted uncomfortably, drumming his fingers nervously on his left thigh. "Did you even fuck with her?"
My throat constricted at the question. If Ottavio knew the truth—that I hadn't slept with her—he might become even more wary of my intentions and actions. He could back out, accusing me of growing weak, and that was unacceptable. But the reason for the question was valid, because he knew the kinds of thrills I would often shake my head to.
"Yes," I replied firmly, meeting his eyes again. "And she exceeded my expectations—which is precisely why I want her alive. But that won't be possible if she leaves here in a body bag, will it?"
"You would not typically say "yes" after fucking a woman!" His eyes darkened suspiciously on me. "You'd let me fill in the blanks. You think I'm stupid? What is this madness?"
Fuck.
Seconds stretched, silence thickening. I had lost my ability to speak because more lies would anger the bastard.
"Do you have any plan on how to bypass security?" Ottavio finally conceded. "Any idea where she lives and how feasible it will be to persuade her, considering she's not even a whore? And what if Morelli demands a dead body... not the body of our guard, but hers? Think, Roe! You're being reckless. It's not too late to dispose of her in your room and handle this properly."
Ottavio was spiraling, his anxiety too thick for my damn good, and I couldn't blame him entirely—I had thrown him into this by force. But there would be no seeing her after she left here, and I would ensure that.
"I'll figure it out, but let's skip the part where she dies," I interjected firmly. "Let's focus on bypassing security."
Despite our positions as leaders in the eyes of our subordinates, we were still perceived as errand boys by our fathers. We were constantly under scrutiny for any sign of recklessness, being evaluated for potential insubordination, and punished for any mistakes we made. Apart from the Triad, no other member of the TIF was permitted to bring a woman into the West wing. The only exception was Luciana, who had close ties with the TIF and me through her father.
Leaving the West wing with another woman was like attempting to break out of a maximum-security prison — scarcely credible. The festivities provided the only opportunity for women to enter this area, as they were typically restricted to the hall. If I had dared to smuggle Xenia out of the estate during that time I'd taken her away, I would have risked encountering too many guards, surveillance picking me and jeopardizing my chance to deliver my speech.
"You're in a mess, Romano," Ottavio's delivery was a blunt assessment that hit me hard. "Not this one."
It was a sobering reminder, one that I foolishly resisted accepting. "After this one, there'd be no one else to save from Morelli. I assure you."
The reasons behind my decision to help her remained stupidly vague, but I couldn't afford to linger and contemplate them. Time was not a luxury I possessed.
But I knew that once she was out of the equation, and not dead, I'd have myself to thank for that choice. Something was telling me I could execute this flawlessly and let her slip away. We might never see after this again, but it was enough for me. Memories of her alive, rather than beneath the soil was enough for me.
"There are only two ways to get her out of the estate without losing my head in the process."
"And what are they?" Ottavio inched closer, his curiosity piqued. While he might not have been the sharpest tool in the shed, he was certainly quick to anger and violence, traits that made him eager for information like this.
"We either procure new clothes and dye her hair, then smuggle her out as Morelli's whore on Monday evening, or we resort to a goddamn body bag if necessary. Either way, I need her breathing in both scenarios."