Chapter 8 - First mission

It had been nearly a week since Alex arrived in the city. Seven, maybe eight days — he’d stopped counting. The days blurred into one another: dawns of bread flour and evenings of aching legs. Each time he came home to the apartment, the silence was familiar. Predictable.

Until tonight.

Alex stepped through the door, and stopped.
There it was — hanging beside the coat hook like a ghost:
A long black coat. A dark fedora.

Dominick was here.

His pulse quickened. He closed the door quietly behind him, his fingers twitching with nervous flour still clinging to them. His shoes scraped the floor. From the guest room, Dante leaned against the doorway, arms crossed and grinning like he’d been waiting there all day.

“We got a job,” Dante said, that cocky half-grin stretched across his face.

Alex didn’t answer. The weight of the word sank deep in his chest.

His first mission.

The back room was dim. A single desk lamp threw shadows like spears across the walls. Dominick sat behind his desk, motionless, fingers steepled. The room smelled faintly of tobacco, varnish, and the kind of silence that didn’t like being broken.

Alex entered beside Dante, standing straighter than usual, his shoulders tense.

Dominick didn’t rise.

“Alex,” he said. “How’s the city treating you?”

Alex hesitated. “Uh... it’s not bad. I guess. I got a job.”

Dominick raised an eyebrow. “Job?”

“Helping an old man at his shop,” Alex replied. “Stacking boxes. Carrying things. That kind of stuff.”

The faintest twitch of a smile crossed Dominick’s face. “Sounds like you. I’m not surprised.”

Dante, from the chair across said. “He is ready, boss. He’s smart in his own way. We can rely on him.”

“I don’t think he is,” Dominick said flatly.

Silence.

He leaned back, eyes still on Alex.

“It’s only been — what? Seven, eight days? That’s nothing. But there’s a first time for everything. And you don’t get experience sitting on the sidelines.”

His gaze sharpened.

“So I’ll try you.”

He slid a folder across the desk. Inside were photos — Names were written beneath them in clean ink: Giovanni Ricci. Robert Cavazza.

“They are henchmen of a rival family to the three dons,” Dominick began. “The Marcettis. Competitors. Had money, men, and territory — We have been at a cold war for a decade and we are winning. Took their docks, their routes, everything that mattered. What’s left is scraps. And a few dogs still barking.”

He gestured toward the portraits.

“These two like to bark.”

Dominick continued without theatrics. “They hang out at two bars. Separate locations. Places I can’t touch without raising suspicion. So you’re going in.”

Dante raised an eyebrow. “We’re just watching, right? Gathering intel?”

“Exactly,” Dominick said.

“Then why not bribe the bartenders? Like the old days?”

Dominick almost smiled. “Because these aren’t just bartenders. They’re fossils. Old-world loyalists. The Marcettis protect them. They don’t talk — not for favors, not for money.”

“Also no family to use. No one to threaten.”

Alex didn’t like that sentence one bit, especially the casual tone. But he hid his expression.

Dominick carried on.

“Dante, you’ll go to the bar on Via Sarto. You blend in better. Alex — you take Guilder, the waiter there quit so I assume they will take you. Dante will show the way.”

Alex’s brow furrowed. “Why not together ?”

“To cover more ground. I need two persons in the two places. They like soft faces on Guilder,” Dominick replied. “You’ll pass. They’ll take pity. Or they’ll ignore you. Either way — you listen, you watch. Don’t force anything. If it doesn’t feel right, or they reject you, back out.”

“And what exactly do you want us to find?” Alex asked.

“Everything,” Dominick said. “When these two arrive. When they leave. Who they talk to. What they drink. How they act when it rains. Count how many cigarettes they smoke.”

Alex blinked. “That sounds like... too much.”

“Then treat it like it is,” Dominick said. “Be a ghost. One slip. One pattern. That’s all I need.”

He paused, then added, “And if someone walks in with the same aura as me — someone feared, someone respected — remember it. That’s one of them.”

Alex hesitated. “What if they figure us out?”

Dominick didn’t blink. “Figure out kids who sweep up at bars?” He leaned back, perfectly still.

Alex’s stomach tightened. Dominick noticed.

He met Alex’s eyes. “Just don’t walk in with a sign. If they notice you’re looking too hard — they’ll assume you’re interested in them. Not dangerous.”

“That’s one of the main points why I’m sending you and not an adult.”

Dante clapped Alex’s back lightly. “Don’t worry, buddy. The boss has everything covered.”

Dominick’s voice cut in, low and firm.

“There’s no such thing.”

They both looked back at him.

“I don’t do that ‘I planned everything from the start’ fantasy,” he said. “I believe in preparation. In contingencies. Backups for the backups. I account for things most people forget.”

He leaned forward again, fingers folded.

“But no one plans for everything. You can’t. A perfect plan doesn’t exist. And if it does, it’s either a lie… or a fantasy too scared to move.”

He looked from one to the other.

“Real work? It bleeds a little. Plans bend. You don’t seal every crack — you just make sure the building doesn’t fall when it does.”

He paused

“And sometimes? You win because the other guy tripped over his own feet. That’s good enough.”

A long silence settled.

“More questions?” he asked.

None came.

Dominick nodded.

“Dismissed.”

___

The door clicked shut behind them with the weight of finality. For a moment, the hallway stood in silence — long, narrow, and steeped in shadows. Dust drifted lazily in the air, catching in the dull amber glow of the sconces. Neither boy spoke.

Dante let out a low breath, raking a hand through his curls. “Dang,” he muttered. “I was kinda hoping it’d be something we’d do together without us getting separated.”

Alex gave a faint nod. His hands fidgeted at his sides, fingers brushing the hem of his jacket. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

There was a pause, one that stretched just long enough to feel.

“I’m... really nervous,” he admitted at last.

Dante turned toward him, and his expression softened. “That’s not a bad thing. You’re new — anyone would be. But listen, the boss doesn’t hand out solo jobs for fun. He trusts you. That means something.”

Alex tried to take comfort in the words, but his shoulders still tensed. “So I just... watch them? Gather habits. Report back. That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad…” He hesitated, then added, more quietly, “And he said he’s not going to kill them.”

"What, you thought the boss will give you a gun and ask you to pew-pew at them ? Hah! He is too classy for that garbage."

Alex exhaled, the tension easing just slightly from his brow. “Good. Then maybe... maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.”

Dante slowed his pace, the change subtle but deliberate. Something had shifted in his voice when he spoke again — quieter now, and less certain.

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

Alex looked at him, brows drawing inward.

“I’m just saying,” Dante went on, eyes fixed ahead. “I don’t know how this’ll play out. None of us do. So just... don’t let it break your spirit later.”

He glanced over, meeting Alex’s gaze with a rare seriousness. “Do what you’re told. And try not to feel too much about it.”

Alex swallowed hard. “R-right.”

They walked the rest of the corridor in silence, the only sound the soft echo of their footsteps on old floorboards.

__

By the time they reached the mouth of the city proper, the sun had begun to dip behind the rooftops, casting long, golden shadows across the cobblestones. Gas lamps flickered to life one by one, their glow pooling in amber puddles along the street. The sounds of evening stirred around them — laughter from a tavern door ajar, carriage wheels turning over stone, a woman calling after her child in the distance.

The two boys came to a quiet intersection near the Marcetti-controlled blocks. It was the sort of place that looked ordinary, almost pleasant, if you didn’t know who held the strings behind the curtains.

Dante stopped first, glancing briefly down one path, then the other. “Alright,” he said, brushing invisible dust from his coat. “We split here.”

Alex paused beside him. “Just in case?”

“Just in case,” Dante echoed. “We don’t want to be seen together. You take the detour on the right — keep going straight once you pass the baker’s. The bar should be halfway down that stretch.”

Alex looked down the dimly lit street, then back at Dante. “What about you?”

“I’ll head to mine later. Can’t have us showing up at the same time, even if it’s not the same place. Might look off.” He shrugged. “Probably overthinking, but that’s the boss’s way.”

“Yeah,” Alex murmured. “He is careful.”

Dante grinned faintly. “Let’s learn from him, yeah?”

Alex gave a small, nervous nod. “T-thanks.”

Dante clasped a hand briefly to his shoulder — a touch more grounding than comforting. “You’ll be alright,” he said, with a confidence that felt slightly borrowed. Then he turned, already fading into the bustle of the opposite path.

Alex watched him go. For a second, he hesitated, caught in the lull between choices. The city loomed ahead, loud and alive and full of things he didn’t yet understand.

Then he took a breath, straightened his coat, and walked on alone.

___

The street he followed was quieter here, lined with manicured hedges and gas lamps crowned in polished brass. It was the kind of place where the cobblestones had been scrubbed smooth, where shutters were painted and unchipped, and where even the alleyways seemed to mind their manners.

Then he saw it — tucked into the corner like a secret kept too well: the bar.

It wasn’t what he expected. Not smoky or cramped or loud. No, this place stood proud behind glossy windows, the gold-lettered signage catching the last hints of sunlight. The brass handle gleamed like it had been kissed by a jeweler’s cloth, and the curtains behind the glass were pressed to perfection.

He stepped forward, then hesitated. Adjusted his collar. Cleared his throat.
“Hello?” he called, leaning slightly in.

A voice shot back from within — rough, sharp as a bark.
“We’re not open yet!”

Alex winced. “I’m not a customer!” he replied quickly. “I was wondering if... I could work here?”

He peered inside.

The interior was spotless. Tables polished to a shine, every chair aligned like it had attended etiquette school. Behind the bar, the counter gleamed with the luster of old money and long habits.

But what caught his eye — what rooted his feet to the ground —

was her

She stood near the back, drying a glass with precise, steady motions. Her dress fit her like it had been sewn for her body and no other, dark fabric hugging her figure and sleeves rolled to her forearms. Her movements were elegant, deliberate — the kind of grace that couldn’t be taught, only worn like an old perfume.

She looked up, and their eyes met.

Alex forgot what air was. He blinked, startled by the jolt that ran through his chest.
“G-Good evening, madam,” he stammered, bowing slightly like some old-world gentleman who had fallen out of a painting.

Her lips curved, amused. “Hello, pretty boy.”

Even her voice had weight — soft, dusky, with the faintest trace of mischief. She stepped forward, the light catching in the gentle waves of her dark hair.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked.

Alex, still standing too stiff, nodded. “Uh — yes. I was hoping to work here, if possible.”

She studied him a moment — not cruelly, not kindly, just… reading. Then she nodded and turned toward the back. “Give me a minute.”

He glanced around again, still trying to wrap his mind around the place. “Wow…” he muttered to himself. “Surprisingly polite. More than half the people I’ve talked to this week…”

“Madam?” he called again.

She turned halfway.

“Yes?”

He swallowed. His mouth worked faster than his judgment. “Forgive me, but... you brighten the room more than all the lights here combined.”

She gave a laugh — not mocking, just genuinely caught off guard. “Thank you,” she said, brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. “I get that a lot.”

Then, turning her head slightly, she called: “Tom!”

A grunt from behind a curtain. “Yeah?”

“This boy wants to work here.”

There came a rustle, then footsteps. A man emerged — mid-fifties, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair grizzled, eyes sharp as nails. He had the look of someone who had broken more noses than glasses.

He eyed Alex from head to toe.

“You worked in a bar before, son?”

Alex stood up straighter. “Uh… no, sir. Not yet.”

“Huh.” The man grunted. “An honest one. Everyone else says yes, then turns out to be trash with a tray.”

He stepped closer, squinting.

“You’re not from around here.”

“No, sir. I’m new in the city.”

“Alright, then. Help Lucia clean the chairs. After that, broom’s behind the counter. Sweep the whole floor.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re not serving drinks yet. Got it?”

“Got it. Thank you.”

___

Alex moved quietly through the bar, wiping down each chair with methodical care. The scent of furniture polish clung faintly in the air, mingling with the fading traces of Lucia’s perfume. She worked with precise rhythm — quiet, focused — her steps smooth as a pendulum, never wasted, never hurried. She didn’t speak unless spoken to, and somehow, that only drew him in more.

He risked a glance — just a brief one. Her movements were mesmerizing, her face unreadable yet striking in a way that lingered. He quickly looked away, frowning at himself.

Damn… what’s wrong with me?
I’m not usually like this…
But she’s just… very hard to ignore.

He scrubbed the next chair a little too hard, as if trying to erase the thought. When he looked up again, their eyes met — she had caught him staring. His posture jerked in surprise, his face flushing.

“What’s your name?” she asked, her voice calm and lilting, a quiet contrast to the stillness between them.

“Alex, madam,” he replied quickly, almost stammering.

“You can call me Lucia.”

“It’s… nice to meet you, Lucia.”

She gave a faint smile — gentle, brief — and it was gone again. Alex swallowed, turning back to the chair with renewed focus.

“You’re very good at this,” he murmured.

“You too,” she replied without hesitation. “You’re doing a very good job — every inch of the chairs you touched is clean. I thought I’d have to show you how, but you’ve got it.”

“I’m… used to chores. Did them all the time,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, unsure why the compliment meant so much.

“Good,” she said simply.

As she passed by, cloth in hand, she brushed just close enough for him to feel it — the faintest shift in the air, the brush of her sleeve — and he forgot the mission, if only for a second. His heart beat faster. The bar around him faded into polish and perfume and the rhythm of her steps. He lowered his head and smiled faintly to himself.

The old clock above the bar ticked on. In the far corner, Alex finished sweeping, pausing to wipe sweat from his brow. He exhaled, steadying himself.

I’m doing good so far. Stay calm. This is easy.

But then—

[DING DING DING]

The bell above the door jangled, and a wave of laughter and footsteps flooded into the room. A crowd of men spilled in — loud, boisterous, the sort who laughed with their chests and claimed space with their boots.

Alex startled. “W-Whoa…”

Lucia didn’t flinch. Tommaso, behind the bar, didn’t look up.

“EASY!” Tommaso suddenly roared. “ACT LIKE YOU’VE BEEN HERE BEFORE! TAKE YOUR SEATS! YOU’LL GET YOUR DRINKS!”

The men laughed sheepishly and shuffled to their tables. Their gazes, however, drifted — mostly toward Lucia, who now moved through them with calm efficiency. She was polite, distant, graceful in a way that felt rehearsed.

“Good evening, lady,” one man called.

“Lucia! Lookin’ as stunning as ever,” said another.

“This her? Damn, you weren’t kidding,” said a third.

Lucia’s smile remained faint, practiced — a mask — and she kept her pace steady. That is, until she reached a table in the corner. A man sat there with a slouched grin and easy arrogance.

“May I offer you a drink?” he asked.

“Thank you, but I have to work,” she replied, her voice still light.

“Aw, come on. Don’t be like that. I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

She tried to step back, but he caught her wrist — lightly, but firmly. Her posture shifted. She didn’t jerk away, but her grip on the tray tightened.

“I’m sorry,” she said, still smiling. “Other customers are waiting—”

“Sir…?” Alex’s voice came, uncertain but audible.

Tommaso grunted from behind the bar, pouring drinks. “Damn lusty bastards… I can’t work like this. Let me finish and go over there. This happens a lot. She’ll handle herself.”

Alex hesitated. Lucia still smiled — but it was different now. Her knuckles were white around the tray. There was no ease in her eyes.

She doesn’t want to be there...
She just wants to work.
Does she go through this every night?

His grip on the broom tightened. He looked at Tommaso, then back at the table. Lucia was seated now, reluctantly, tray still balanced in her lap.

Can I do something…?
But if I step in wrong — I could get fired.
She didn’t even protest… Tommaso says this happens.
But she’s clearly not okay…

He took a breath.

Lucia sat beside the man in silence, her posture stiff, tray untouched. The man leaned in, pleased with himself. From across the room, Alex stood with the broom still in hand. The noise of the bar faded to a murmur. He glanced at the bar — no help from Tommaso.

And so, broom in hand, he crossed the floor.

“Uh—Lucia?” His voice was light but carried. “Sorry to bother you, but… I think there’s wine leaking from the barrel crate in the back. I didn’t know if I should touch it.”

Lucia blinked once. Then, as if freed by the excuse, she stood quickly.

“Oh my—did I mess that up? I thought I tightened it properly!”

The man groaned. “Damn… of all times…”

She followed Alex quickly to the storeroom. Only once they were out of earshot did she realize the truth. Everything was in its place.

“Alex…?” she asked, quietly confused. “What’s—”

“I… kinda lied,” he admitted, voice low. “I saw you were uncomfortable. I hope that’s alright. I just wanted to help.”

She stared at him for a moment. Then — to her own surprise — a soft laugh escaped. It was genuine. Gentle. And for once, not forced.

“You lied… to help me?” she asked, shaking her head with a half-smile. “That was sweet. Thank you.”

From the other room, Tommaso’s voice barked out like thunder.

“Lucia! Don’t go to that table again. I’ll handle it.”

Lucia called back over her shoulder, “Understood!”

Tommaso grunted. “New boy — good job. But stick to sweeping, alright? I don’t want trouble here.”

Alex bowed his head slightly. “Y-Yes, sir. Got it. Sorry!”

He hurried back to his corner, heart still thudding. As he returned to his broom, he glanced once more toward Lucia. Her smile lingered this time — not just polite, but soft. Grateful.

Just as the bar settled again, Tommaso looked toward the door and called out with sudden warmth, “Ah—Giovanni! There you are.”

Alex froze.

His fingers clenched around the broomstick. Slowly, he turned.

That name…
Dominick said—

A man had entered — tall, well-dressed, with sharp features and self-assured strides. His coat brushed the floor. His chin was lifted slightly, a man accustomed to being obeyed.

Alex’s blood chilled.

That’s one of the two enforcers.
Giovanni !