Chapter 10 - Woman in the Center

DAY FOUR

Giovanni walked briskly through the midday crowd, the city pulsing around him with its usual chaos—street vendors shouting prices over one another, crates of fish and citrus being hauled from carts, the heat pressing down from above and rising off the cobblestones like breath. His eyes swept the edges of the market with practiced sharpness. Something felt off. Too many faces turned away too quickly. Too many idle men leaning near archways or pretending to read newspapers they hadn’t flipped.

He noticed them—three, no, four big men, all dressed in black coats ill-suited for the spring. They moved slowly, purposefully, keeping their distance, but tightening the noose with each step.

“Broad daylight?” Giovanni muttered under his breath. “Are they killing me in broad daylight?”

Still, he didn’t break stride. Didn’t run. Running meant guilt. Meant fear. Meant they were right to chase you.

He tracked their movements, calculating angles, paths of escape—but in doing so, he missed the man coming straight ahead. A civilian looking man, with modest clothes, clean-shaven, polished like he stepped out of a painting. His face was oddly expressionless—plain, smooth, but unsettling, like something slightly unreal.

Vince. Dominick’s right hand man.

He wore a modest, dust-grey jacket and stepped into Giovanni’s path without hesitation. Giovanni’s eyes snapped to him too late.

He felt it—a firm pressure against his stomach. Not visible, but unmistakable.

A gun. Pointed. Close. Concealed.

Giovanni froze for half a second, flinching just slightly as the man lifted his gaze and offered a calm, almost pleasant smile.

“Damn it,” Giovanni hissed through his teeth. “They distracted me with the big ones…”

Vince didn’t blink. “We’re not hurting you,” he said softly. “Just come with us for a moment.”

Behind him, the other men in black coats had closed the circle. They didn’t speak. Didn’t brandish weapons. Just stood—tall, quiet, confident. As if they’d done this dance many times before.

Giovanni’s jaw flexed. He could make a scene. Draw a knife. Try his luck.

But that pressure at his stomach said otherwise. So did the calm in the man's voice.

He gave a short nod. “Alright.”

And they moved—not fast, not slow—melting back into the crowd, like nothing at all had happened.

__

The shutters of the old bar were drawn tight, its windows covered in thick dust. A crooked sign dangled above the door, long faded and forgotten. Inside, the air hung heavy with the musk of aged wood and spilled bourbon, the place long since abandoned by patrons but not by ghosts.

Giovanni stepped in, flanked by Vince and the black-coated big men. He took in the scene: cracked mirror behind the bar, rusted cash register, broken stools. A single table near the back still stood steady, and at it sat a man in pristine black—Dominick. A chair faced him. Empty, waiting.

Giovanni let out a short laugh. “What’s the matter, Dominick? Need all this muscle just to take me out?”

Dominick didn’t flinch. He smiled faintly and gestured. “Have a seat.”

From a silver case, Dominick drew out two cigars, clipped the ends with practiced precision, and offered one across the table.

“Try it,” he said. “Your bosses don’t pay enough for this kind of taste.”

Giovanni took the cigar without a word, lit it, inhaled slowly. It was good. Real good.

“What do you want?” he asked, his eyes steady. “If you meant to kill me, I’d already be dead.”

Dominick nodded with a faint, pleased hum. “You’ve been with the Marcettis a long time, Giovanni. I remember. Not close—but I remember. You led the attack on our cargo a couple of weeks ago. Don Enzo must be fond of you.”

“I owe that man my life.”

Dominick leaned back, smoke curling around his head like a slow wreath. “But he’s losing, Giovanni.”

The words hung in the still air, clean and heavy.

“Your family has been bleeding for years. Emilio, Carlo, Silvano—the three dons have taken the docks, the unions, the gambling dens. All that’s left for Enzo is a couple of bars and a few worn out casinos.”

Giovanni didn’t blink.

Dominick’s voice lowered, calm, persuasive. “You’re a smart man. You don’t have to go down with a ship that’s already underwater. I could use someone like you.”

Giovanni raised an eyebrow. “And you’d trust me?”

“I wouldn’t,” Dominick admitted with a smirk. “Not yet. But I want to end this with as little blood as possible. Enzo’s pride is the only thing keeping this war alive. And it’s going to burn through you. Through all of you.”

He leaned in. “But I can offer you a way out. A clean slate. I’ll test you, watch you. If you pass, you’re in. Or—if you prefer—I can give you a name, an identity, and you disappear. Start somewhere new. Safe. Quiet.”

Giovanni exhaled smoke and grinned. “If I wanted to disappear, I’d have done it already.”

His tone shifted—lower, sharper, full of weight. “You know how I met Don Enzo?”

Dominick sat back, listening.

“I was seventeen, getting beat up for stealing a piece of bread. Enzo took me in, gave me food, a coat, and a knife. He said, ‘You’re not a monster, just a boy who never had a choice. I’ll give you one.’ He made me family.”

He met Dominick’s gaze, unwavering. “I’d be proud to die rejecting the thought of betraying him. So go ahead and kill me if you want.”

Dominick studied him. Giovanni didn’t blink. His hands were still. His breath, even. Not a trace of fear.

Dominick sighed and gestured to Vince.

“Take him away.”

Giovanni’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“You heard me,” Dominick said, rising. “I don’t want bloodshed. But remember—I spared you.”

Vince and the others stepped forward. They relieved Giovanni of his guns, frisked him fast, then guided him out of the old bar without a blow or a word. Giovanni threw one last glance over his shoulder—at Dominick still seated at the table, as calm as a priest before a funeral.

Outside, sunlight burned. He squinted and vanished into the crowd.

Back inside, Vince lit the second cigar, leaned on the counter. “You think he’ll talk?”

Dominick chuckled. “He’s stupidly loyal. Fine. That’s what I want him to do anyway.”

__

The sun had dipped low when the old Marcetti mansion filled with footsteps. The marble floors echoed with quiet tension, men moving between rooms, whispers and glances like a gathering storm. In the parlor, Don Enzo sat in a high-backed chair beneath the cracked portrait of his father, cane resting against his knee, glass of wine untouched at his side.

Giovanni stood before him, tense, shoulders squared.

“Dominick did what?” Enzo asked, voice cool but heavy.

“You heard me,” Giovanni said. “He offered me a way out. To switch sides.”

Enzo’s fingers drummed the cane. “So we’re still enough of a thorn to bother him. Or he’s running short on muscle.”

Giovanni nodded. “He’s trying to draw us out. Trying to get ahead of the bleeding.”

Robert, arms crossed in the corner, shifted.

“But… he just let you go like that ?”

The silence that followed was thick—dense with unspoken questions. The kind that couldn’t be asked out loud. The kind that made loyalty crackle like a matchhead in a room full of gas.

Giovanni finally said, “Didn’t sit right with me either.”

Enzo looked up at him with a glimmer of thought behind his aging eyes. “You could’ve accepted, you know. Pretended. We’ve lost our man inside. Frank, the bartender we bribed was gone. We need eyes.”

Giovanni shook his head. “Even that I can’t do. I couldn’t fake betraying you.”

The old don looked at him—longer than a man normally would. Searching. For hesitation. For a lie. Then he smiled faintly and patted Giovanni’s hand.

“Yes. Of course… not you.”

But in the corner, Robert didn’t smile. He watched Giovanni. Eyes narrowed, mouth tight. Still stung from the night before, from Dante’s taunting. Still trying to climb up in the Don’s favor. Still trying to prove something.

He said nothing.

But in his silence, something shifted.

And the plan continued exactly as Dominick wanted.

__

DAY FIVE

The docks stirred beneath fog and salt — ropes strained, gulls wheeled, and crates scraped planks. Giovanni stood at the edge, coat damp, posture deliberate. His ship was half-loaded, already drawing steam.

Two uniformed officers waited by the gangway. Not hostile — just present.

“Morning,” said the older one, adjusting his collar. “Hold order came through before dawn. Routine inspection. You’ll have to wait.”

Giovanni glanced at the vessel, then back. No cargo, no companions, no weapons. Just passage papers, signed and stamped.

“I was cleared yesterday,” he said.

“You were,” said the younger. “Nothing flagged. But once the notice goes through... could be an audit. Or a mix-up.”

“How long?”

“Might be an hour. Maybe two.”

He stepped back without protest and leaned against a mooring post, hands in his coat pockets, hat brim shadowing watchful eyes.

An hour passed. Then another.

Was this just bad luck... or had someone bought him time to miss something?

He couldn’t know. Not yet.

__

Around the same time, the sky was pale with dawn when Lucia stepped out of her modest home, wrapping a worn shawl around her shoulders. The stone street still glistened faintly with the night’s dew, and the market stalls down the alley were just beginning to stir with the rustle of burlap and sleepy chatter.

She paused on her doorstep, fumbling with the grocery list in her apron pocket—when she saw him.

A man stood at the edge of her walkway, as though he'd been waiting. Tall, young, broad-shouldered in a wool coat too thin for the morning chill. He straightened when their eyes met.

“Good morning,” he said, a little too quickly. “I—uh... I'm Robert. I work with Giovanni.”

Lucia’s lips parted in surprise. Her eyes, large and dark with sleep, blinked at him with a kind of instinctive caution. She tightened her grip on the basket in her hands.

“M-May I help you?” she asked, softly.

Robert swallowed. For a second, words slipped from him. This close, she was prettier than he’d imagined—finer-featured, more delicate than the girl he’d seen once or twice from a distance, always half-shadowed in streetlight or framed in a window. The soft curve of her voice, the nervous grace in her stance—it disarmed him.

“I was looking for Giovanni,” he said finally, keeping his voice level. “He didn’t show up for work this morning.”

Lucia hesitated. “No... Why would I know ?”

“Right,” Robert nodded, glancing at her door, then back. “But... people talk. They say you two are—together.”

She stiffened slightly, her expression freezing. Her eyes darted downward, to her basket.

“We’re not,” she said, flatly.

Robert studied her. “Then what about the rumors he spent the night here?”

At that, Lucia’s hand clenched at her arm—an involuntary motion, barely perceptible, but he saw it. Her breath caught. She looked away.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice tight. “I have to go.”

She stepped past him. Not a word more. Her footsteps quickened down the path, as if the conversation had left a bruise.

Robert watched her retreat, jaw tight. His thoughts churned.

Giovanni missing work. Giovanni spared by Dominick. Giovanni, rumored to have spent the night here. That girl—quiet, gentle, the kind you’d want to keep safe—was trying to hide something.

And maybe, Robert thought, if Giovanni was turning, if he really was selling the family out to Dominick, it wouldn’t just be Don Enzo’s approval he’d earn by catching it first.

Maybe he could be the one to protect her. Save her from whatever game she didn’t even know she was caught in.

He turned back down the street, walking slower than he needed to. Eyes narrowed. Every step heavier with resolve.

He’d find out.

And Dante watched it from around the corner... the last piece of the plan.

__

NIGHT FIVE

Dante – Via Sarto street bar

The night had settled quietly over the street, the moon casting a pale glow upon the worn cobblestones. Dante stood by the same bar as the night before, leaning against the shadowed corner with a small pouch of his usual wares—twisted bits of metal, clock hands, and fragile wires. The city’s restless buzz had softened to a low murmur, as if holding its breath.

From around the corner, Robert appeared, still thinking about the beautiful woman he talked to this morning, his gait stiff and troubled, his face drawn and deep in thought. At first, he did not notice the boy standing in his path.

“Oh you! Good evening!” Dante called out, his voice light, almost cheerful.

Robert frowned but said nothing, attempting to pass. Dante stepped deliberately into his way.

“No, no. I need to speak with you.”

“I told you—I’m not buying anything,” Robert replied sharply.

Dante shook his head. “It’s not about that. Truth is, I’ve got something for Giovanni.”

Robert stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing.

“You two work together, right ? That’s what the guys said in the bar the other day.”

“Some man wearing a black,” Dante began, choosing his words carefully, “handed it to me.”

“What kind of man?”

“Kinda like you… except that later I saw him talking with someone with a very different aura, scarier.”

“What is he like ?”

“Uh… all in black, wears glasses, blonde, facial hair… what is this about ? You guys work together ?”

Robert’s gaze darkened as realization dawned. “Dominick,” he thought.

Dante shrugged with a sly smile, neither confirming nor denying.

“Meh I don’t care… he gave me coins, even bought some junk. Said all I had to do was get this to Giovanni. But, well, I can’t read, so…”

Robert’s eyes fixed sharply on the boy. “Give it here.”

Dante’s smile turned sweet and conspiratorial as he slipped the folded note into Robert’s hand. “Just make sure he gets it, alright?”

Without waiting for a response, the boy turned and disappeared down the street, humming softly.

Robert remained still, staring down at the folded paper. His fingers crept over the rough, hurried handwriting inside:

Smuggler and boat ready on the agreed date.
Just you three, the woman and the mother.
— D

His eyes scanned the lines again and again, the furrow between his brows deepening with each read. His grip tightened until the paper crumpled slightly.

Meeting Dominick and walking away…

The excuse of being held out at the docks for inspection…

His obsession with Lucia…

Dominick’s men and his dons always being two steps ahead.

It all makes sense !

He glanced back toward the fading silhouette of the boy, but Dante was already swallowed by the night.

__

NIGHT FIVE

Alex - Guilder street bar

Alex swept the worn wooden floor of the bar, the broom’s soft scrape barely covering the quiet murmurs and clinks of closing time. His eyes kept drifting toward Lucia, who stood by the counter, her usual bright energy dimmed to a fragile flicker. She wasn’t quite herself tonight.

All I did was… work in a bar and report behaviors stuff. It doesn’t sound bad. But I have a very bad feeling about this.

What happened the other night with Lucia and Giovanni? Alex thought, heart tightening. Did I do the right thing telling Dominick?

“Alex. Go clean the chairs again,” Tommaso’s gruff voice broke through his thoughts.

Alex hesitated, about to remind Tommaso he’d just done that, but something in the older man’s tone told him this wasn’t about chores. He nodded and moved away silently.

Tommaso turned toward Lucia, his eyes sharp.

“Did he touch you?”

Lucia’s voice wavered, but steady. “No… I swear not. He slept on the couch.”

Tommaso’s jaw clenched. “Lucia, don’t give me that. He went inside to sleep on the couch?”

Lucia hesitated, her fingers clutching her own arm as if it gave her strength. “He… was about to… but I didn’t allow it. I swear.”

Her voice dropped to a desperate whisper. “Please… Mr. Tommaso… help me…”

Tommaso’s expression softened, but his tone stayed firm. “I’ll try talking to him and his boss, Don Enzo.”

Suddenly, Tommaso barked, “Alex! Come back here! Who told you to clean the chairs again?”

Alex spun around, startled. “W-What? You just told me!”

Tommaso’s eyes narrowed playfully. “No, I didn’t! You accusing me of lying? You’re fired!”

“W-What?!!!” Alex sputtered.

Lucia glanced between them, then spoke quietly, “Mr. Tommaso? You did.”

Tommaso’s face broke into a reluctant grin. “Oh… I guess I did if Lucia says so.”

He waved a hand. “Sorry, Alex. Age is catching up with me.”

Both Alex and Lucia exchanged confused looks.

Tommaso chuckled, “Come on! It was a joke! I just wanted to cheer you both up a little…”

Lucia managed a weak laugh, and Alex followed, the tension easing ever so slightly.

Then the door opened.

Giovanni walked in, tall and silent. Lucia stiffened the moment she saw him. Her jaw clenched. She turned away, like she did since that night. Giovanni caught it—and looked down, guilt and pride fighting behind his eyes.

“Good evening,” he said, subdued. His voice didn’t carry its usual confidence.

Tommaso didn’t answer. “Giovanni, I’m going to talk to you later,” he said flatly.

Alex glanced between them. The room was laced with unease. He opened his mouth to speak to Lucia when the door opened again.

A deliveryman stepped inside, holding a large, elegant bouquet—lilies and violets wrapped in blue silk.

“Uh—hello. This is Guilder Street bar, right?”

Tommaso stepped forward. “We’re not open yet, just a few minutes—”

“Oh no, sir, I’m not a customer.” The deliveryman looked at his clipboard. “I’m delivering flowers for Miss Lucia?”

Everyone went still.

Giovanni’s heart kicked against his ribs. His eyes locked on the flowers, then on her. She looked genuinely confused. And that made it worse.

“Does it say who?” Giovanni asked, his voice sharp.

The deliveryman checked again. “Uh… yes. Robert Cavazza. There’s a sealed envelope too.”

The name hit the air like a gunshot. Giovanni’s stomach twisted. Robert? His partner?

Lucia blinked, startled. But not denying it. She did meet Robert.

Is that why she turned me away? Giovanni thought, darkness rising in his chest. Is that why she didn’t want me that night?

He stepped forward and snatched the bouquet from the man’s hands.

“Go,” he growled.

The deliveryman fled, stumbling slightly as he pushed out the door.

Giovanni ripped open the envelope and read:

Can’t wait to see you again.