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ROMIRO

T he room is dim, almost too dark, but that’s how Emiliano likes it. A long, polished black table stretches before me, lined with leather-bound chairs that look like thrones for men who think they’re Gods. I sit in one of those chairs, leaning back just enough to make myself look casual and relaxed. My fingers tap lightly on the wooden armrest, the only sound besides the faint hum of the air conditioning. Costa Armenalli sits across from me, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed into slits, practically seething with the kind of hatred that makes this all the more fun for me.

He’s already pissed off, and I haven’t even started yet.

I smirk, leaning forward and breaking the silence. “Costa, you look tense. Something on your mind? Or is it just that Chiara’s been keeping you up at night?”

The mention of his wife’s name makes his jaw tighten further. He hates it when I bring her up. I know it, he knows it, and everyone else in the room knows it, too. Costa never used to take the bait when it came to Chiara, but after she ran off to London and left him with a gunshot wound…? Well, that changed everything. The kicker is, no one truly knows the reason, except for Costa and Chiara. Emiliano, sitting at the head of the table, glances at me from the corner of his eye, a silent warning. But I’m not done. Not yet.

“Chiara… beautiful name, beautiful woman. It was a pleasure meeting her,” I continue, my voice dripping with mock admiration. “I mean, I can see why you’d be so distracted, Costa. She’s… what’s the word? Enchanting?”

Costa’s fists are on the table now, his knuckles white against the black surface. “I’m warning you, Romiro, bring up my wife’s name again and?—”

“And what?” I cut him off, my tone sharp now, taunting. “What will you do, Costa? You’re here in our territory, remember? You’ve come to make a deal, not threats.”

He glares at me, nostrils flaring, but his face remains frozen. For a moment, I wonder if he’s going to throw a punch. I almost wish he would. It’d give me an excuse to break his nose, but before he can, Emiliano clears his throat. A subtle sound, but it carries weight in this room.

“Enough,” Emiliano says, his voice calm but commanding. “We’re here to discuss business, not wives. Romiro, let’s keep this professional.”

I lean back again, smirking. “Of course, boss. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

Costa’s still staring at me, but now with a bored expression. He’s one of the best businessmen in the world and an asset for the Camorra when we need him, but Emiliano’s in charge here, and everyone knows it.

Dominico’s watching us, but he doesn’t seem present. After the death of Thalia, his wife, he became colder, careless, and even reckless. The fucker had loved her; that much is clear to all of us. Dom pushes a folder across the table toward Costa. His eyes, always calculating, flicker between Costa and me, measuring the temperature of the room. “Costa, as I was saying before we were … interrupted … the terms are simple. A fifty-fifty split on all revenue from the new line. Folonari Jewelry will handle distribution in New York and the East Coast. Armenalli I see the vein pulsing at his temple. “And why would I agree to that?” he asks, voice strained. “We’ve already established our presence in North America, Asia, and Europe, not to mention Australia. We don’t need you for distribution.”

Emiliano leans forward, steepling his fingers. “Perhaps you don’t need us, Costa,” he says, his tone as smooth as the leather on his chair, “but you’d be wise to want us. Folonari Jewelry has a unique reach. We can get your product into places you can’t, places you won’t—like South America.”

Costa’s face tightens again. He’s trying to maintain his composure, but the gears in his head are clearly turning. He knows Emiliano’s right, but he doesn’t want to admit it.

“And what about security?” Costa finally says, shifting tactics. “Our shipments have been targeted recently. I need assurances that?—”

I interrupt him with a chuckle. “Oh, we can assure you, Costa. Our shipments never get touched. Because everyone knows whose shipments they are.”

He glances at me with a blank look before he says, deadpan, “I can’t be assured of that after your Capo decided to crash the wedding between the Morettis and the Guerreros. And take Valentina. How can I make sure that the Outfit won’t try to attack in retaliation?”

“Look,” Emiliano cuts in, bringing the conversation back to the point. “This is a mutually beneficial arrangement—you expand your reach in our market with our help. We expand ours globally with yours. And together, we dominate the market. We’ve always looked out for each other. You’ve always been my advisor for the security of our online businesses .” The word “businesses” is being used lightly—organized crime is more like it.

Dominico nods, leaning forward. “And as for security, Costa, consider it a non-issue. Your goods become ours, and no one dares touch what belongs to the Folonaris.”

Costa takes a deep breath, weighing his options. There’s a hint of conflict in his eyes. He wants this deal, everyone does. And on the other hand, there’s Chiara. He’s wondering if I’ll keep bringing her up, keep pushing him. Wondering how much he can take before he snaps.

He finally speaks, his voice a bit steadier now. “Alright, I’ll agree to the fifty-fifty split. But I want a guarantee of exclusivity in the European market. No competition from Folonari Jewelry for at least five years.”

Emiliano glances at Dominico, who nods subtly. “Agreed,” Emiliano says. “Exclusivity in Europe for five years. And in return, you won’t step on our toes in the States. Fair?” It’s never fair, regardless of what anyone says. The Camorra doesn’t do fair; that’s why we’re an organized crime syndicate.

Costa nods, but I can tell he’s still not happy. He’s never happy when he’s not outright winning. And today, he’s not winning. To him, an equal field is not a win.

“Good,” Emiliano says, sitting back, satisfied. “Then it’s settled. We’ll draw up the contracts.”

Costa nods again, and his eyes flicker to me, just for a second, as if he’s wondering when I’ll strike again. I grin, a slow, knowing smile, but he seems unfazed as he stares me down. And neither of us backs down from the other’s stare.

Emiliano stands, signaling the end of the meeting. “Thank you, Costa. I know this partnership will be very profitable for both of us.”

Costa stands too, straightening his suit. “I hope so, Emiliano. For all our sakes.”

We start to move toward the door, and I can’t help myself. As Costa passes me, I lean in close, my voice low so only he can hear. “Give Chiara my regards, Costa. Tell her… I’m thinking of her.”

He freezes for a moment, the tension palpable, before he continues walking.

As the door closes behind him, Emiliano turns to me, a slight frown on his face. “Romiro, was that really necessary?”

I shrug. “Maybe not, Boss. Sure was fun though.”

Emiliano shakes his head, but I see the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You’ll be the death of me, Romiro.”

“Maybe,” I reply, grinning. “But not today.”

* * *

The lights of the Lower East Side flicker in the night as I step into the casino, the noise of slot machines and the murmur of gamblers washing over me like a wave. Inhaling deeply, I notice the air is thick with cigarette smoke and perfume. The patrons try to mask the scent of desperation—at least most of them do—with the scent of money being made and lost. The place is fancy, all golden chandeliers and red velvet carpets in an attempt to look like some palace in Monaco, but underneath, it’s still gritty, still ours. The casino is buzzing tonight; high rollers and the regulars are all throwing their luck on the table, their eyes dancing with desire.

I spot Mario, the floor manager, by the roulette wheel. He catches my eye and quickly nods, gesturing for me to follow. I weave through the tables, past the sound of chips stacking and the quick shuffle of cards. As I get closer, I see the worry etched into his face like cracks in old plaster.

“Romiro,” he says, his voice low but urgent. “We’ve got a problem. A big one.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What kind of problem, Mario?”

He looks around, makes sure no one’s listening, then leans in closer. “A cheater. Been at it for weeks, skimming us at the tables. We caught him tonight, finally, but the cost was hundreds of thousands.”

My jaw tightens. The thought of someone having the balls to cheat us, to think they could get away with it, sends a spark of anger through me. “Where is he?”

Mario nods toward the back, “we got him in the dungeons. Silvio and the boys are keeping an eye on him. He’s a mess, but he’s still got some fight left in him.”

I nod, my lips curling into a grim smile. “Good. Let’s go have a chat with our friend .”

We move through the casino, past the flashy lights and the oblivious gamblers, until we reach a heavy door guarded by two of our men. They nod to me, stepping aside as I push the door open and head down a narrow staircase. Bricks cover the walls, and cobwebs hang around the corners of the low ceiling. The sounds from above fade, replaced by the muffled thud of footsteps and the faint drip of water. The dungeons aren’t much to look at—bare concrete walls, flickering fluorescent lights, and the smell of rancid mildew in the air. Rats scatter around, looking for anything to feed the hunger, the greed. But it’s where we handle our business when words alone aren’t enough.

At the bottom of the stairs, I see him—the cheater. He’s slumped in a chair, his face already bloodied and bruised, his hands tied behind his back. Silvio and a couple of the guys stand around him, their arms crossed, faces expressionless. They know better than to interfere.

I walk up slowly, my shoes echoing on the concrete floor. The guy lifts his head, blinking through swollen eyes to look at me. There’s a mix of fear and defiance behind those eyes of his. He’s young, maybe mid-thirties, with a shock of dark hair matted with sweat and blood. I don’t ask his name; I don’t care.

“Why am I here?” he spits, trying to sound tough, but the tremor in his voice gives him away. “I didn’t do nothing.”

I laugh. It’s a low, cold sound that makes the room feel even smaller. “Oh, you did plenty, pal. You’ve been cheating us, and worse, you’ve been getting away with it. Until now.”

He shifts in his chair, trying to straighten up, to look brave. “You got no proof,” he mutters. “Just a bunch of muscleheads thinking they’re?—”

Before he can finish, I step forward and land a quick, hard punch to his gut. He doubles over, gasping for air, his words dying in his throat. I lean in close, my voice calm but laced with steel. “We have all the proof we need. You’ve been seen, you’ve been caught, and now… you’ve got to pay the price.”

He coughs and spits blood on the floor. “Screw you,” he snarls, but his bravado is fading fast.

I grab his chin, forcing him to look at me. “No, screw you, pal. You think you can come into our house, steal from us, and walk away? You think you’re some kind of genius, pulling one over on us?”

I let go, and he slumps back, breathing heavily. I straighten up, looking down at him, feeling the anger rising inside me like a fire. “You’ve cost us a lot of money,” I say slowly, letting the words sink in. “Money that belongs to the Camorra. Money that you can’t pay back.”

He flinches at the word “Camorra.” Now he knows who he’s dealing with, and I see the realization dawning in his eyes. The fear is stronger now, almost palpable. I can almost taste it. And, God, do I love the taste of fear.

“Look,” he says, his voice breaking. “I—I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t know this was your place. I just… I was desperate, okay? I needed the money. My kid. My kid has cancer. Just… let me go, I won’t come back, I swear.”

I chuckle again, but there’s no humor in it. “You won’t come back? Oh, you’re right about that. You’re never setting foot in any of our casinos again, you hear me? You’re done. Finished.”

I take a step closer, and he tries to shrink back, but there’s nowhere to go. “But first,” I continue, “I’m gonna make sure you remember why.”

I nod to Silvio, who steps forward and hands me a pair of brass knuckles. I slip them on, feeling the weight of them in my hand, the cool metal against my skin. The cheater’s eyes widen, and he starts to shake his head, mumbling, “No, no, please, don’t?—”

I don’t wait for him to finish. I bring the brass knuckles down hard on his face, once, twice, feeling the crunch of bone beneath my fist. He cries out while blood sprays from his mouth, and his head snaps backward. I don’t stop. I keep hitting him, methodically, deliberately, until his face is a mess of blood and swollen flesh.

Finally, I step back, breathing heavily, my knuckles aching. He’s slumped in the chair, barely conscious, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I crouch down, grabbing his hair and forcing him to look at me.

“This is your one warning,” I say softly, but my voice is full of menace. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you right here. But I want you to spread the word. I want everyone to know what happens when you mess with us. You stay out of our casinos, or next time, I won’t be so merciful. You and your entire family won’t see the light of day if you try us again.”

I let go, and he slumps forward, sobbing and trembling. I nod to Silvio, who steps forward and unties him, dragging him toward the exit. “Get him out of here,” I say. “And make sure he knows the way out.”

Silvio nods, and they haul him up the stairs, his feet dragging on the concrete. I watch them go, my heart still pounding, my blood still boiling. I’ve done my job. I’ve sent the message loud and clear.

I turn and head back up the stairs, back to the noise, the lights, and the smoke. The casino’s still buzzing, oblivious to what just happened below. I like it that way. We do our business in the shadows, where it belongs. I flick the thick blood off of my knuckles before wiping my hand down my black suit. Black hides everything.

I step back onto the floor, and Mario gives me a nod, a slight smile on his face. “Handled?” he asks.

“Handled,” I reply, wiping the remaining blood from my knuckles with a handkerchief. “No one cheats us and gets away with it.”

And with that, I blend back into the crowd, just another face among the gamblers. Tonight, I’ve reminded everyone who really holds the cards in this city.

* * *

The parking garage is quiet at this hour, just the way I like it. The only sound is the occasional hum of a distant car engine and the soft flickering of the fluorescent lights above. I check my watch—2:30 a.m. on the dot. I lean against the hood of my car, a black sedan that blends into the dark, and wait. It’s been a long night, but I don’t mind. Not when I’m waiting for her.

I glance over at the passenger seat, eggs and avocado on toast in a bag, just the way she likes its with a cup of coffee beside it. . An iced mocha, too because I know she’s got a weakness for them. I pull them out and hold them in my hand as I wait for her. I’ve memorized these little details, the things that make her smile. Alessia’s had a long shift, and I want to be the first thing she sees when she walks out of those hospital doors.

Finally, I hear footsteps echoing down the concrete walls. I look up and see her coming, her white coat hanging loosely over her scrubs, her fiery red hair pulled back in a messy bun. Even exhausted, she’s beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes you forget everything else. Her steps are heavy, but when she sees me, a smile breaks across her face, and it’s like the sun rising in the middle of the night.

"Hey, stranger," she calls out, her voice light and teasing, but there’s a tiredness to it. She’s been running on empty, I can tell.

"Morning, Doc," I reply, holding up the bag and cup. "I brought your favorites. Figured you could use a little pick-me-up."

She grins, her green eyes sparkling despite the exhaustion. “You know, Romiro, you’re the only person who knows my cravings better than I do.” She takes the bag and the cup, and our fingers brush briefly. Her touch sends a small spark through me, but I keep my cool.

"Just doing my part," I say with a shrug, but there’s a smile tugging at my lips. “And, I’m pretty sure that iced mocha is the only thing keeping you standing right now.”

She takes a sip, closing her eyes with a satisfied sigh. "You might be right about that." She opens her eyes, looking up at me with a playful grin. “What would I do without you, huh?”

I laugh. "Crash and burn, probably."

She laughs, a soft, tired sound, but it’s genuine. I open the car door for her, and she slides in, her movements slow and weary. I get in on the driver’s side, and we pull out of the garage. The streets are mostly empty, a few cars passing by, the city still wrapped in an early-morning haze.

We fall into that easy rhythm we always do, like slipping into an old, familiar song. She starts by telling me about a patient, some old guy who came in complaining about his heart but wouldn’t stop flirting with the nurses. She rolls her eyes, mimicking his gravelly voice with dramatic flair; “Darlin’, I’m not sure if it’s the heart or if it’s just you making it race.” I chuckle, and she grins, pleased with herself for getting a laugh out of me.

I lean into the moment, telling her about my night, about this guy I saw outside one of our clubs who was trying to impress his date by doing some ridiculous dance move that ended with him flat on his ass. I give a reenactment in my seat, waving my arms around, my voice going up a few octaves, and she laughs. F fuck . That’s the only sound I’d chase to the ends of the earth. Her laugh is lightand musical, like the way the sun spills through the window blinds in the morning, making the room feel alive.

She shakes her head at me, her eyes bright. “You really are the worst driver in the city, Romiro,” she teases, glancing over with a smirk. “I swear, you’ve got a personal vendetta against every stop sign.”

I put on my best mock-offended face, hand over my heart. “Hey, I stop … sometimes,” I say, grinning back. “Besides, it’s called defensive driving. Keeps things interesting.”

She rolls her eyes, but I see the smile she’s trying to hide. “Oh, right. ‘Defensive.’ That’s what we’re calling it now?” Her tone is light and playful, and I feel the warmth in my chest spread.

“Sure,” I reply, leaning closer. “I’m just defending against boredom, which is a serious danger on these streets.”

She laughs again, her head falling back against the seat, and for a second, the tired lines on her face soften. I take in the way her eyes crinkle at the corners, the way her mouth curves upward in a way that seems to light up the darkened car. Her laughter is like a balm, and I drink it in, every note, every breath, because there’s something pure and unguarded in it, something that makes all the heavy things in my life feel light, if only for a heartbeat.

And I realize then I’d tell a thousand more stupid stories, make a hundred more jokes, just to keep her smiling like this. I don’t care if I look stupid as long as she keeps looking at me like that.

But after a while, the conversation fades, and a comfortable silence settles between us. It’s the kind of silence you only find with someone you’re truly at ease with, the kind where you don’t have to fill every gap with words.

I glance over at her. She’s leaning back against the seat, her eyes fluttering shut, her head tilted to the side. Her hair, that fiery red, has come loose from its bun, a few strands falling across her face. She looks peaceful, like she’s finally found a moment of rest.

Without thinking, I reach over and gently brush the hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. My fingers linger for just a second longer than they should, feeling the softness of her hair, the warmth of her skin.

She doesn’t stir, just breathes softly, her chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. I can’t help but smile. She’s exhausted, but she’s here. And for a moment, just a moment, I let myself think that maybe, just maybe, this could be something more.

I keep my hand on the wheel, my eyes flicking back to the road, and drive the rest of the way in silence. A comfortable, perfect silence.