Snapping Point||Book 1

3.

Morelli epitomized the pinnacle of danger within the family—it was a necessity. When envisioning the TIF, liken it to the holy trinity; Morelli represented God, Rossi as Jesus, and Amato as the Holy Spirit. They functioned as a unified force, but it was clear whose directives they adhered to. Just as Jesus sat at the right hand of God, my father occupied the next position in the hierarchy of the TIF—equally formidable. And as for Amato, he existed in the background, not insignificant but reserved. Like the life of a spirit, he only emerged when chaos erupted or when matters were of utmost importance, fulfilling his role as the family's consigliere.

While each held significance and commanded respect, the true Don was unmistakably Morelli. He alone possessed the ability to instill fear in me with a mere gaze, surpassing even my own father in intimidation. I continued to study him, honing my tactical approach.

"Don Morelli," I addressed him upon entering the Crypt, cordiality laced with a tone conveying utmost reverence. "Forgive my tardiness; I was attending to pressing matters."

Once he cast a glance in my direction, I nonchalantly shrugged off my coat and tossed it onto a silver pole. With deliberate motions, I unfastened my cufflinks and rolled up my sleeves, leaving a subtle indication for both him and the lady: I was prepared to proceed from this point onward.

"Romano. How the hell did this slip past the Estate gate?"

"Ottavio just filled me in. Let me handle this."

"I'm not asking for a cakewalk," Morelli's tone hinted at the need for forceful persuasion, signaling that if she didn't cooperate, we'd have to make an example out of her. "We're walking a tightrope with the Englishman; one wrong move and we're done for."

I gave a silent nod. The Englishman had been breathing down our necks more than ever lately. He had his sights set on something, but we hadn't cracked the whole deal yet. It seemed like it boiled down to turf wars. If we let slip any intel about the Family, it could spiral out of control, putting not just us but our secret allies and their families in jeopardy, those who lived seemingly clean lives in the city alongside us.

Tearing my gaze away from Morelli's retreating figure, I fixed my eyes on the girl, sizing her up once more. Her deep brown orbs now stared vacantly at the concrete beneath her feet, as though she were a marionette awaiting her master's command.

If her master happened to be the devil himself, I'd wager even he couldn't shield her from the aftermath of Morelli stumbling upon a foreigner on his damned turf—and not just any trespasser.

Morelli sidled up to me, aiming for a bit more discretion with his next words. His voice dropped to a murmur. "She's English."

As peculiar as that revelation was, the only thing that occupied my mind was the lilt of her accent.

Plenty of English blokes sauntered through Italy on holiday; she wasn't the first, but she was surely the brassiest to waltz in here uninvited. Regardless, I had expectations, and one of them was to see just how quickly she'd crack under my methods.

After dismissing Morelli with the assurance that I'd handle her, he stubbornly parked himself nearby, dragging a chair over to the metal table, settling in to observe rather than give me the space to do my work.

"What's your name?" I demanded, standing tall before her. She remained silent, too petrified to utter a word. "Let me make one thing crystal clear: I don't repeat myself."

My voice was low and icy, enough to compel her to lift her head and catch a glimpse of the man who wouldn't hesitate to crush her if she dared to test my patience.

"Xenia. Xenia Thompson," she finally stammered out.

I wasn't one to wear my heart on my sleeve. Emotions were a luxury I couldn't afford; guilt simply didn't exist in my vocabulary. My sole purpose was to aid those who sought it, driven solely by their raw determination to act. It wasn't as if I empathized with their plight; I merely connected with their resolve.