Ink and Iron

Ink

As Marco and I stepped into the cozy, cottage-like restaurant he'd picked, the warmth hit me instantly. The place reeked of comfort—wooden beams overhead, a crackling fireplace in the corner, and the scent of home-cooked meals mingling with freshly baked bread. The tables were dressed with checkered cloths, flickering candles casting soft light, like something out of a Hallmark movie. I almost scoffed at the thought. This was Marco's choice, of course.

Marco led the way to a table by the window, where we settled in. A waitress approached, all smiles and cheerfulness, handing us menus and taking our drink orders. Marco went for red wine, classic and predictable, while I opted for orange juice.

"So, what do you recommend?" I asked, glancing over the menu, though my mind was far from the food.

Marco chuckled softly. "You can't go wrong with their lasagna. It's a family recipe. Been my favorite since I first came here."

I nodded, deciding to go with his suggestion. Lasagna it was. As we sat waiting for our food, the silence between us grew heavier. I could feel Marco's eyes on me, could sense the words he wanted to say but was too hesitant to voice.

"So, Chris, how have things been for you lately, with everything going on?" Marco finally asked, his tone laced with uncertainty.

I shifted in my seat, not wanting to get into it. "Oh, you know, the usual—being forced to be here and all that."

Marco frowned slightly. "Come on, Chris."

Before the conversation could take a turn, the waitress returned with our food, placing the steaming plates in front of us.

"Here you go, gentlemen," she said brightly, oblivious to the tension she was interrupting. "Enjoy your meal!"

"Thanks," Marco replied politely, sounding relieved for the interruption.

I nodded, picking up my fork. "Looks delicious," I muttered, trying to shake off the discomfort.

The first bite caught me off guard. "This is amazing," I admitted, genuinely surprised by how good it was.

Marco beamed like he'd made it himself. "Told you it's good."

But even as we ate, the silence between us kept creeping back in. I couldn't stand it, couldn't keep pretending everything was fine. I put down my fork, meeting Marco's gaze. "So, Marco," I started, cutting through the awkwardness, "now that we've got Salvatore on our side, who's next? Who else do you want to meet?"

Marco paused, considering my question. He leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful look on his face. "Well, I was thinking about Giovanni Bianchi."

I raised an eyebrow. "Giovanni Bianchi? That's ambitious, Marco. What makes you think we can get a meeting with him?"

Marco's lips curled into a confident smirk. "Oh, don't worry, Chris. I know Ghost did a job for him and earned his trust."

"Fine. I can arrange a meeting, but it won't be easy. Giovanni doesn't meet with just anyone."

"Make sure to convince him I'm worth it," Marco insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"Alright," I agreed.

Then, out of nowhere, Marco's voice softened, catching me off guard. "Hey, do you remember what you said to me earlier? About comparing me to iron?"

I nodded, recalling the conversation from years ago. "Yeah, I remember."

A faint smirk played on Marco's lips as he leaned forward. "But you know, iron can be shaped and molded too, Chris."

I stared at him, his words stirring something within me. "Are you suggesting that you've changed? That you're not the same person I once knew?"