Mafia's princess

Pilot

The feud between two Italian families takes a thrilling twist when a Russian complication enters the scene. A troubled girl becomes the center of a volatile triangle involving Russia, Italy, and America.
"You say you're a player," she repeated to each heir, first to one, then to the other, at different times, in different places.
She took a slow drag of her cigarette and declared, "Then let's play the game."
Her footsteps echoed as she walked away from the heirs. This wasn't her first game. In Russia, her game was almost as notorious as Russian roulette. Just as dangerous.
"Let's talk about sex, let's talk about us."
She stood with her back to the heir.
"Let's fight! Let's scream at each other."
She turned to gauge his reaction.
A mischievous smile curled at the corner of his lips.
She laughed, knowing she had ensnared him.
"Let's talk all day and night," "Let's send each other good morning and good night texts," "Let's have nicknames for each other," she said, each sentence bringing her a step closer to him.
He bit his lip, exhaling a satisfied sigh.
"Let's kiss, let's hug, let's take walks..." she continued, leaning in close.
"And whoever falls in love first... loses," she whispered in his ear, then pivoted on her heel and walked away.

Setting: Basement, Genoa, Italy
Time: 00:05

"Giovani, pronto!" called the older, silver-haired gentleman as he descended the steps into the old wine cellar of the family estate."Well, well, well... who do we have here? Signore Nitti, how are we today?" said Luciano Barbani, the notorious hitman and loyal friend to the Sciani family."So, it seems the day has come," Nitti said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.
"You don't mind if I smoke, do you? You and I both know why you're here. At least let me have one before the end," Nitti continued.
"We have time," Barbani replied sternly.
"How's the trash of a boss?" Nitti mumbled, receiving a hard punch in return.
"Better than you..." Barbani rasped, reaching for a bottle of wine.
He opened it and poured two glasses. One for Signore Nitti and one for himself.
"Still grieving your father's loss?" Nitti sneered.
"He's a big boy. He's used to losses," Barbani said, taking a sip of wine.
"A big boy? Don't make me laugh, Barbani!" Nitti took a final drag of his cigarette and continued, "You're the only dangerous thing left in the Sciani family. That kid? He'll never be a mafioso." He crushed the cigarette against the wall and looked at Barbani, a sinister smile spreading across his face. He didn't have much faith in his own heir but was certain that the Sciani heir was no threat. In fact, he considered him pathetic.
"Too emotional, like his mother. It'll be his downfall," he would often tell his heir, and these were his final thoughts.
"He's better than your heir. At least he's committed to the business, not running around expensive boarding schools," Barbani said, standing up and attaching a silencer to his pistol.
He walked slowly towards Nitti.
"Last words?" Barbani asked.
"When you shoot, make sure you hit the mark," Nitti said, laughing for the last time.
Barbani chuckled and shot the head of the Nitti family. As blood trickled down Signore Nitti's skull, Barbani wiped his fingerprints off the gun and placed it in Nitti's hand. Then, he headed for the exit.
Silently, he vanished from the vineyard.
...A few hours later...

Enzo Nitti stood on the marble steps of his family's grand estate, exuding a blend of youthful charm and inherited authority. Dressed in a crisp white shirt, casually unbuttoned at the collar, and tailored navy trousers, he was the picture of effortless sophistication. His sleeves were rolled up just enough to hint at his strong, lean forearms, while his hands rested nonchalantly in his pockets.With dark, tousled hair and a meticulously groomed beard, Enzo's features were striking—sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and deep, expressive eyes that seemed to hold a thousand untold stories. There was a brooding intensity in his gaze, a silent testament to the burdens he carried and the responsibilities that awaited him as the heir to the Nitti family empire.The golden watch on his wrist glinted in the morning sun, a subtle nod to his status, while his brown loafers, polished to perfection, completed his ensemble with a touch of classic elegance. Despite his polished exterior, there was a raw edge to Enzo, a hint of danger that lay just beneath the surface, ready to emerge when the situation demanded.As he leaned slightly, his posture relaxed yet commanding, Enzo surveyed his surroundings with a mix of contemplation and resolve. He was a man on the cusp of a formidable legacy, poised to navigate the treacherous waters of his family's mafia lineage with both the cunning of a seasoned strategist and the fervor of a young man determined to carve his own path.

"Enzo," the butler, Padro, said quietly.
"Yes, Dottore Padro?" replied 18-year-old Enzo, the future heir of the Nitti mafia family.
"Dottore, why are you silent?" Enzo repeated.
"Signore Nitti..." Padro said, tears welling up in his eyes.
"What about Signore Nitti?" Enzo asked fearfully.
Padro said nothing more. It was clear.
"Now?" Enzo asked, panic rising.
"Why now?" He raised his hands in frustration and moved to the window. "The semester just started. I was hoping for a normal life." He gazed into the distance.
"Your father is dead. The fact that you're not crying but thinking of yourself shows you'll be good at this," Padro said, wiping a tear and leaving the room.
"Signore was a good man," Padro said quietly.
"I know," Enzo whispered, staring at his newly purchased books on the table.

Location: Lugano, Switzerland

Time: 10:00

Roberto Sciani stood as an imposing figure, his presence commanding the room with an effortless blend of power and allure. His bare chest was a canvas of intricate tattoos, each one telling a story of battles fought and victories claimed. The inky designs snaked across his sinewy muscles, a testament to his hardened life and the legacy of the Sciani family.

Under the dim light, his skin glistened, the tattoos coming alive with each subtle movement. His arms, adorned with an array of rings, crossed over his chest in a stance that spoke of both defiance and control. The dark ink contrasted starkly with his olive complexion, emphasizing the depth of his character—complex, dangerous, and unyielding.

Every detail, from the sharp angles of his jaw to the intensity in his eyes, was meticulously sculpted by years of discipline and authority. Roberto was not just a man; he was the embodiment of the Sciani legacy, a figure as enigmatic as the tattoos that marked his skin.

"Champagne, Tom!" Roberto Sciani exclaimed joyfully.
"Let's celebrate!" he said, turning up the music.

-----

This is my first story in English, this is pilot, just to see if anyone likes it and maybe wants to see more.