Butterfly Storm {MINOR REVISIONS}

11 || Ghost

～·～·～

The next day, Cassio swirled his glass of sparkling water as he leaned against the window frame. Mask absent and free hand in his pocket, he had the sleeves of his dress shirt folded above his forearms, letting his inked skin feel the afternoon's sun.

The view was always the same at the Racanelli estate; marble tiles pooling the mansion's foundation, trimmed circle hedges dotting the way to the open backyard where mowed territory laid beyond it. From his view on the first floor, Cassio hardly saw the lake, a horizon of gleaming sunlight cutting through the land, marking the estate's edge.

He didn't eye anything particularly worth his attention. Somehow, he just always found himself standing by the window, always looking; always watching. As the clouds drifted with the afternoon's boredom, his reflection watched as he took a controlled gulp of imaginary whiskey.

Turning his head, Cassio found his nonchalant gaze in the reflection, though the faint scrunch in his brows didn't sell the image. A deep sigh heaved off his shoulders and Cassio inevitably tilted his head to the left, seeing the five years of inconvenience marked across his right cheekbone. At least it was a prominent feature that separated him from his father. Without it, he was the face of a dead man's legacy.

Who says I'm not already?

A soft knock caught his attention, and Cassio gave a curt response of permission to enter. As the oak door opened, Cassio glanced over his shoulder, seeing none other than the man with crisp hazel eyes and shaggy blonde hair kept neat.

"Zeno," Cassio acknowledged, returning to his window gazing. But not before he noted a folder in the consigliere's possession.

"Boss," Zeno greeted with a respectful nod, closing the door behind him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The still air amplified the quiet tick-tick-tick from the antique clock to Cassio's left. If the overcast sunlight wasn't glaring through the tall windows, the room would've been pitch black with its phthalo green walls.

"Do you come bearing gifts, mio amico?" Cassio asked as he turned around, briefly glancing at the awaiting man.

"Facial recognition came back from Sunday night," Zeno informed.

Cassio mindlessly lifted his glass for another gulp of sparkles. The glass barely grazed his lips before he realized the thing was empty. Idiòta.

He left the window. "Anyone of interest?"

Zeno gave a quiet nod. He flipped the folder open while Cassio navigated the small study room. He brushed by the orange velvet sofa that centered its pair of matching chairs. The furniture encompassed a circular coffee table, the perfect arrangement for the 3 o'clock light to shine against its polished bronze finish. Cassio shadowed over it, fetching the icy jug of sparkling water for a refill. Though he eyed the small bowl of complementary blueberries, bargaining with temptation.

"You were right to suspect him, boss. His name is Shane Lennox Wilbert Olsworth. Thirty-six years old. A homicide detective who recently transferred over from Philadelphia due to, and I quote, 'using unorthodox methods to detain a suspect'."

Another Olsworth, Cassio thought bitterly. They never take a hint.

He threw the blueberries in his mouth. Their delicate skins crushed between his teeth, offering a burst of tangible sweetness on his tongue. Some sweet to his sour.

"What's he got on us?" Cassio soon asked, falling into one chair with its back facing the windows. Its button-tufted headboard was always comfortably firm to his back.