The Prototype

47. Veiled Agendas

MARCELLUS

The rich scent of cigars lingered heavily in the air, mingling with the warmth radiating from the whiskey resting in heavy crystal glasses, casting fragments of light on the polished mahogany table. Shadows danced in the dim glow of the overhead light, casting a foreboding veil over the space, hinting at a quiet tension beneath our calm exteriors. The space seemed to pull inward, trapping each thought, suspicion, and unsaid word in the smoke-filled air that lay thick and unmoving around us.

Leaning back in my leather chair, letting its smooth, cool surface press into my back, a stark contrast to the heat that pulsed steadily through the room. The sense of purpose between us were tangible, charged, like gunpowder waiting for the flame. Across from me sat Nino, Ricco, and Uncle Galileli, each as seasoned as the spirits in their glasses, their eyes hard, calculating, and not for a moment wavering from the issue that summoned us here tonight.

Slowly lifting my cigar to my lips, letting the rich smoke fill my lungs, savoring the slow, calculated exhale. The smoke drifted in a lazy spiral toward the ceiling, merging with the haze already clouding the room. A veil of intention, thick and deliberate. The only sounds were the crackling of cigars and the faint clink of ice against glass—a calculated silence, the kind that would unsettle any man with a weaker stomach. But we are not those men.

The weight of the glass settled comfortably in my hand, a familiar heft as I rolled it slowly, watching the amber liquid swirl in time with the thoughts in my mind. Scratching at my skull since the horse race—a tournament that should've been mine to enjoy from beginning to end. The race marked a tradition, a gathering of allies and an opportunity to show the influence of my family's power. Yet, in the midst, someone decided to try to taint the tournament, to slip in shadows.

Nino's eyed lingered on his glass, his eyes narrowing as he raised it to his lips. The dim light carved his face into sharp angles, casting his features into something severe and calculated. Lowering the glass, he leaned forward, as though preparing to unload the weight of his thoughts.

"This whole thing with the jockey," he began, his voice a low rumble in the heavy air, each word like gravel scraping across asphalt. He paused, letting the weight of his words settle, the silence amplifying the grit in his tone. "It doesn't add up."

He turned his gaze toward Ricco, who met it with a firm, thoughtful nod, his eyes as sharp as his jawline, his expression locked in something between anger and curiosity. Ricco's hands rested on his knees, fingers flexing slightly, betraying a tension he rarely showed. The disappearance of the jockey was a puzzle, a thread dangling loose in an otherwise carefully woven tapestry, and Ricco, like the rest of us, wanted answers.

"No, it doesn't," I replied, my tone a cold, measured edge slicing through the haze of the room. The weight of my words settled like an anchor, dragging everyone's attention fully into the gravity of the situation. "I've got cameras all around the estate. Every square inch, every goddamn angle. If anything had happened here, we would've seen it." I paused, letting the silence punctuate the frustration. "So, whatever went down, happened off our grounds. And that makes it worse. If a body turns up anywhere near here, it's a liability—a headache I don't need."

The reality of that statement settled over us, dense and unforgiving, each of us understanding the implications without needing them spelled out. In our line of work, liabilities weren't just inconvenient—they were dangerous. Every loose end, every unanswered question was a potential threat, a crack in the foundation that could bring the whole damn structure down.

Nino, ever the pragmatist, "It was a good thing we had a backup jockey ready to cover. If we hadn't, people would have noticed the delay, started asking questions."