NICCOLÒ

1. Family Duty

They sat waiting.

Two men, one stationed at the elevator door, the other by the bulletproof window, exchanged glances; one reached for his gun, pulling it from his waistband and balancing the cold metal reassuringly in his palm, checking it was loaded.

Watching and waiting.

"Do you think something's gone wrong?" A little girl whispered to her sister. The clock ticked behind her, on the mantelpiece. The room was cold; a myriad of sharp lines and cutting edges, made of glass and metal. The atmosphere was heavy, weighing down like a tonne of concrete - the silence broken only by the ticking away of time.

The clock was out of place; something old in a place that was new. The sister stared at it, remembering briefly that it once sat on her grandfather's desk in Italy - before he died; she didn't hear her younger sibling over the roaring in her ears.

The two girls were sitting at the dining table, with seven chairs. Six members were present; one yet to arrive. One member was muttering a prayer, staring out of the dark window at the cityscape, her fingers rubbing against rosary beads.

"Cee?"

The older sister dragged her eyes away from her mother with her rosary, turning to the girl with a reassuring smile, her fingers tapping nervously on the glossy mahogany table. "Of course not, bambina, Papa is coming." The younger sister shifted closer and nestled into her sister's side. "Promise?"

"I promise." The older sister, Camilla, hid her worried face in her sister's hair for a minute. She caught her mother's gaze in the window, resting on her two younger children: she was scared. They were all scared. "Fieros never break their promise."

One of the armed men, a trusted employee, approached their mother while they watched, one finger to his earpiece; Marie Fiero murmured something to him in a hushed tone, her shoulders tense. As they spoke, Marie reached out her hand to her eldest - Leo - unconsciously, seeking comfort; Cee knew her older brother had been counting stars, to calm himself, but he stopped to clasp his mother's hand.

Camilla let herself relax the smallest amount as her mother's worried expression broke into a bright smile: good news.

Marie looked around the room, nodding once to her brother-in-law, sitting with his wife on a sofa, his face shadowed in the dim light. They rose, moving towards their places at the table; the seventh member was nearly there.

There was a tiny, almost imperceptible beep; all eyes moved to the elevator doors. Just above, the panel displayed which floor the lift was at: 6.

Then 7. Then 8. It was rising, too quickly to count anymore; Cee's aunt smiled finally.

"Papa!" The youngest girl, Caterina, jumped from her seat with excitement, racing to the lift to wait, impatiently.

The older sister, Cee, exchanged a glance with her brother. He was nervous. She could tell by the little crease between his brows. "It'll be okay, Leo," she said softly, placing her hand on his. He squeezed back in response, but stayed silent. That was his way.

Marie Fiero moved to the table, her grip tight on the back of the chair at the head of the table, reserved for the seventh member: her husband. Her nails were usually impeccable, manicured to perfection, but now they were chipped and jagged.

The six of them waited; the clock ticking; the elevator rising.

And then it reached their level: number 12.

The doors slid open silently: it was him. Cee would recognise her father anywhere: broad, tall and fierce. He was an aging lion with a silver mane: past his prime but still the deadliest around.