METANOIA CHAPTER 2

The name of a woman proved that women can also rule the mafia. My name.

Oasis


"The Empire" is a loud and dignified name for an appropriate establishment located in one of London's most expensive areas. During the day, as the sunlight streamed into the restaurant through the panoramic windows on the first floor, and classical music spread softly through the walls, drowning out conversations about business or new purchases, I found myself thinking that the place, with its ceiling frescoes, sculptures, marble walls and gilded, colourful furniture made by Italian craftsmen at my father's personal request, was transformed at night, behind massive doors, into a place of lust and money. I saw people's faces change as they touched the notes of their winnings, as they inhaled their scent, as they kissed and shook the bundle in front of everyone. The stuffiness of the closed and dark windowless room, the clouds of cigar smoke on the ceiling, the ashes on the blood red gambling table -- these people were different from the visitors who came in during the day, these were real lunatics with the urge to inflict pain and intimidation; here they became slaves to their own desires and vices, martyrs of their own world of immorality and misery, an endless escape from the meaninglessness of existence to the inner destruction of colossal loss.
My father had to make a name for himself from scratch when his once influential Neapolitan family was reduced in an instant to a handful of ashes, worthless. It was the restaurant that became an oasis for people like him -- immigrants forced to leave their homeland to escape the police and endless persecution, heartbroken, clad in cold-blooded masculine faces, desperate to recapture their childhood. Here they were young men, arguing loudly, hurling insults (some even with chairs and money), drinking, freeing their minds from the cage of everyday dullness in which they were strict dictators, eliminating their enemies, punishing their subordinates and beating their wives. Their true selves were revealed, where in a world full of death, all they cared about was how to make money out of it. If the blood on their hands were imprinted on the surface of the furniture they touched, my restaurant would become the epitome of an infected soldier's wound on the battlefield.
The Empire also became my oasis. As a child, I had little idea that one day I would run what I thought would be a powerful restaurant, but as time went on, and my interests shifted more and more towards my father's business, my desires collided with the reality that no matter how much I proved my worth by going to the lair of the worst criminals, no matter how much I proved my effectiveness as a leader by organising magnificent car thefts, I was still a woman. By inheriting The Empire, I permanently cemented my name in the mouths of the disgruntled men who still insisted that I had made a grave mistake in preferring the cold weapons to the warm bed of my husband, as well as the women who clearly condemned my desire to bring my death closer. But I knew that I had begun to end the mindless reign of cruel men who equated their daughters with a bargaining chip -- it took me to become as cold as the ice their wives applied to their bruised faces.
In defiance of the law, my father, Robert Wollstonecraft, set up a restaurant where he ran unofficial games (often poker). It was a kind of protest against the legal system that had banned him from his home country for many years. In the beginning there were only three gambling rooms, discreetly located on the first and second floors, opening their doors only late at night; his father used to boast that half the British government sat at the gambling tables, confirming his theory about the relativism of justice that had caught up with him as a child. In the short time I have been running the restaurant, I have added two more rooms in the basement.
The sharp nose of my black heels was stained with ash, which lay in small piles on the hard pavement -- neither the icy wind that blasted my cheeks and tangled my hair, nor the morning rain had carried away the remains of the fire. Thomas told me of two completely burnt out gambling halls that would take at least a month and a half to rebuild -- forty-five days that promised constant losses and an endless stream of nightly customers to the remaining three rooms.
"He was not joking this time," I said, standing on a burnt desk. Attempts to identify the culprit always ended in incredible failure, it seemed he was slipping through my fingers. His method of operation was too crude, perhaps even sloppy and revealing, though I was confused by the marked difference between the two arsons -- a toilet cubicle (as a warning) and two poker rooms (as punishment). Whoever he was, he knew exactly how to bypass the restaurant's security system and exactly where the entrances to the hidden rooms were.
"How much did we lose?" Jensen asked, frowning and shoving his hands into his pockets. I was surprised by his encouragement to spend the first morning of his married life in the company of a restaurant he hated - the sudden decision to join me on an early trip into central London, though motivated by guilt over yesterday's dialogue, was still the starting point for his return to the routine of work, which meant the extra responsibility and stress of working overtime was off my shoulders. Jensen was not only the owner of the Shoreditch bar, passionate about business development and keeping the inflated customer numbers in check, but he was also responsible for the digital security of my entire estate -- from The Empire to the entire province of Salerno.
"Millions," I replied, pulling from the pocket of my straight black trousers a silver cigarette case with a hand-engraved W after my surname (it was a gift from an old Neapolitan man who had a fierce desire for a Mercedes-Benz W198 in his wealthy garage, which is why he turned to me). The heavy nicotine pierced my lungs with a sharp pain, immediately hitting my head and relaxing me; blinking slowly, I exhaled the acrid smoke into the sky, where it mixed with the frosty morning air. There was a terrible rumble on the street that pressed against my temples, passers-by hurried, stumbled and ran red lights -- they all had ordinary lives filled with routine: work, university, home, family, children, they had stress and worry, joy and momentary happiness -- all the things I was deprived of. Growing up in an illegal world, my life from childhood was fraught with the risk of death -- blackmailing and threatening my father was best dealt with by kidnapping his children -- except that these people had no idea that a passing bus could be booby-trapped and an SUV stopped at a traffic light could be packed with thugs rolling down their tinted windows and shooting at anything that moved; most likely their lives had meaning, their existence was not aimless -- or so they thought.
I took another deep puff of cigarette smoke, lowered my eyes and tried to shake the traces of ash from my patent shoes. I really didn't care about the money that would be spent on renovating the two gaming rooms -- last month's (not very profitable) casino turnover reached a billion pounds, of which only a fraction went into the players' pockets as winnings, the rest belonged to the casino itself; truth be told, most of the turnover was reckless betting by angry men, so I have to give them credit -- only people like them could win hundreds of thousands and lose tens of millions, making me richer. Except that the time it would take to rebuild the rooms was very different from what I could afford -- the reduced playing space meant fewer potential customers and therefore less profit; disgruntled players were the worst people I had ever worked with (not even Antonio's lavish compliments annoyed me that much), because if they were disappointed, my reputation would suffer and they would not want to come back.
"Bad news," he sighed heavily and touched his hair. I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to hide the anger inside me. I took a deep breath of cigarette smoke and raised my head to the sky. It was bright and clean, which was more than I could say for my head, I slept for several hours, drank a few cups of espresso.
I buried my fingers in my long dark hair. My gentle glance in his direction was enough to let me know that Jensen was indeed involved in the problem, even if this abrupt plunge might have felt like a bucket of ice water being poured over his head. My brother's stern face with its brooding blue eyes did nothing to break his relaxed mood, judging by his slumped shoulders, the unbuttoned top buttons of his white shirt (he'd left his jacket in the car, still pretending that the wind blowing all around his body was no colder than the flames of a fire), his legs spread wide. I took a puff from my almost new cigarette, suppressed a gust of anger and threw it to the floor, stomping on it with my right foot -- such bad news is made worse by the lack of sleep: the cup of espresso only intensified the intrusive thoughts of Dante De Rosso's scars, leaving me with a measly three hours of restless sleep, which felt like torture in the form of a stabbing headache in my temples and dry eyes the next morning.
Frowning, I turned to Thomas, "Did the arsonist leave a trail?"
He shook his head thoughtfully, "Nothing yet."
I cursed and kicked a charred piece of wood with my heel. I had to close my eyes and breathe heavily to dampen the outburst of anger that had become a veil before my eyes.
"We're looking, Alana," Thomas assured me, still standing a few metres from the main entrance to the restaurant. He didn't take his eyes off the smoky black streaks on the stone walls outside, constantly shifting from foot to foot. The Empire was one of the last businesses my deputy handled, as I preferred to handle the restaurant myself, long and painstakingly; it wasn't my first big business, as before the casino I'd successfully handled car theft and managed to get my place in Salerno, but it was the Empire that was the forbidden fruit I'd been fighting for most of my adult life; I'd been fighting to inherit it to prove that gender had no effect on brain size. Jensen pursed his lips and lowered his head.
"I'm going to burn that bastard alive," I replied rudely.
"You don't even know who did it," the brother sighed deeply, rubbing his eyelids with his fingers, "this man is clearly not going to give us a quiet life."
His words amused me. A life full of death, suffering and pain, the heartbreaking cries of mothers who have lost their sons in a bloody shoot-out, the tears of stolen children, bags of dirty money, cannot be peaceful a priori. I have often wondered if I would find peace after death, because long reflection has always led me to the necessity and inevitability of eternal sleep. The possibility of finding peace was illusory and utopian in my mind, which is why it seemed so attractive. In fact, the morbidity of birth and death frightened me with its meaninglessness; an existence of suffering ceased to be felt as such and was transformed into a routine, a beginning and an end to the cycle called life, an aimless wandering through my own mind in an attempt to find meaning and value. In recent years I have stopped believing in rest -- I can't remember if I ever felt it. Fighting all my life for recognition, forcing my name down the throat of every disgruntled person, I have lost the meaning of my existence. Each day, filled with confrontation with the conservative entrenchments of the mob, so exhausted me that there was no better desire than to turn into a transparent haze that vanished into thin air in the blink of an eye. Faced with powerful and dangerous people who continued to impose their will, they lost their meaning in my eyes; they no longer seemed like unquestionable authorities, and the traditions they had so carefully guarded no longer made sense. But it was as if I was on their side, continuing to prove my worth in this world, until I realised that I could not convince everyone, and so I would continue my pointless struggle until I disappeared completely.
"The quiet life is a myth," I told Jensen, looking over my shoulder at his face. For my brother, my words had a completely different meaning. He was now responsible not only for himself, but also for his wife, who didn't even know that from today her life was in constant danger, and Jensen, who didn't want to tell Lynette about the business, was doing everything he could to keep her out of it.
Every time I looked at the Empire, I felt a sharp tingle in my heart: although the outside of the building showed traces of fire in the stone, I didn't dare go inside; I knew I wouldn't like what I saw, and I preferred to stay in the dark -- the frescoes and bas-reliefs might have suffered, the Italian furniture certainly. My father's legacy had been burnt, and all I had to do was replace the objects that would no longer contain a particle of him. There were no more bright signs of the gourmet kitchen that hid the gambling dens where London's rich could try their luck. I was both pleased and puzzled by the fact that the restaurant was virtually undamaged (the fire from the gambling rooms had spread to the curtains and tablecloths among the guests, leaving traces of ash on the window), as the arsonist clearly knew where the hidden rooms were. The room itself was unusually large, occupying two floors, and under the guise of a gourmet kitchen in Baroque style, but hidden from view, the greatest poker games were held in five rooms: two on the first floor (which burned down), one on the ground floor and two more, the most massive, in the basement. In this way I was able to organise all five underground games, undetected not only by the guests but also by the police. In order to legalise the income from the casino, I combined it with other sources of income and distributed it according to ownership: some went to the restaurant's accounts department under the headings of internal or visitor, another part went to Jensen's Bar in the same way, the remaining money continued to exist in Salerno. Suddenly I remembered an email from the insurance agent I'd been looking at that night -- as I'd unofficially assumed, they wouldn't pay for the restaurant's repairs unless I gave them financial compensation (a bribe) for keeping the details of the affected rooms secret. Trying to control my anger, I slowly clenched and unclenched the fist of my right hand, breathing heavily. It seems I need to remind the insurance company what 'keeping secrets' really means.
"I don't think we should go back to Amalfi until things have calmed down," Thomas said thoughtfully, coming closer. Jensen raised his eyebrows in surprise as I exhaled quietly, resisting the urge to yawn. It was getting harder and harder to work when you keep forgetting to sleep.
"I can run the restaurant, and you can go back to Salerno," Jensen suggested, and at first I liked his idea, and ready to agree, I opened my mouth before thinking. I had a lot of business piled up in Italy, and would probably have more problems after Antonio, but my brother's motives weren't driven by selfless help, but by a desire to continue his modest life in London, rejecting the fact that he was involved in illegal business.
"No," I said softly, forcing myself to keep my eyelids open, "I need your help in Amalfi," Jensen had informed me a few weeks ago of the need to analyse the software that maintained the digital security of not only my personal accounts, but the finances of all the companies I owned, as he had noticed an attempted hack by an unknown party, "I have a meeting tonight, we return to Salerno tomorrow afternoon. No need to stay here for long," I scowled at the ashes --- it would be better if other people took care of the repairs and restored all the rooms.
Despite the defiant displeasure in his eyes that stubbornly burned through my skin, the man nodded in agreement, hiding his hands in his trouser pockets. As much as he wanted to stay in this little idyll with his new-found wife, Jensen's father's honour would not allow him to break his promise.
"I'm not going alone, Alana," his voice sounded harsh and hard, in contrast to his soft, heavenly gaze. I lowered my eyes thoughtfully.
It was to be expected -- falling in love can act on the mind like a poison, slowly disarming. The trip to Salerno could be a long one, and the last thing Jensen wanted after the wedding was to leave his wife in another country for an indefinite period of time.
"Lynette isn't a threat until she finds out about our business," I warned slowly, blinking. Sooner or later the girl would find out about all the criminality that permeated our family, but inwardly I hoped she would escape before that moment came.
Jensen nodded again and exhales heavily.
"You have a responsibility, Jensen," I reminded him, stepping closer and putting a hand on his shoulder, "you're not just the husband now, you're the bar owner and digital security manager. Get back to your duties."
The man nodded, pursing his lips. I could understand his feelings now: Lynette had given him hope of a quiet life without guns and fights, where he was a simple bar owner and she a student. Now, after six months of blissful happiness, it's hard for Jensen to come back to reality. He needs time to adjust.
"I'll go back to my duties and keep working, and Lynette will think this is our honeymoon," Jensen replied seriously, taking a few steps to the side. "And Mum will return to our family home with Mark."
I had to roll my eyes in anger. I hated that woman as much as I hated her man.
"How dare she return with her lover to the mansion where our father died?" I spat reluctantly, but got no answer.
Every thought of that woman filled my throat with bile, my heart with disgust and revulsion at the realisation that her genes were in my blood, that my hair and eyes were part of hers (I had changed the colour of my hair, but if I could have my eyes gouged out, I would definitely do that too). Even the word 'mother' was not to be used in her direction - a traitor who was alive because of Jensen, who supported the ideas of patriarchy, who convinced me that my only chance for a better life was to marry a powerful man, did not deserve my recognition and respect, and even my father's surname did not protect her position. Brought up on the literature of Jean Jacques Rousseau, she had no choice but to grow up subservient to a man. Once, when I was a child, she tried to read me one of his works: before she could even begin, I began to fret and cry, not wanting to listen to what he had written. I only felt an unpleasant shiver run down my shoulders when I thought that a man should be the head of the family and have complete control over his wife and children, and a woman should be a subordinate and serve her husband.
At the thought of marriage, I lowered my eyes to my unadorned left hand - it had been empty since Nicholas had died in the fire. Clenching my fingers into a fist, I looked up to where the clouds hung heavy like grey walls, obscuring the bright blue sky. The morning dampness spread through the city in cold gusts of wind that blew litter and flyers across the ground. The thickening clouds created black patches in the sky, inspiring a ghostly desolation that churned to the bone. Tangled hairs formed at the back of my neck as I frowned thoughtfully into the grey distance, longing building in my soul. An unbearable rattle echoed through my heart, making me oblivious to the pain that had hardened inside me over the past few months. It seemed impossible to escape the endless sky, that the impenetrable clouds, like a maze, would not allow me to find a way out -- fear was devouring me from within, waiting to meet its own Minotaur. (The Minotaur is a legendary creaturefrom ancient Greek mythology, half man, half bull, who lived in a labyrinth onthe island of Crete and ate those whom fate threw into the maze.)
"Alana," Thomas' loud voice came from behind me, pulling me out of my own thoughts. I swallowed hard and ran my palms over my face to bring myself back to reality. Tapping my heels on the stone pavement in front of the restaurant, I stepped closer to the man who was sitting by the fallen planks next to the stairs, staring at them thoughtfully.
"Do you think this is evidence?" Jensen asked, sitting down beside him and holding out his hand for the object. I had to slap his palm lightly.
On the floor, between the burnt planks, lay a silver heart-shaped pendant. Its chain was broken and the small stones that decorated the metal had almost fallen out, leaving only empty notches.
"Prints," I replied to his questioning look, without taking my eyes off the pendant. Employees weren't allowed to wear jewellery, and visitors often didn't wear such simple and silver ones. I stood up and motioned for Jensen to take the pendant for examination, "I need the results as soon as possible. I received a nod.
Sighing, I raised my head to the sky and noticed the clouds. Jensen came up behind me, gritting his teeth, "The guards were talking about the evening event."
"That's right," I replied a little more quietly, feeling the onset of a headache, "I have an assignment in London."
"Another businessman," he began.
"Another car," I replied with a chuckle, "you're coming with me."
"Of course," Jensen smiled brightly, forcing me to lift the corners of my lips, "you always need someone to cover your ass."




The guards surrounded the castle and surveyed the area around it. Inside the building itself, the maids were bustling about, carrying dishes and laundry, scrubbing the floors to a shine, cleaning up after the previous night. After reminding me of our meeting tonight and kissing me on the cheek goodbye, Jensen quickly made his way to his upstairs bedroom and took off his jacket, where Lynette was probably already. My brother's wife didn't interest me as much as her sister, about whom I had a bad feeling -- Skye's appearance resembled a sickly, if not fatal, skin condition, thinness, dye-burnt hair; perhaps the Carbyn sisters weren't as simple as they seemed at first glance.
Standing at the entrance to the castle, the wind blowing in through the open windows and doors, I lowered my gaze to my shoes, crossed my legs and took a deep breath. I felt like I missed Amalfi -- the Italian town had become much more at home to me in recent years than my native London. The greyness around me was killing me, plunging me into a gloomy reverie that I could only try to shake off by increasing my workload. The sea, with its tranquillity and silence, the peace to be found in the crashing waves, in the spray of cold water, reminded me that in a world where there is hell, there is also heaven. Here, apart from my father's shop, which burned with some periodicity, I had nothing. A slow, throbbing pain began to pound in my temples as I realised how many problems I would face on my return to Italy, even though I still couldn't figure out who had caused the two restaurant fires: I had made enough enemies over the past few years who were determined to take not only business and territory, but also the title of "the man who destroyed Wollstonecraft".
A gust of cold air hit my face with the clear smell of earth before rain, forcing me to look up. The glass doors to the courtyard were open, as they had been the night before, and Dante was sitting at the large table where a few hours earlier there had been large Italian dishes and bottles of dry white wine. His large back, the intimidating scars on it hidden by the thick fabric of his charcoal jacket, looked dull and lonely against the grey sky. Tapping my heels on the tiles of the house, I approached the man and saw a laptop and a cup of espresso in front of him.
"Is there a problem with the bar tab?" I asked, stepping around Dante and sitting to his right, the man sitting on the edge with only the corner of the table between us -- so I could study his face. Tilting my head slightly to the right and squinting my eyes, I watched as he slowly lifted his gaze from the laptop screen and turned coldly to face me. Taking a deep breath, Dante leaned back in his chair and picked up a small cup of espresso with his large hand; I could see the turquoise vein lines through his skin.
"Some vitals didn't add up," he replied blankly, taking a sip of his drink. The piercing look in his brown eyes slowly began to ignite a fear in me that chilled me to the bone, "Nothing serious".
"You should be more careful," I said slowly, realising that our small talk was turning into a cold verbal battle for me.
"Just helping Jensen out," De Rosso said as he set his empty cup down on the saucer.
I crossed my legs and squeezed them tighter -- to control my aggression, which pierced my skin with a sharp heat that made it hard to breathe. The man sitting in front of me had full access to the financial records of the bar through which I laundered my illicit earnings; I had a right to be angry at Jensen for such reckless behaviour.
"And what caused this altruism?" I asked, narrowing my eyes slightly.
"The usual help to a friend," the man replied evasively. Talking to Dante, I had the oppressive feeling that he was controlling his every word, trying to keep me at a distance. His piercing brown eyes and bushy eyebrows were lifeless and vacant, giving the impression that the man was incapable of smiling. De Rosso's demeanour was, in my eyes, arrogant and unapproachable, as if he had absolutely no interest in other people, not even his so-called 'friend' in the person of my brother. His monotonous voice, devoid of any emotion, and his stilted gestures gave the impression of coldness. Realising that it would be impossible to establish a dialogue with such a man, let alone extract information from him regarding access to financial figures, I lowered my eyes in frustration as I rose from my chair. Smoothing my white shirt against my body, I cast a final glance at Dante, who immediately returned to his computer, losing all interest in our conversation. Straightening my back as if my spine were a bar of steel, I dismissively reminded the man to lock his doors for the night, then retreated.
"Who are you, Dante De Rosso?" I whispered.




The clear night sky, devoid even of stars, was slowly being replaced by grey and cloud, revealing a different London beyond the reach of the naked eye. The old mansion, rather small compared to my father's residence in Italy, was indeed old -- the bright red brick that made up the walls of the building was illuminated by the xenon headlights of the sports cars parked at the foot of the stairs. The tight black fabric of my long dress squeezed my ribs as I breathed; my feet were beginning to ache from walking in heels (I had to soak my feet in a shower of hot water to be able to dress for today's event). The front strands of my hair fell in large waves across my face as I leaned forward to adjust the belt on my hip that secured the sharp knife to my skin. I had gotten used to this kind of protection: I had no intention of killing anyone today, and I generally did not encourage close combat, but the knife was not only a means of self-defence in critical situations, but also a tool that could be used to pick a lock, cut a rope in the event of a kidnapping, or damage a pocket to get a phone out. Although my appearance was in keeping with the theme of the party, I was met with puzzled, interested and even judgmental looks -- apparently neither Luca nor his guests expected me to accept an invitation to the event.
"We came to steal a car," my brother said, leaning into my ear. A few minutes earlier, Jensen had been telling the valet exactly where to park his car, constantly smoothing the fabric of his black suit, "but I think if such a beauty disappears from the party, everyone will notice.
I grinned back and took his arm. We walked back to the manor together.
Luca Ronald was the epitome of a rich youth who had not yet met the fate of early family life and business. I did not investigate his finances, although there is no need to, because I knew that his spending was irrational (the diamond pool table, which he broke a week after installing it), but the man himself had repeatedly claimed a recent purchase -- a Bugatti Centodieci, a limited edition car of which there are only 10 in the world. My client contacted me a few minutes after he heard about the deal between Luca and the sheikh, wanting to get his hands on the new sports car without any unnecessary witnesses. Car theft was not my main source of income, but the money it generated was shared between me and my team, excluding middlemen, staff and so on. It was probably an extension of what I had been doing with Antonio's father; I really liked cars, in a way this part of the job gave me pleasure, because while most cases were standardised and universal, each one was unique, with different cars, people and circumstances everywhere. It was important to choose the victim first: a banker with a shady past, a politician involved in illegal business, or men who looked like pathetic parodies of Capone or Gotti, but according to the statistics it was the children of such people who most often fell under my influence. They paid no attention to the cars, which made it easier to rob them. Then came my team: Xiaomin, a Chinese girl who was on holiday now, and Richard, a tall man with blue eyes that looked very deep against his dark skin, who had served time in one of London's prisons for stealing a cabriolet. These two, professional thieves, would gradually trace the victim and the car using the technique I had taught them, and when the time came, they would disappear with the car without a trace. I gave each member of the team an increased percentage of the sale in exchange for the fact that they were responsible for the theft - victim, police, mafia, it doesn't matter, they were looking for my guys, but not for me, formally I was not involved in their activities. This helped to avoid conflicts between the families that rule the illegal world, as well as unwanted wars and shootouts, but when my boys were being hunted, I stood up for them. But there was one memorable moment: when the case of the theft of two sports cars came up for trial, which was supposed to take place in Molise, I managed to move to Naples, where Antonio kindly did not interfere in my business and allowed me to finish what I had started. All the witnesses from the court suddenly disappeared and I had to pay my partner in Naples part of the proceeds from the sale of the cars.
"The car key is on the second floor," Jensen said softly in my ear as we entered the villa, smiling and nodding to the butlers and other guests, "third door from the left," he reminded me, "don't forget."
I mentally rolled my eyes in annoyance and suppressed a sigh of flow of emotions.
Objectively, this case was different from the others, at least in that I was directly involved in the theft, I had to show up at this dinner tonight to quietly steal the keys and then quietly hand them to Richard who would be waiting for me outside the grounds of Roland's mansion. Luca, for reasons unknown to me, had hired a large number of guards and strengthened the pass system; now each guest had an individual code, and forging it, though possible, was still disproportionately energy consuming. After discussing this with Thomas, we agreed that I should accept the invitation to the ball.
Behind the massive doors blocking the entrance to the mansion, the Ronald family's grandeur was concealed: a grand foyer with a high ceiling and stucco on the walls, an extended bar with a variety of drinks around which guests were already gathering. Most of the young people remained in the lounge to the right, sitting on leather sofas, not hesitating to place on the coffee table whatever illegal drugs they could steal from their parents. The wall behind them was empty -- it used to be a display case of crystal china and silverware that Luca had broken at another party.
I walked on, still holding my brother's arm, keeping a calm face and discreetly inspecting the guards. The preconceived plan was to disappear unnoticed from the lobby where the main event was taking place, find the office on the first floor and get rid of the car.
Although people like Luca contributed a great deal to my financial well-being, I genuinely hated them -- having inherited the business from his mother, he spent money recklessly and irresponsibly, while his hapless deputies tried to avoid bankruptcy. This approach to work irritated me: while I had struggled all my life to get a place in my father's restaurant, Ronald had just been born; every time I had to deal with him, I felt a genuine disgust.
I didn't notice Luca right away: the dark-skinned man stood eccentrically in a circle of his friends, swaying from side to side as if he couldn't stay on his feet. His hands waved incoherently in the air as if trying to prove something, his face was puffy, his hair a mess; Ronald's clothes looked sloppy and unkempt, as if he'd dressed with his eyes closed.
I'd heard about his family for a long time; even the mansion the guy had turned into a nightclub had once been the home of generations. Despite such an ugly idea of Ronald's, he had aristocratic roots, but I could not understand if that had any meaning. In the light of the night, the dark wood from which almost everything in this house was made added charm and mystique, but these thoughts quickly disappeared as I noticed the people standing around the new pool table. I had no doubt that it was worth several hundred thousand pounds, unless it was a fake that his grandmother sometimes used -- aristocrats had rapidly lost their influence in the last half century and were more status than real proof of the presence of money.
I took a deep breath and gripped Jensen's hand tighter with my fingers. It took a lot of effort to turn the contempt in my eyes into polite arrogance (Luca was one of those people who used his family name shamelessly, having nothing to do with this success. He often reacted positively to my hubris because he had a high ego, believing himself to be more intelligent, wealthy and influential).
With a disdainful sneer, I glanced at the young man coming our way. I exhaled immediately and the muscles in my back tensed.
"Alana," Luca said immediately, "I'm so glad you're here," the man leaned over to my palm and planted a light kiss on it. I swallowed, feeling the pungent smell of sweat and alcohol from the man in my nose.
"I couldn't miss such a bright event," I replied politely with flashing eyes and a small grin, "I think you know my brother. Jensen," I turned to him as he reached out to shake Luca's hand.
"I heard about the casino," he frowned as he expressed his regret, "I hope you recover soon. Maybe if it was run by a man it would be all right, who knows?"
I smiled dismissively, realising that my behaviour had gone unnoticed by Luca. I had no idea how much alcohol he'd had since this morning in order to recognise who was standing in front of him.
"I hope you'll be our first guest after the refurbishment," I nodded and Jensen, pushing my lower back, led us to the bar.
The vanity parade that had opened its massive doors that night weighed heavily on my head and made it hard to breathe. The lies in the air were becoming absurd, and as I sat far away at the bar with a glass of water, I could barely contain my laughter as I watched people trying to appear better than they really were -- everything had turned into a competition that everyone was trying to win at all costs. The colourful lights and sounds of music that reminded me of fun and joy now seemed dull and artificial. Jensen looked suspicious, obviously afraid the guards would find out the real reason for our visit; his voice was distant, disinterested.
Jensen set the whisky down on the lacquered barstool, pursed his lips slightly and lifted his eyes, "The insurance company is questioning the restaurant's case."
I covered my eyes with the palm of my hand and shook my head wearily. This reaction from the agency was unpleasant, but expected - another problem to deal with, but they don't go into total denial. Maybe I should meet someone from the insurance company.
"I'll sort it out," I replied calmly, taking a sip of cold water, "I need to get back to Italy as soon as possible."
Jensen nodded slowly and swallowed the entire contents of his glass with a jerk, causing me to raise my eyebrows in confusion. There was no trace of yesterday's happiness on his face; not even the ring on his finger made him smile. My phone vibrated quietly, causing Jensen to look up at me. I slipped the device into my clutch and stood up.
"I need to fix my make-up," I smiled, squinting, and my brother nodded as he got up and walked towards Luca.
I gave my brother's demure gait one last wary look, making sure my absence would not arouse suspicion, then made my way up the massive staircase to the first floor. Nimbly rounding the corner, I lurked and waited for the guard to pass; quietly rounding his back (my heels muffled the soft carpet on the floor) without him noticing, I walked along the wall of antique tapestries and counted out the third door. Leaning my shoulder blades against the cold wood, I tugged gently on the handle with my left hand, which unexpectedly boiled away. Once inside, I closed the door quietly behind me, feeling my heartbeat echo in my ears. After all these years I'd never managed to cultivate a coolness, like a child doing something inappropriate, I could feel the adrenaline raging through my veins, the fear of being caught feeding through me. The guards Thomas and Jensen had bought told me that the keys were here. Luca's office was small, different to the ones I'd seen before, empty. A desk with a laptop, a chair and a bookshelf. With a quick exhale, I began to look around the room for the car keys -- first checking all the chests of drawers under the desk, but finding nothing, I turned to the books, imagining with interest that Ronald was reading. In fact, it didn't fit his lifestyle at all. Fingering the spines of the books, I noticed a different one, and when I opened it, I realised that instead of pages, there was a recess where the keys were neatly placed. Grinning, I shoved them into my bag and put everything back where it belonged.
My throat was dry and I swallowed hard, feeling the pressure of my dress against my ribs. My heart was beating so fast I could feel the blood pounding in my temples. I wanted to laugh, loudly, to drown out the music below. It had been a long time since I had experienced such pleasant feelings, the joy of my work. Boundless liberation, accompanied by a violation of the rights of others, of every possible order and norm, a release from responsibility and worries about not conforming to the expectations of others; I was doing what I was not supposed to do and feeling in my place. My fingers grew cold with the anticipation of being behind the wheel of one of the ten sports cars in the range. But what excited me most was the thought that someone like Luca Ronald would lose his beloved car in a matter of minutes; that I had taken something precious away from him, that in time, when the alcohol no longer affected his body, he would realise his level of irresponsibility.
Cautiously, I opened the wooden door and looked out, scanning the long corridor in the dim light of the warm lamps. There was no one around, no guards or guests, which gave me a safe route to my car. The stairs leading to the garage were on the opposite side of the corridor and I quickly shifted my high heeled feet across the carpet, looking back often and listening for any sound. It was dark ahead, perhaps this part of the house had been neglected for so long that even the burnt-out lights in the wall sconces were of no interest. Gradually the reds of the carpet and tapestries faded into colourless patches of unlit corners. I felt something warm on my right shoulder, pulling me towards it -- it took me a moment to see the cold gaze of Dante's eyes in the darkness. My insides clenched at the realisation that I was in an uninhabited part of the mansion, sandwiched between the cold wall and the tall man. I swallowed, interrupting the sudden dryness in my throat, and silently watched De Rosso study my face -- we were at an unacceptably close distance.
"What are you doing?" my angry whisper broke the silence between us. Along with the realisation that a familiar face was standing before me, I felt anger begin to seep into my consciousness, acting like the lava of an erupting volcano. An uncomfortable but long familiar energy rippled through me, taking control of my body. The pain in my ribs disappeared, while my chest began to tighten with tension, making it harder to breathe. I tried to control my emotions but they were beginning to take control of me. I knew I had to calm down and find the strength to keep my temper, but it was so hard. The blade on my leg burned, pressing against the heated skin of my thigh - the desire to drive the knife down Dante's throat grew with every breath.
His cold gaze betrayed no emotion -- the stale, unapproachable man continued to scorch the exposed skin of my neck with his breath until he stepped back, letting me inhale more deeply. "I could ask the same question," he replied, burning me with his icy gaze.
"You'd better get back to the guests," I mimicked his manner of empty dialogue, turning to my right with the intention of walking out of the dark corner of the corridor, but with a sharp movement the man grabbed my arm and pulled me back, only now it was him against the wall.
The desire to drive a blade as cold as his brown eyes into that stiff neck had never been stronger. I clenched my palms into fists and breathed heavily, furrowing my brow. My gaze became heavy -- slowly moving my eyes to his face, I kept the last shreds of patience with a full sense of seriousness. I took a few steps back from his grasp; my desire to finish the task had been replaced by a desire to prove to Dante that excessive liberties had to be paid for.
"You left the office of the owner of this mansion to look around," the tone of his voice was merciless, and it only added to my anger. His deep, husky voice echoed in my head, the scent of cologne emanating from his skin, from this distance I could smell the sour ginger.
"I left my card there," I parried irritably, noticing Dante's eyes fall on my leg. Taking a small step forward, he crouched down and lightly touched my ankle, buttoning one of my shoes -- in a rush of adrenaline, I didn't even notice the shoes being unbuttoned. When he finished, Dante lifted his brown eyes to mine. Without taking his eyes off me, the man began to raise his palm higher until it touched the skin near my knee, the warmth of his fingers piercing me. I tried to pull my leg out of his grip, but De Rosso held me too tightly.
"I can scream," I hissed, preparing to kick him with the other leg. I wasn't joking. Irritation, aggression, ignorance and disrespect for De Rosso could be felt in the venom of my voice, in the sharpness of my movements, in the tightness of my muscles.
"They won't hear you," he said, as if giving orders, "and what would you tell them?"
"You want to rape me. Who do you think you are?" I continued disrespectfully, catching myself thinking that I shouldn't have continued the dialogue with such a cavalier man wanting to explore my body under my dress. He knew that if I screamed I would attract unnecessary attention that would jeopardise my mission, but it was beneath my pride to tolerate his behaviour in silence, knowing that he was trying to get to the knife. Still, my name would allow me to get away with it (if I were caught in a dark corner with a man at my feet).
He lifted his fingers higher up my leg, touching the holster, and at the same moment I kneed him in the chin, sending him staggering backwards and falling. Straightening up, I looked at him with disdain as Dante quickly got up to shake himself off. His fall made unnecessary noise, causing the man to look out quickly and peer into the light part of the corridor.
"I think it's time for you to run," Dante chuckled, not hiding his seriousness. I frowned, surprised by the sudden change in mood, but when I heard hurried footsteps outside Luca's office, I took a few steps towards the nearest stairwell. Pausing for a moment, I glanced over my shoulder:
"Better for you to leave my family and never come back."
"I would love that," he replied briefly, stepping out into the corridor and heading towards security, leaving me staring at his back in disbelief. Dante had put me in this situation, but he'd also saved me.
I shook my head in confusion.
The adrenaline had had a terrible effect on my memory -- I walked down the dilapidated stairs as if in a fog, kicking my feet up and down in my high heels. There was a sound in my ears, I couldn't tell how loud I was tapping my shoes, but it didn't bother me at all. Through my blurred vision and the lack of lighting in the cool garage, I could see the car I needed. With my meeting with Dante, I had absolutely no time to admire the rare Bugatti, so I quickly got behind the wheel and opened the garage, glad that the exit was in a part of the house where there were no guests and the windows were closed (at least Jensen stayed inside and had my back).
There was no sense of speed behind the wheel of the French car as I sped towards the rendezvous point with Richard, cutting through the night air of London. Angrily gripping the steering wheel with my bony fingers, I breathed heavily and pressed the accelerator, which helped me to control my anger a little. Dante De Rosso would have been more tactful if he'd known who was standing in front of him. This man really didn't know who he was dealing with and that was why, despite the confidence in his voice and look, he was behaving so arrogantly. My cheeks tightened and I bit down hard with sharp teeth, swallowing a groan of pain. The sickening, oppressive feeling in my chest kept me from forgetting Dante's arrival in my family - why Jensen had gotten involved with him. His behaviour, his touch, his scars haunted me. There was something about his existence that was closed off, inaccessible to everyone else, but at the same time attractive, giving the impression of an unnecessarily and undeservedly confident man. The fresh London night air, mixed with the smell of the clean leather and wood of the car's interior, gradually pushed my unwanted thoughts to the back of my mind and brought me back to work. Richard would be on a freighter to the United Arab Emirates and the goods would be at the client's door by tomorrow, along with the rest of the fee for the kidnapping.
"How did it go?" he asked, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. In the moonlight I watched the tall, dark-skinned man hover over the sports car.
"He was drunk and probably won't remember his car tonight unless he decides to show it off to his friends," I smiled slightly and rather forcedly. Richard noticed my confusion and just nodded.
"That Arab you promised the car to," the man lowered his voice as he came closer, "are you sure about him? My boys say he's already cheated the French, who gave him a Lamborghini from Monaco."
I closed my eyes and exhaled heavily, feeling a severe headache in my right temple. A light breeze ruffled my hair and made me take a deep breath. The night is an amazing time, people become more sensitive, I loved the night, I could be alone with my thoughts, which I might have feared, but I certainly could not avoid it. The beauty of the night is amazing, mysterious, so much is hidden under its cover.
"Alana," Richard repeated, making me open my eyes to see his face next to mine. From this distance, despite the darkness, the narrow nose, broad eyebrows and carelessly arranged short hair were clearly visible, "you are obviously tired.
"If this Arab cheats us, he will see his family cut out in front of him," I said quickly but calmly. The car Jensen and I were driving pulled up behind me, my brother's blond head at the wheel. It was as if I'd been dunked in ice water, and for a moment I came to my senses: "A cargo plane is waiting for you at the airport. As soon as you deliver it, let me know."
Richard nodded and got behind the wheel of the Bugatti.