"Cos'è successo, Raffa?" Grandma is asking while I'm still lost in the message I've just read. (What happened, Raffa?).

I've heard her asking something but I just can't focus well enough to form an answer.

What could I say? You know, Nonna, lately I've become a pussy and I like to read books? And not just any books! Fucking love stories books!

How that sounds coming from a motherfucker like me who has never shown feelings of any kind in his life and done nothing but shady businesses, fucked whores in clubs, and killed with no remorse.

"Niente, Nonna. Mi scusi, ma devo andare. L'autista fuori vi accompagnerà a casa, ok?" I tell her in a rush and after giving her a short hug I put the phone back in my pocket and rush out of the house grabbing the car keys on the way out. (Nothing, Grandma. Excuse me, but I have to go. The car outside will take you two home, okay?).

What the fuck is wrong with this writer, this piece of shit writer?! I don't give a flying fuck about her exams or finals or whatever the fuck she has!

The thoughts are rushing through my mind like thunders while I get in the car and turn on the engine and the news seems to have been the last drop needed to take me back to the usual me, bitter, cruel, and in a mood of choosing to hurt people.

This was supposed to be a fun, fucking easy night but instead, I've had some of the worse news I could get.

And then again, whenever had I ever had easy days since Grandpapa Capozzi passed away and left me an imperium hanging on my neck, throwing me into a vortex of rivalry, danger and always living on the edge?

I fish the phone from my pocket and open the app sending the bitch writer my very clear answer, an angry emoticon. Then I turn off the screen and throw the phone in the passenger seat, myself surprised by the very stupid thing I've done.

I push the speed pedal to the floor and exit my mansion premises with a very loud screech of the wheels, heading toward my club where surely Fabio is waiting together with me disgustingly expensive whiskey and hopeful a whore to fuck and unload my anger.

Deciding I haven't been stupid enough, I grab the phone again and send a new message, a cursing emoticon this time, just like a dump teenager going through the pimple drama of his life, and throw the phone back on the seat next to mine.

Clearly, I've lost my mind, or else I can't explain even to myself how in the fuck's name of fuckery can I act so childish about something so little.

But I just can't stop it. Those chapters I'm waiting for every Friday are the few moments I can afford to be vulnerable, be a human and I can forget that my life is a long queue of loneliness being the head of everybody and having actually nobody close enough to share with, a life I didn't want.

I check the time and realize my club should open any moment now.

Perfect! I have all the girls ready and I can take a pick of whoever I find fit. I'm thinking about Gloria. She's feisty and she'll wear me out quickly, sucking the life out of me, hopefully, this rage will go with it as well.

My phone buzzes with a notification and I grab it thinking Nonna needs me. I guess from now on this is how it will be, every buzz, every call will make my heart jump and my stomach cringe.

But instead of news from Nonna, a notification lights the screen of my phone from no other than my sweet bitchy writer.

I slide the notification to the right, struggling to divide my attention between the phone and the road ahead, speeding insanely like there is no tomorrow, and the reply I get stirs a blast of healthy laughter from the depths of my lungs.

Fuck you too! That's what the notification says and I have to admit that my bitchy writer has bigger balls than I have. She said bluntly in words what I didn't have the guts to say.

Well, I like the shitty writer better now. She has my undivided respect.

Minutes later another notification buzzes and it seems we're already having a conversation.

I'm sorry the new notification says and while I'm reading it I become more confident than ever that the writer, my shitty writer, is a woman.

If you thought her apologies would have the gift to make me feel better, you could never be more work than that but don't feel bad about it. I would have thought the same.

But instead, caught in a whirlpool of emotions that only grows thicker and proves to be a mystery even for me, my thoughts become the prisoner of this strange connection that occurred out of no fucking where.

She is intriguing, she has the gift of capturing my undivided attention, whether I like it or not, crippling any strength I have to restrain from thinking about her, always wishing for the Friday evening, always hoping that her words aligned in a story which has me hooked are written and sent out there for me to read.

I'm living my life lately from Friday to Friday and anything there between is just an accessory, an obligation, something that I have to do just to fill my time until next Friday.

I park the car in front of my club and drop the keys in the hand of one of the bouncers who nods and rushes to park it. On my right side, the queue of guests is aligned already waiting in loud laughter and cheerful moods to access and spend quality time, my kind of quality time.

To the left, the VIP entrance is ready, nicely prepared with red ribbons on the sides and a red carpet to walk on when coming in. High-class access for high-class motherfuckers, filthy rich and disgustingly snobs but there are most refined my customers, some are business partners, others are members of the La Famiglia and others are my people in the government, so, you see, the red carpet is justified.

Once I'm in I can see my dancers ready in the dressing room, after I cross the bar that has revived with music and lights in different colors and with people having fun.

I enter the dressing room of my girls without any word and grab Gloria's hand, forcing her to stand up and follow me in the clicks of her stilettos.

I pull her after me on the corridor leading to my office and as soon as we enter, Fabio stands up from the armchair where he was waiting for me.

"Raffa... I have news, not very good ones," he says and I pay him exactly zero attention.

I'm not in the mood for news, I'm in the mood for a fuck.

"Later, Fabio," I reply and sit on the sofa, loosening my tie and opening the first buttons of the shirt while Gloria stands quietly next.

"Raffa, we need to find another..." he tries his luck one more time.

"Ma che cazzo, Fabio? Che cazzo? Te l'ho detto cazzo più tardi, no? Più tardi significa più tardi, fratello! Qualcuno sta morendo? No! Il mondo è in fiamme? No! Quindi cos'è?" I lash at him, desperate that I can't afford even half an hour of silence today. (What the fuck, Fabio? What the fuck? I told you later, didn't I? Later means later, brother. Is anybody dying? No! Is the world on fire? No! Then what is it?).

"The French government has frozen your accounts and stopped the works at the hotel in Paris because the architects have started the construction before the authorization is issued. The construction company gathered their workers and left the site. They want the annulment of the contract," he speaks in one breath making me chew the inside of my cheeks while my temples pulse with tension.

We share a numb stare for a few moments more before I stand up to take my seat on the leather chair of my desk.

I was expecting to have some clashes with the fucking Moroccans in France but this has exceeded my expectations and it's a whole new level of challenges.

"Leave, Gloria," I tell her in a soft voice, keeping a gentle smile on my lips.

Fabio walks to the bar and fills two glasses for us while Gloria leaves my office with the same pitched clicks of her high heels.

"So, what do we do now?" Fabio asks sitting in front of me and offering me one glass.

"What do they want?" I ask once we are alone and take a sip from the glass, leaning on my back while picking a cigarette.

"It's who they want," Fabio replies and picks a cigarette of his own.

"What... who... all the same," I reply, confident that nothing and nobody can stand in my way. Never did.

"Vincenzo Benito," Fabio says.

"Cazzo!" I curse, laughing at the bitchy fate of having this Benito crossing my way in more than one fashion.

"Malavita, anche io voglio Vincenzo Benito!" I reply, apparently relaxed but deep down I know this is going to be the beginning of a journey that can only lead to a grave, mine or Benito's. (Hell, even I want Vincenzo Benito!).

"There a few of them in Napoli, asking for a meeting."

"I'm not going to meet them. They are not my concern and what they want, I do not have. And even if I did... some things are not to give."

"Raffa, I'm afraid they are not chasing to close the construction site only. Too easy for us. We can put it back in motion first thing tomorrow morning with just a call and they know that. This is a warning, Raffa. Just warning," Fabio says and I know he's right.

By closing the construction of my hotel they only wanted my attention. They know, as well as I know, that I can open it back in a matter of hours.

"Open the construction site tomorrow morning. Tell them that I will meet only their head, and it has to be here, in Napoli, in one week."

"And the guests?"

"Who?" I reply haughtily as if I don't know whom he's talking about.

If they want to talk, it must be da capo a capo, or not at all. (from head to head).

Fabio smirks and nods, knowing me too well.

"Va bene. I'll prepare them a flight back to France for tomorrow," he replies and stands up, placing the glass on the desk and turning around to leave and complete the jobs we've discussed.

"Fabio..." I say before he leaves the office and he turns around, sensing the tension in my voice.

The more I think about Vincenzo Benito, the clearer becomes a vision of the next war closing in. I never thought about the letter from my father before. I threw it and forgot about it. I didn't even bother to know who was he. If he ever existed or if he is still alive.

"I need you to do something for me. Now, make it your priority number one," I say and pull my phone out, opening the app and dropping it on the desk.

Fabio becomes even more confused and grabs the phone once he's back at my desk, reading, frowning, and most probably concerning himself about my mental health.

"What's this?" he asks befuddled, scrolling through the account of my writer.

"What????" he says while bursting into laughter, realizing finally what it was.

"Raffa, che cazzo..." he continues and his laughter freezes on his lips once he meets my eyes and sees that no muscle has moved in my face. (Raffa, what the fuck...).

He stares at me and waits for more details and I... I'm waiting for the courage to say what I want, something I have never experienced before, and at first, I thought it was the embarrassment but now I realize it's the lack of courage restraining me from fucking spelling what I am so eager for to say.

But... fuck it!

"I want you to find the owner of the account. I want to know everything about this writer, who she is, where is she, what she does..."

"She? You know her?" he asks, hoping for an easy job.

"No, I don't."

"Raffa, this is a pen name. It can very easily be a man..."

"No, it's a woman. I'm sure," I reply confidently.

"Well, what for..."

"Because I want!" I shout and hit the desk with a heavy fist, frustrated with his question to which I don't have a fucking answer, but one thing I know for sure.

She'll be here and she'll finish the fucking story whether she likes it or not.

~~~~~
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