????????MAFIA POSSESSION ????????
( HIS ADDICTION ????)
BY, ROYAL DIADEM ❣️
Copy and have your life shortened ????
???????? LUCA ????????
LUCA SAT COMPLETELY STILL and listened to the steady tick of thegrandfather clock in the corner of his father’s office. He’d always wonderedwhy they were called grandfather clocks, whether it was because they werethe sort of clocks that your grandfather had or because compared to otherclocks, they were grander and more fatherly. He wondered if the
grandfather clock in the office of the biggest mafia boss in New Yorkshould be called a ‘godfather clock.’ But he caught his smile and swallowedit before it showed on his face.
He shifted in the intentionally uncomfortable chair in front of hisfather’s desk.
The intent behind the discomfort was to a-ssert dominanceover underlings and strike fear into the hearts of those meeting the Don.
The added benefit of irritating his children was just a perk.His father dropped a newspaper in front of him, obscuring the vagueoutline of his reflection on the shiny mahogany desk. “I am sick and tired of
this reporter pretending to be an authority on things she doesn’tunderstand.”
Luca picked up the newspaper, expressionless. The article in question
wasn’t front page.
It wasn’t even quite featured. But the grainy photograph
depicted the unmistakable outline of Luca’s older brother, Giovanni, getting
into or out of a car at a shady warehouse. Gio’s strong profile with his
straight nose and neatly styled hair looked vaguely artistic outlined by the
streaky glow of a streetlight. The headline read “Moretti Mafia deal
endangers civilians.” Luca scanned the article. It was well written, asalways, and cutting. He shook his head and cli-cked his tongue at the phrase
“monsters with no regard for human life.”
He set the paper down. Everyone liked to believe the best of Giovanni
anyway, with his natural charm and effortless poise. Who would suspect the
polite accountant of secretly belonging to the mafia? Luca was thankful
Giovanni was caught on camera instead of the others. His younger brothers,
Alessandro and Antonio, tended to look more thug-ish with their matching
resting murder faces and more urban sense of style.
Luca would never
describe his brothers as thugs, but he could understand why other people
might. They wouldn’t know that Antonio slept with his baby blanket until
he was fourteen, or that Alessandro stopped the car every time an animal
decided to cross the street.
Luca looked up at the family portrait on the wall behind the desk. No
smiles. The twins wearing the same threatening expression. Their excuses
might be less believable, but Giovanni would be easy to cover for. Luca
folded his hands on the desk. “Giovanni is interested in purchasing the lot.
He was merely checking the dimensions again to be sure before he made a
proposal.”
“Obviously,” his father rolled his eyes dismissively,
then snatched the
paper back up. “But this reporter,” and the way he said reporter sounded
like a curse, “has stuck her nose in our business for the last time.”
Luca didn’t react outwardly. In front of his father—in front of anyone
really—he remained absolutely composed at all times. He thought in
another life he might have been an actor. He certainly excelled at masking
his true feelings.
Inwardly, he wasn’t surprised. She’d had this coming for a
while. Writing weekly articles to try to expose the mafia probably wasn’t
the best way to get them to like you. In fact, it would put a rather large
target on your head. The kind they had at county fairs where the concentric
rings lit up in mesmerizing patterns and upbeat arcade music pulled you in
so you couldn’t resist throwing just one dart. No, the target this reporter put
on her head was not something that could be ignored.
The swinging pendulum of the grandfather clock knew it too. It had
born witness to too many of these sorts of meetings to miss the ominous
crease in the Don’s forehead or the weight of his hands on the desk. Luca
certainly didn’t, and he hadn’t been around nearly as long as the antique
clock.
His father crossed his arms and leaned forward over them on the desk.
“I want you to take care of this.” His voice was low and dangerous, but
Luca knew the threat it held wasn’t aimed at him. It made the hairs on the back of his neck rise in anticipation, nevertheless. “Is that clear?” his father
asked.
“Yes, sir.” Luca bowed his head in respectful submission. “Consider it
done.” He didn’t ask for clarification. Even if he weren’t the Don’s son,
even if he weren’t constantly immersed in this life, the look in his father’s
eyes would have made the meaning plain. He rose from the intentionally
uncomfortable chair
and turned to walk out of the office.
“Luca,” His father called after him and Luca turned around, hands
clasped in front of him, posture straight, eyebrows raised attentively. His
father waved the newspaper at him. “Get rid of this trash.”
Luca took the newspaper and nodded before he left the office. Once the
door was closed behind him, he released a breath and looked down at the
paper in his hands.
It wasn’t all that often Don Moretti charged his second
son with “taking care” of a problem. Luca was grateful for that. Taking care
of someone, dealing with a problem, didn’t become easier the more he did
it. Sure, it became easier to come to terms with, easier to rationalize, easier
to tuck away in some dark corner of his subconscious, but not easier to do.
Luca’s feet took him to the kitchen, where he poured himself a glas-sof
iced tea. His treat every time he met with his father. The tea would
straighten out the wrinkles in his composure that usually came from a
conversation with the Don.
He paused before he tossed the newspaper in the
recycling bin. The name under the offending article stood out in familiar
black ink strokes. How many times had he read that name? He smiled
throu-ghhis sip of tea. How many articles had she written? Caroline Wells
had no idea what she brou-ght upon herself.
He let the newspaper fall into the bin and closed the lid. The clock on
the top of the stove blinked up at him in silent, glowing blue digits. He
wondered if digital clocks shouldn’t be called grandchild clocks since they
were in some way the next generation of clock. At least compared to a
grandfather clock. He smiled widely to himself. Or a godfather clock.
TBc