Earlier..
Don Leon's POV
It was 9:40 pm on the clock.
Don Leon sat quietly in his study room, behind his massive desk—sipping his vodka.
It was windy.
He could smell Lake Como—Lario—an ancient glacial lake of Lombardy.
Its chill mingled with the earthy, fruity scent of a half-burned Cuban cigar—resting in the ashtray.
The thick smoke coming from it was immediately suppressed like a mirage.
Together with the sharp clarity of his scentless vodka—filled the room.
A crystal bottle sat uncapped on the mahogany table.
Half drunk.
Forgotten.
Outside, the wind rattled the pines along the estate wall.
He could hear it.
Loud.
But it did nothing to distract him.
The past still came knocking quietly on the windows of his mind.
His gaze shifted to the quiet Leandro, seated in the middle of the room across from the Don—on the brown leather couch.
Quietly signing some documents.
The same couch Antonio, his grandson, occupied just the night before.
Don Leon's mind replayed Antonio's words before he left:
'I want this family's downfall.'
'Your payment for an innocent life.'
His eyes drifted on the wall.
A photo stared back at him—his father.
Younger.
Silver eyes like daggers.
Jaw was set in war.
Wearing an old fashioned white dress shirt.
Black suit jacket on his shoulders.
And suspenders.
Smoking a cigar.
The original Don of the Santa De Leones mafia family.
Sharp as a knife and twice as dangerous.
Don Leon had spent all his life chasing that shadow.
Shoes that never fit.
And the other half running from it.
A knock at the door broke the silence.
"Come in," Leandro called, not looking up.
Alvaro stumbled in..
Hesitating.
Hands are shaking.
His dress shirt was misbuttoned.
A sign of his dressing in a hurry.
His dark hair looked like an eagle's nest.
And in the bright lights, the Don could see his eyes—swollen from sleep.
The Don arched his brow but said nothing.
He studied Leandro's second born.
Alvaro.
So different from Antonio—the first born.
Sharp.
Cold.
Calculated.
And a rude bastard.
Just like the Don's father.
Don Leon took another sip of his vodka.
A minutes passed.
Then two.
Then five.
Finally, he gestured for the nervous wrecked Alvaro to speak.
Alvaro took a deep breath.
"Nonno (grandfather).. I just got a call from Antonio.."
A shaky pause.
"I think.. he needs your—our help. I-I think.. I think he's in big trouble. He's at hotel Valgrande—"
Don Leon shut the stuttering Alvaro with a raised hand.
The rustle of papers ceased.
As well as the gentle sound of a writing pen.
The Don looked at his son, Leandro.
Who was now looking at him—with a deer in the headlights look.
The Don clicked his tongue.
Then he spoke.
A gravelly voice, thick with a heavy Italian accent.
"And why, pray tell, would I help a child who spat on this family's name?"
His fingers tapped the wooden armrest.
Alvaro did not answer.
He didn't need to.
But there was a dismayed look on his face.
Upset about the old Don's pride.
Alvaro already knew.
He knew the Don would go anyway.
This was just a performance.
The mask of indifference the Don wore when it came to Antonio.
'Both men are cut in the same cloth,' Alvaro thought, biting his lip.
Both have the same ego and pride.
'But this is urgent! Antonio asked me for a favor! I can't let him down!'
But just one look from the Don and he was already shaking.
Unable to mumble another word.
Leandro fumbled to gather the documents.
Trying—and failing—to look composed.
His trembling hands betrayed him.
Hotel Valgrande—the domain of the Luchese mafia family.
Sometimes a friend—a business partner.
But also a formidable opponent.
A worried look had settled on Leandro's eyes.
Antonio was deep in another mafia family's territory.
Doing God knows what.
Starting problems, probably.
Like how he used to, back then—in his rebelling phase.
Now that he's back in Italy, if Antonio stirred the nest of another mafia family, it would be hard for him to go back to the United States.
This isn't like before.
When the Santa De Leones family was dominating the mafia world in Italy.
The Luchese's have become powerful through the years.
Leandro could only breathe easily if Antonio was not here.
'We have to come and stop him,' Leandro was already set.
As Alvaro turned to leave, the Don finally rose.
He moved slowly—deliberately—as though each step bore the weight of years.
He stepped next to the opened window.
The wind met him head on.
He folded his hands behind his back.
An old habit when he was thinking.
Then without turning he said to Leandro—
"Do they have a mahjong table at that beat up hotel?"
Leandro blinked and paused.
Halting his thoughts.
"I think they do," he finally answered.
Don Leon's head tilted slightly to the right.
"Tell them to set up a table."
The Don sighed.
Low.
Heavy.
"I heard the old dog of Luchese is still alive. We ought to pay him a visit."
**
Before 12 midnight..
Alvaro drove like the devil was hot on his tail.
Lake Como to Domodossola will usually take 3 hours to drive.
But he made it in almost two hours.
A 'new world record' for him—if he was in his right mind—who was crazy for speed.
But he is beside himself with worry.
Unable to enjoy his small achievements.
Even his grandfather and father did not say anything while he was driving.
Just clenching their fist and jaws.
Seemingly understanding the urgency of the situation.
They left their convoy behind—five fully armed cars—in the dust.
Alvaro looks at his mickey mouse wrist watch—one of Antonio's gifts that he sent every year without fail on his and Franco's birthday.
Four minutes before midnight.
'I made it,' he breathed a sigh of relief while throwing the car's door open—a new onyx Bentley Flying Spur Speed.
Also a gift, but from his mother.
Then Leandro asked his son, "Where is your brother?"
But Alvaro, who'd only been asked by Antonio to 'make some shit up'—couldn't answer.
Even to him, Antonio's only instruction remains—
'To get the old lion and Leandro to hotel Valgrande before midnight.'
The important details are not asked and said.
Alvaro gulped.
Suddenly nervous.
Unable to give an explanation that they can accept.
"Alvaro, you—!"
"Leandro," Don Leon called his son calmly, opening the passenger's door.
"..Who ever said that we came here because of that impertinent child?"
Leandro shut his mouth.
Then the Don added:
"We came here to play mahjong with the old dog."
'No, you came here because of Antonio,' Alvaro wanted to say but didn't.
Couldn't.
His throat went dry.
Then the Don said, off topic:
"You are one hell of a driver Alvaro."
It was a praise.
Then, suddenly—
A commotion broke out in the distance.
Luchese men—with their black suits—came crawling out like ants—in a disturbed anthill.
But Don Leon only stood straight.
His gray fedora hat was low.
His gray coat was swaying in the gentle breeze of the night.
Under his coat was a gray suit jacket and white dress shirt.
He wore no tie.
He stood with his cane in front of him.
Stable.
Unshakeable.
His feet were inches apart.
As if making a statement—that he can stand tall even in the enemy's land.
He lit another Cuban cigar.
The thick smoke was being sucked by the wind to his back.
Then he waited.
The Luchese Don wheeled himself with his wheelchair.
Seemingly like he's gonna welcome Don Leon.
But he stopped, a few feet away.
His men were right behind him.
Flanking him.
Guns were pulled out.
The two Don's eyes measured each other.
One minute.
Two.
Five.
Then Don Leon scoffed.
"Would you look at that?"
Then he laughed.
Booming.
While the Luchese Don grits his teeth, but says nothing.
"Your new wheels suit you, Federico," Don Leon continued.
Then five black cars arrived.
Don Leon's men—in gray suits.
They scrambled to stand behind him.
Guns were also pulled out.
Growling.
Baring their teeth at the Luchese's.
But Don Leon gestured for his men to stop.
The Luchese Don remained silent.
Then a beat.
The air was thick with tension.
It's suffocating.
Then Don Leon asked:
"Wanna play mahjong?"
**