The room the capo chose for business never felt accidental.
It sat at the back of the club, beyond the velvet ropes and the bass-heavy laughter, where the air grew still and smelled faintly of old money and polished wood. A single lamp burned low on a wide mahogany desk, its light pooling like honey over stacks of ledgers and a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquor. The walls were lined with framed photographs and art prints—tasteful, restrained, expensive enough to signal power without screaming for attention. Anyone who knew better understood the message. This was a man who collected things that could not be easily replaced.
Lucas stood near the door, hands folded, spine straight, careful not to touch anything. The silence pressed down on him, broken only by the slow tick of a clock mounted above a massive oil painting—a stormy seascape, dark waves frozen mid-crash. It wasn't the painting they were here for, but it was a reminder of the kind of world this man lived in. Beauty, violence, wealth. All framed and controlled.
The capo sat behind the desk, suit immaculate, expression unreadable. He didn't raise his voice when he spoke. He never had to.
"Come in" he said as he gestured to Lucas who looked like a lap dog that has its tail tucked between it's legs.
Lucas walked in, trying his best to be graceful and keeping his composure, his capo is known to be a perfectionist and even small errors in breathing patterns could make one loose a finger. The dread came to Lucas like a cold shower as the stopped inches away from the beautiful mahogany table, soaking in it's breath taking features. He could only imagine how much money was put into the forgery of this table. Well his boss spared no penny when it came to his aesthetics.
Lucas continued to silently admire the interior décor of the room because that was all he could do to stay sane. He bit on his lower lip remembering the advice he received from a soldato. "Try not to go crazy when you enter his room, the silence is deafening" He remembered these words cursing at himself for thinking that the soldato was only exaggerating to make him scared of the capo.
Man, he really wasn't joking, if i stop talking to myself i might go insane, Lucas kept talking to drown out the silence.
The room stayed quiet, until he decided to speak; the kind of quiet that made every word feel heavier than it should have been.
"The piece is already in play," he said, voice low, measured. "An auction house in Geneva hosted a gala for private bidders. Old families, new money heirs pretending it belongs. The sight was nothing short of pitiful." He let out a soft breath through his nose, almost a laugh. "They think they're competing for it. The last piece to complete my collection."
He reached into a drawer and slid a thin folder across the desk. It stopped inches from Lucas's hands.
"We already have it."
That landed harder than any threat.
"The painting never made it back to the vault after the preview," the capo went on, calm as if he were discussing the weather. "Right now it's in our possession. Under strict security. Hidden. Wrapped better than a newborn." His eyes lifted, sharp and unblinking. "Your job is simple. You move it from where it is to the warehouse. That's it."
Simple was never simple.
He stood then, slow and deliberate, adjusting his cufflinks as he came around the desk. Up close, the capo smelled faintly of tobacco and a woody musk cologne, something expensive and dangerous.
"Other familias, well the old familias that tried to get behind the scenes, know something is wrong, after all I'm sure we all had the same idea to get the painting before it was auctioned" he said. "They don't know where the painting is, but they know it isn't where it should be. And they want it. Bad enough to buy cops to place on the eastern routes, the only route to leave the estate." "We just have to out pay them, don't worry about that it's already being handled"
He leaned on the table, resting one arm on the table and being dangerously close to Lucas, so close that an outsider would think there was something intimate between them, close enough that Lucas could feel the weight of his presence.
"They will try to intercept you. On the road. At the docks. Maybe before you even leave the city." A pause. "They won't care how they get it."
The capo's gaze hardened, all warmth draining away.
"You treat that painting like it's made of glass and blood. No sudden stops, No detours. and most especially No fucking heroics." His voice dropped. "If it gets scratched, torn, lost… you'll pay with everything you've got and more."
He stood back, resuming his posture, the conversation seemingly over. The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, a palpable threat that lingered even after the capo's final instruction. Lucas felt the cold dread seep into his bones, a stark reminder of the dangerous game he was about to enter.
"Deliver it to the warehouse. Lock it down. Call me when it's inside." A final glance over his shoulder. "Failure isn't accepted. Not on this job."
The clock kept ticking. Outside, the music went on. And somewhere in the city, other families were already hunting.
As Lucas finally emerged from the club, the fresh night air felt like a tangible relief against the suffocating tension he'd just endured. The weight of the documents in his hand seemed to shrink, insignificant compared to the immense pressure he'd faced just moments before. He took a shaky breath, the movement a desperate attempt to regulate the ragged, panicked rhythm that had taken hold of him, a stark contrast to the controlled composure he'd been forced to maintain within those opulent walls. The image of the capo's unwavering gaze and the chilling threat in his voice still burned into Lucas's mind, leaving him feeling as vulnerable as a deer caught in a hunter's trap. Damn that man has a presence, if not for the fact that i like my balls underneath my dick I might have made a move on him, he looks so fuckable. He thought to himself as he reaches into his pocket and brings out his phone to send a message to his wingman—Mateo—I've got a job for you.