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As his only child and son, it’s my birthright, and he never ceases to remind me what it takes to continue his legacy. It was passed on to him by his father, which makes it all the more important.
Proving myself worthy and ready is the only reason I have endured years of mental and physical torture at his hands. I have scars from them.
I sigh as I run my fingers through my hair for a moment, and the uneven tips fall on my face. A good rest isn’t the only thing I need, apparently.
I pull the black T-shirt I have on over my head and toss it to the ground. My chest and arms are covered with tattoos; I started getting them when I turned 18.
The room is in a bit of a mess as I walk out of the bathroom and grab the black shirt on my unmade bed. I hurriedly button the shirt, folding the sleeves to meet my biceps.
I grab a pair of dark shades and my car keys on my bedside table as I exit the room.
The walk down the stairs is hasty; I meet one of my men at the front door. He has a rifle tucked over his shoulder.
He nods a greeting as I walk past him to my black Porsche 911 parked beside my other rides.
I unlock the doors and slide into the driver’s seat, and am met by a familiar sweet fragrance, mia madre’s (my mother's).
We spent the entire evening yesterday together since father wasn’t around to keep her company.
I start the engine as soon as the guard opens the gate.
A few of my men, heavily armed with guns, line up by the edge of the trimmed vegetation.
I press the button to roll down the tinted glass of my car to speak to Rocco, the head of my guards. The evening’s sun casts a shadow on his bald head. A deep scar cuts through his face to his cheeks.
“Don,” he greets with a nod, facing the ground.
“I’ll be back late.” I wind up the window and zoom off immediately.
Gripping the steering wheel with my left hand, I adjust in my seat.
The street on 5th Avenue is a bit busy, with cars slowly moving, causing a hold-up. The evening has businessmen and women returning to their homes.
I stop as the traffic light turns red just before the turn to East Harlem.
The vibration of my phone in my pocket distracts me from watching cars drive off in the other direction.
I take out my phone to see the caller. Beppe’s name pops on the screen as it continues to vibrate. He has been working for my father for as long as I can remember.
“Beppe,” I say, answering his call.
“Alessandro, the warehouse is on fire.”
My eyes widen in shock at his words. I take a forced gulp as I stare into the street filled with moving cars. My breath seizes for a split second.
“Beppe?” I bark, gripping the wheel harder. My knuckles slowly turn white again.
“Fottuto fuoco (Fucking fire), Alessandro,” he replies. His voice leaves traces of concern.
“It’s all fucking gone. Everything.” His words echo in my ear with a raging anger flowing through my veins.
I toss my phone to the other seat as the sound of a car honking forces me out of my head.
“Fuck!” I yell, hitting my fist on the steering wheel. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
I have no idea the green light is on until I am disturbed by another honk.
Just a week of Father’s absence, and I get to deal with the worst happening to his business. I’ve waited for so long to prove myself to him.
