“I Wouldn’t Care If She Left Today,” the Mafia Boss Said—Until She Disappeared

Blood dries faster than regret. Nico sat at the head of the oak table wiping a speck of crimson from his knuckles with a monogrammed napkin. When his underboss asked about Anora, his answer was casual, a careless shrug. "If she left me today, I wouldn't care." It was a lie he told himself so often he

eventually believed it. Until he came home to an empty closet, a cold bed, and a silence so heavy it crushed the air from his lungs. This is what happens when a monster gets exactly what he asked for. Smoke hung thick in the study of the downtown penthouse clinging to the leather furniture and

the heavy velvet curtains. Nico poured himself another measure of scotch, the amber liquid splashing violently against the crystal. He didn't bother with ice. It was past 2:00 in the morning and the meeting had dragged on for 5 hours. Arthur sat across from him rolling a cigar between his thumb and forefinger. Arthur was an older man, a veteran of

the life, his face mapped with scars and cynical lines. They had just finished carving up the Southside territory negotiating the blood money over imported liquor and half-eaten charcuterie. The tension in the room was finally bleeding out replaced by a dull exhausting fatigue. "You're pushing yourself too hard, Nico." Arthur said striking a match. The flame illuminated

his tired eyes. "You're bleeding the men dry and you're bleeding yourself. Go easy. Take a week. Take Anora somewhere. Italy, the coast. She looked pale last time I saw her." Nico leaned back, the leather of his chair groaning under his weight. He stared at the ceiling, his jaw ticking. He hated when Arthur brought up Nora.