By the time I arrived at the courtyard gathering, the sit-down disguised as a social event was already in full swing. Light reflected off the stone ground, the scent of aged whiskey mixing with Cuban cigars as it drifted through the air. These were not friends, but the core members of the underground Families—Capos, Underbosses, Consiglieres, and the silent soldiers who stood in shadows with hands never far from their weapons. Behind every smiling face lay a carefully calculated position.
And I moved among them like a ghost, already gone.
I was late again.
The moment I stepped into the amber glow of the chandeliers, the laughter died like a candle snuffed between fingers. Conversation fractured into whispers, then silence. A hundred eyes turned toward me—cold, appraising, stripped of pretense. I had grown accustomed to such receptions over the years, but tonight, something within me had calcified. I no longer possessed the will to perform for them.
"So you finally decided to grace us with your presence."