"Welcome to De Monttana Maria."
I say it the same way every night — with a smile just sharp enough to pass as kind.
The woman in the fur coat beams at me, her perfume already clawing into the air.
"My name is Leone," I continue, dipping my head, one hand pressed lightly to my chest.
The white cuff of my shirt gleams; people always notice details like that. Polite, neat, trustworthy.
"Allow me to take care of you this evening," I tell her. She blushes — they always do.
"Signora Deveraux," I say, handing her a wine list, "our sommelier saved something special for you. 2009 Chianti — bold, but never arrogant."
Her husband doesn't notice the way she tilts her head, curious. They rarely do.
I smile — not too much, never the full thing. Just enough to suggest there's more I'm not saying.
People like mysteries they can't solve.
From behind the bar, Marco catches my eye and nods. A signal — everything's clean tonight. No inspectors, no surprises. Good.
"Your wife called, sir. She'll arrive late."
Ah. Wife.
I still haven't gotten used to the word.
"Tell her to take her time," I say smoothly. "She knows I hate rushing."
The man nods and leaves, none the wiser.
pour myself a small glass of red wine, watching the reflection of the room in its surface — soft laughter, candlelight, perfume that hides fear.
Women always say I have kind eyes. That I listen. That I look like someone who could make them feel safe.
They're half right.
"Leone, table seven wants to thank you personally," Marco says.
"Of course." I button my jacket, straighten my cuffs — a gentleman again.
As I walk through the dining room, I see my reflection in the mirror wall — clean, composed, entirely believable. A man with everything under control.
The doorbell chimed softly.
"My wife," I murmured to myself, though she wasn't really mine. Not in any meaningful sense. She entered, perfectly coiffed, pearls glinting in the chandelier light. Guests noticed, nodded politely. I bowed slightly, a gesture both formal and warm. The illusion held.
"Darling, the guests—" she began, voice bright.
"I've taken care of them," I interrupted softly, placing a hand lightly on her elbow, guiding her toward the table.
I offered my wife a soft smile. "Stay with the guests. Make them comfortable. Make them think I am nothing but your beloved husband."
She obeyed, nodding with practiced ease. I could see her spine tense — a subtle twitch she thought I wouldn't notice. I did. I always notice. That tension was part of the act, part of the game.
I led the first customer to the hidden staircase, voice still warm, tone inviting. "After you, sir. The best of Edinburgh awaits."
They followed willingly. They would always follow.
The hidden door closed behind the last guest with a soft click that echoed like a gunshot in the silent hall.
"Gentlemen," I said, my voice calm, warm, inviting — the kind of voice that made even the most hardened of men lean closer. "Welcome to De Monttana Maria's real heart."
The cellar opened into a cavernous room. Long tables of mahogany were arranged like a miniature grandstand, chips stacked meticulously, symbols etched in every token. In the center, a large board illuminated under hanging lamps — a live horse race, projected through hidden cameras from the outskirts of Edinburgh. The horses thundered down the track, dust rising in waves, bettors leaning forward, eyes wide, pulses quick.
I moved down the line, letting my fingertips graze the polished wood of the table. "Observe the racers, their pace, their patterns. The winner is rarely the fastest horse. It's the one with guidance, strategy… a little luck."
My "wife" — the pawn, perfectly poised, smiling, serving glasses of whiskey to the gentlemen — walked beside me, unaware that each shuffle of her tray, each polite laugh, was part of the illusion. She thought she was helping me entertain. I knew she was helping me control.
And as the next race was quietly set up, the dice stacked, and the chips counted, I allowed a private thought to cross my mind:
Above, a charming host.
Below, my kingdom.
And every horse, every chip, every bet… ran exactly the way I wanted.
The clatter of boots on marble reached my ears before the door even opened.
"Police!" a voice called out, sharp and demanding.
I straightened, adjusting my jacket, smiling that easy, charming smile. Hands in pockets, posture relaxed — the perfect picture of a gentleman restaurateur.
Everyone exchanging confused and nervous expressions, some already standing up in case they found this place.
My gaze swept the room, all smiles, calm. "Please, everyone, remain seated. Nothing to worry about."
Reaching the upper floor, I stepped forward, voice light, warm, deceptively soft. "Anthony!, welcome. How can I help you today?"
The tallest one—Anthony, badge glinting under the chandelier, barked orders. "We're conducting a search. We need to see you immediately. There are complaints—suspicious activity—"
I raised a hand, ever so politely. "Complaints, yes. But surely we can discuss these matters without causing such a… commotion?"
One officer muttered,"We have reason to believe illegal activity—serving shark caviar and other restricted food items—are being distributed here."
Ah. So that's the tune tonight.
My eyebrows lifted just slightly, the kind of surprise that borders on amusement. "Shark caviar? My dear friend, if we truly had that, I would be far wealthier—and perhaps facing an entirely different audience."
A few of the guests chuckled nervously. The officer didn't.
"We'll be conducting a search," he said flatly.
I placed a hand over my chest, stepping aside with exaggerated grace. "Of course. Mi casa, su casa. Please, search as you wish. Though I would suggest avoiding the wine cellar — the dust alone might charge you with neglect. They kinda angry."
Laughter again, this time genuine. My customers adored theatrics, especially when I played the gentleman martyr.
The officers began moving through the restaurant, their gloved hands brushing over counters, silver trays, ice boxes. They wouldn't find anything — not the hidden trap door behind the marble bar, not the cold storage beneath the racecourse, and certainly not the ledger encrypted under my private office key.
As they disappeared into the kitchen, I reached for my lighter and lit a cigarette, exhaling the first curl of smoke toward the chandelier.
Shark caviar.
How polite of them — to assume my sins were that simple.
The match hissed out, a faint curl of smoke rising between my fingers. I let the silence breathe—just long enough for the officers' footsteps to fade past the kitchen door
Then I turned slightly, just enough to catch sight of Enzo, the young waiter polishing glasses by the wine shelf.
A nervous one, but clever enough to know when a look isn't just a look.
Two fingers. A tap to the cuff. Then another, slower.
The signal.
"Would you like another glass, Signor Leone?" Enzo asked loudly, voice shaking just enough to sound believable.
I smiled, smoke curling from my lips. "No, ragazzo. Tonight I'm tasting something different."
He almost laughed, almost—but he caught himself.
Through the reflection on the mirror wall, I could see the cellar door shift open behind the bar, just a breath's width. Enough for two of my men below—Paolo and Nic—to start hauling the crates through the racecourse tunnel.
The sound of customers eating cover the faint rumble of movements underground.
I leaned against the counter, watching the officers toss napkins, check fridges, open flour sacks like they might find gold. They wouldn't find shark caviar because that's not what I sell.
One of the officers returned, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Clean. For now," he said, with the kind of tone that meant we'll be back.
I gave a slow nod. "Then allow me to make your next visit memorable. Dinner on the house, perhaps? I recommend the filetto di mare. No sharks involved, I promise."
He glared, pocketed his note, and left with the others.
As the last uniform vanished through the door, my wife exhaled a trembling breath she had been holding the entire time.
"Leone," she whispered, voice barely audible, "is everything okay?"
I crushed the cigarette into the ashtray, the glow snuffing out instantly.
"Yes Alice," I murmured, staring at the cellar door. "Until everyone who believes they can catch me starts betting on my horses instead, everything will be perfect, now am I have to remind you your responsibility?"
Silence. Then the faint hum of the cellar gears again — the all-clear signal.
I turned my head slightly toward her. "Now," I said, taking a slow sip, "put on that red dress. We're going to the course tonight. The French clients are here, and they like you more than me. That's your other responsibility, cara mia — make them forget that I exist."
Her expression flickered — fear, anger, exhaustion — and then melted into a soft practiced smile. The one she always wore when she wanted to survive another day with me.
"Of course, Leone," she said. "As you wish."
The laughter of men who thought they owned the world has a certain rhythm — low, smug, self-assured. I'd learned to mirror it perfectly. Smile at the right time. Tilt my glass just enough for the chandelier's gold to catch in the rim. Never too early, never too late.
"Monsieur De Monttana!" Lucien's voice boomed across the table as if I were a prize he'd just won. The French love their theatre. I gave him the performance he came for.
"Lucien," I said warmly, brushing a bit of ash from my cuff. "You bring half of Paris to my doorstep and still call this a quiet dinner?"
Laughter rippled around the room. The waiters moved like ghosts, silent, trained. My wife, Alice, stood beside me, her perfume mingling with the scent of roasted venison and truffle oil.
Perfect for a pawn.
We raised our glasses. Talk drifted to money, then horses, then trade. Always coded, always safe. Until one of them — a thin man with a scar under his eye — said a name that made my fingers still on the stem of the glass.
"Karl Löwendeld."
I smiled — because that's what I do when the knife touches skin. "Ah," I said lightly, "I've heard the name."
"He's an old legend," Lucien added quickly. "Interpol's ghost. If he ever came poking around here, half of us would be in chains, eh?"
More laughter. I didn't join them this time.
I only asked, "Is he active?"
Lucien shrugged. "Retired. Years ago. I believe he lives quietly now, somewhere passing the sea. A pity. Men like him used to make things… interesting."
Alice refilled my glass with a careful hand. Her smile was soft, polite. No one noticed her eyes flick toward me, catching the faint tremor in my thumb as it brushed the rim of the wineglass.
Because I remembered that name.
Karl Löwendeld — the only man who ever looked through my father.
He used to be my special customer when no place can pleasing his taste on Italian food. But time to time, there won't be good when you know too much.
Lucien's eyes lingered — not on the cellar door this time, but on Alice.
It was subtle at first, the way his gaze trailed after her when she poured him more wine, the slight tilt of his mouth that betrayed admiration he didn't bother hiding.
I noticed. Of course, I did. I notice everything.
But I didn't stop him.
Alice caught it too — she always does. She gave that polite, perfect smile, the kind women use when they've been taught all their lives to stay composed, even when someone undresses them with their eyes.
Lucien lifted his glass. "Your wife," he said, the French drawl stretching her name like honey, "has an elegance… rare in this century."
I chuckled softly, the sound low, controlled. "She was raised that way," I replied, tapping ash into the tray. "Some things can't be taught."
Lucien smirked. "Or perhaps they can — with the right teacher."
I caught her eye for a second. A flicker of unease, quickly smothered. She looked down, straightened the napkin in her lap, the same way she always does when she feels cornered.
I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table. "Careful, Lucien," I said mildly, smiling like an old friend sharing a private joke. "Flirt with another man's wife too long, and you might find yourself betting against the wrong horseThe laughter this time was louder — they all thought it was banter. But I saw the way Lucien's grin faltered just slightly before he recovered.
I raised my glass to him, finishing my wine.
No, I didn't mind.
Let him look. Let him dream.
Because Alice wasn't mine to win — and I wasn't the kind of man anyone should try to provoke twice.
I reached for the bottle, pouring him another glass, my reflection flickering in the polished silver.
Lucien laughed again, but the sound wavered. Alice didn't look up this time; she just stared into her wine, her hand trembling slightly.
"You see, Lucien… people like to think the house always wins."
He raised a brow, still grinning. "Non? It does, no?"
I smiled. Slow. Patient. The kind of smile that makes men wonder what they've just missed.
"The house doesn't win," I murmured. "The man who built it does."
The table went quiet. Only the rain filled the pause, tapping against the glass like a metronome.
I finished my drink and set it down with a click.
And as I looked past them all—past Alice's trembling hand, past Lucien's shallow smirk—to the cellar door that waited at the end of the corridor, I knew one thing with perfect, freezing certainty:
No one ever leaves my house without paying. Even just small pieces of bread.