"Your turn , monsieur"
I say, passing the revolver with the same casual politeness I use to refuse dessert. The man opposite me swallows, a gambler's grin trying to hide the color draining from his face. He's one of tonight's small-time escape artists—ordered a bottle, a private runner, then tried to vanish through the back with a pouch tucked into his coat. We caught him. He thinks he's funny.
I prefer he learn how unfunny the lesson can be.
He sets the muzzle to his temple with a grin that's supposed to be bravery and is really just bad math. Click. Empty. The room roars relief; cruelty and relief are old friends. They applaud like children who've just learned fire is safe.
I spin the cylinder again because boredom is the only thing worse than cruelty. Marco watches, steady, wolf-ish. Alice lingers in the doorway — always beautiful, always precarious. She's the ornament I polish nightly, and tonight she does it well: a laugh here, a sympathetic tilt there. She's learned to be useful and pretty in one motion.
Click—empty.
"Bloody hell!!" the man yelped, throwing his hands up like a child caught with his thumb in the cookie jar.
Laughter erupted around the table, warm, cruel, and slightly nervous. The kind of laughter that tastes like cheap whiskey and regret.
I tilted my head, eyes narrowing. "Should I play with a wolf… or not, monsieur?" My voice was soft, almost polite—like a teacher questioning a student—but every word carried the weight of teeth beneath silk.
"It's obvious, no?" I said, voice smooth as aged scotch. "You're not stupid enough to do that…"
The man across from me froze—his pulse visible at his throat, like a trapped bird fluttering under glass.
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, smile spreading slow. "And I thought you weren't stupid enough to steal my wine and run."
A low chuckle slipped out before I could stop it—half amusement, half warning. Marco shifted behind me, his presence quiet but sharp as a blade.
The man tried to stammer something—'I didn't mean—'—but I raised a hand, cutting the air. "Don't insult me with bad improvisation, mon ami. You stole from me, then you ran. I could respect either, but not both. It's… inconsistent."
I stood up, the chair scraping against the marble floor, slow, deliberate. "Consistency, you see," I continued, tone soft, conversational, "is what separates men from corpses."
Alice appeared at the stairwell, her voice trembling: "Leone—don't—"
I turned slightly, just enough for her to see the smile still lingering on my lips. "My dear wife, you forget," I murmured, "we built this night together, isn't it funny, for you my dear?"
Then, to the trembling man: "Now tell me… was the wine at least good?"
He nodded, sweat beading his temple, and I slid the revolver across the table. "Last chance," I murmured, as casual as if offering him the last slice of tiramisu. "One pull. If it goes bang, well… let's hope you like surprises. If it clicks—" I let the pause hang like smoke curling from a cigarette. "—then we can all breathe, have a drink, maybe even discuss better life choices."
His fingers closed on the grip, white-knuckled, jaw twitching. Click. Empty.
A strangled laugh-cry escaped him. The table exhaled collectively, like a choir of relieved accountants.
I picked up the gun, spun the cylinder with one lazy finger, and set it down. "Well, congratulations," I said, smiling thinly. "You've just survived the most polite game of Russian roulette in Edinburgh history. Probably the safest round, too. You should frame this moment—hang it above your bed, right next to your sense of poor decision-making."
The man gulped, fumbling for his purse. Coins clinked, bills rustled. He paid. I nodded, satisfied.
"How boring it can be," I said, voice low, deadly, yet with a hint of teasing. "If that little wolf—Anna, I presume—has even half the curiosity I expect, she'll bite. And when she does, we see if she's clever enough to run… or foolish enough to dance with me."
Marco smirked. "And if she bites back?"
I grinned, the kind of grin that promises both amusement and pain. "Then," I said, voice playful, "we take notes. Popcorn optional, of course."
—————
slap!
The sound cracked through the room—sharp, clean, almost musical.
Alice's head snapped to the side, a hand flying to her cheek, eyes flashing between fury and fear.
I exhaled softly, rolling the tension off my shoulders as if it were just another cigarette flicked away.
"Didn't I ask you to stop minding my business, dear Alice?" I said, voice calm—too calm, the kind that carried more danger than shouting ever could.
"They—your family—saved you," she stammered, voice trembling with conviction and something that smelled like old pride.
"My people. My father's dinners, our name on the ledger when your father couldn't pay the rent. We— we raised you from the mud, Leone. You owe them—owe me—more than this." Her fingers knuckled white on the edge of the table. "You can't just—use them, use me, then say it never happened."
"Saved me?" I repeated.
"Alice, don't be sentimental. That's a dangerous hobby." I rose and walked over to her as if approaching a child; my voice was velvet, the words knives.
I smiled, slow and polite, the kind of smile that should feel warm but doesn't. "Ah… my dear, that's where you're wrong." I leaned forward, voice velvet but sharp as a scalpel. "I didn't need your family to make me. I used them—yes. I presented myself as the grateful one, the obedient son. Charming, isn't it? But that's all it was: a performance. A courtesy to keep everyone comfortable while I did the real work. Improvement, not gratitude. The mud? I stepped out of it, carefully, elegantly, on my own. They merely applauded the exit."
She looked away, and I almost laughed. Almost.
I reached out, fingers brushing her wrist — a gentle touch that wasn't gentle at all. "You and your family… you were useful. You gave me legitimacy, a surname that opened doors. But don't confuse that with power. Power doesn't beg, it doesn't thank, and it sure as hell doesn't owe."
For a heartbeat, silence filled the room. Only the faint hum of the city outside, the ticking of the clock, her uneven breathing.
Then I smiled again — wide enough to pass for warmth, perfect enough to fool anyone else. But it didn't reach my eyes.
It never does.
"Cheer up, darling," I said lightly, reaching for my lighter. "If I ever decide to destroy you, I'll at least do it with a smile."
I gesture her to the main door—go, before I done something not appropriate.
She flinched — a small, involuntary twitch — then turned on her heels. The click of her heels echoed down the hall like a countdown.
When the door shut behind her, I exhaled through a smile — tired, amused, dangerous all at once. "Good," I murmured, picking up the cigarette again. "Now we can get back to business."
"Keep eyes on that girl," I told Marco, my tone even, almost conversational. "Not now. Watch. Catalogue. When she takes a step, write it down."
Marco inclined his head, understanding that we were built on small cruelties precisely because they were inexpensive and efficient. Outside, the rain moved on the street; inside, I closed my hand around the pistol's grip, feeling the familiar cold. The world was tidy again for another hour, and that was all a man like me ever truly needed.
"Well, I have something new for you here."
—§—
The night pressed down heavy as I stepped out into the rain — that slow, deliberate Scottish kind that soaked through your bones before you even noticed. The street outside De Monttana Maria glistened with puddles and the smell of iron and petrol.
Marco trailed behind me, quiet as usual — the perfect audience for my genius, and unfortunately, my only one tonight.
"Tell me again," I said, voice calm, conversational. "What does a man think when he steals from me?"
He shrugged. "That you won't find out?"
I smiled. "Adorable. Like a child trying to hide a corpse under the bed."
We found Artem Vash at the back of a black Mercedes, drenched, nervous, smelling like cheap cologne and poor decisions.
"Leone," he greeted, trying for a smile. "Fancy seeing you out in this weather."
We found Artem Vash at the back of a black Mercedes, drenched, nervous, smelling like cheap cologne and poor decisions.
"Leone," he greeted, trying for a smile. "Fancy seeing you out in this weather."
"Oh, I never miss a chance to stretch my legs," I replied smoothly, brushing a raindrop from my cuff. "And maybe a man's neck, depending on how the night goes."
He chuckled, but his eyes darted to Marco's coat. "Business, Leone—nothing personal."
"Ah," I said, "that's the line every dead man rehearses."
He frowned, taking a shaky breath. "I did what I had to—the council need to do—.."
"Aye, I know. We all do what we have to," I said, stepping closer, voice soft as velvet, "only difference is, I do it better than them."
Before he could blink, Marco had him pinned against the bonnet, the rain hissing off the hot metal. I leaned down, the cigarette glowing between us like a second moon.
"Now listen, Artem," I whispered, "you stole from me. My horses, my shipments, my bloody patience. I should gut you right here."
Then I smiled — the kind of smile that makes people pray for the gun instead.
"But I'm a generous man, see? So, I'll give you a choice."
He looked up, trembling. "What choice?"
"Simple." I tapped my temple. "Russian roulette."
He stared at me like I'd spoken Latin. I twirled the revolver, snapped it open, and slid in one round.
"Click—empty," I said, cocking the hammer. "You spin. You pray. And if you live—well, you can run till your legs forget who owned you."
Marco muttered, "You're enjoying this too much."
"I'm Scottish-Italian," I said with a grin. "We make misery an art form."
Artem hesitated, then pulled the trigger.
Click.
Empty.
He exhaled, shaking, whispering something that might've been "thank God."
"Ah, don't thank Him," I said, taking the gun back, "He's not the one who gave you another chance. I am. So do me a wee favour, Artem—don't waste it. Or I'll start charging interest."
We left him there, half-alive, half-petrified.
Back in the car, Marco stared at me. "You'd have really shot him?"
I smiled, adjusting my gloves. "Marco, I didn't say which chamber was empty."
on the tin roof, horses stamping and snorting.
Every empire needs blood, and mine had gallons of it — neatly bottled, properly branded, and sold with a smile.
Still, something itched at the back of my skull. A name.
Anna Löwendeld.
Her mother ruined men like me once. Her father hunted the kind of devils I drink with.
And now the daughter was walking straight into the same fire.
I smiled, lighting another cigarette.
"Tell me, Marco," I said, "do you believe in fate?"
He shrugged. "No, sir."
"Good," I muttered, staring out into the dark. "Because fate's about to meet its fucking match."
The stables smelled of sweat, iron, and wet hay — the scent of honesty, or at least what passed for it in my world.
The rain outside turned the dirt to mud, but in here, it was warm. The only sound was the hammer — clang, clang, clang — hitting the nail into the horse's hoof.
The beast didn't flinch. Smart animal.
Animals always understand pain better than men — they don't pretend it's something noble.
I bent lower, steadying the hoof between my knees, the nail gleaming in the lamplight.
Every strike sent a pulse through my hand, up my arm, straight into my skull. Like a reminder.
My old man used to do this.
Same way, same rhythm.
Except he wasn't hammering shoes — he was hammering lessons.
"Hold steady, boy," he'd say, voice thick with whisky and hate.
And if I moved — even once — the hammer would find me instead of the nail.
I remember the sound it made against bone.
Soft at first. Then louder.
Like thunder learning my name.
Clang.
He was a farrier, a drunk, and a liar, a failure of the trash thing call "The Friday Coucil"
Said he worked with horses more to them because they didn't talk back.
But truth is, he just liked something that kicked when it hurt. And something make him think he more bigger.
I glance at the horse — calm, dark-eyed, loyal.
"Good lad," I murmur. "Better than he ever was."
Marco once asked me why I liked doing this myself, said a man with money shouldn't stain his hands.
I told him it wasn't about money. It was about control.
You don't forget the man who raised you to kneel. You just learn to stand taller when you take the hammer.
I drove the last nail in, hard enough that the echo rattled the rafters.
My father used to laugh, said I'd never make it past the mud.
He was right, for a while.
Then I built a stable on it. A restaurant. An empire.
And when I buried him — out there by the river, no name, no marker — I made sure he had no shoes.
Didn't want him walking back.
The horse snorted softly, as if understanding. I wiped the sweat from my brow and smiled.
"Funny, eh?" I muttered. "The old bastard used to beat me for breathing too loud. Now I charge men for the privilege of whispering my name."
Outside, thunder rolled across the moor, echoing the hammer in my hand.
I looked down at it — heavy, scarred, shining.
"Everything I am," I said quietly, "was built with this."
Then I set it on the bench, lit a cigarette, and exhaled into the dust-filled air.
Smoke, iron, memory — all the same color in the dark
By the time I finished with the horse, the rain had turned to a drizzle — that thin Scottish sort of rain that never falls, just exists around you. I stepped out of the stable, brushing the dirt from my coat when Marco appeared, half-running, half-freezing.
He was holding something in his hand. Red wax. Gold seal.
Ah.
"The Friday Council sent this," he said, breath fogging. "They said it's… important."
Of course it was.
It always is when men who hide behind velvet and cigars remember I exist.
I took the envelope between my fingers, felt the wax — still warm. They always liked their little theatrics. Red for urgency, gold for authority. I cracked it open with my thumb, scanned the first line.
By order of the Friday Council, Leone De Monttana is requested to appear—
I stopped reading. Crumpled the paper slowly, deliberately.
Marco blinked. "Sir, you—"
"I'm not going," I said simply.
"But it's the Council."
"Aye," I murmured, smiling faintly, "and I'm still not going."
He looked nervous, shifting from foot to foot like a boy caught between fear and loyalty.
"They'll see it as defiance."
"They'll see it however I tell them to see it," I replied. I dropped the crumpled letter into the horse trough; the ink bled out, curling like blood in water. "You think I built this whole damn place just to bow when they whistle?"
Marco hesitated. "They say the last man who refused—"
"Ended up in the river," I finished for him, lighting a cigarette. "Aye, I remember. Shame. He couldn't swim."
I exhaled, smoke curling upward like prayer.
"The Council forgets I don't work for them. I just sell better lies than they do."
By the time I finished with the horse, the rain had turned to a drizzle — that thin Scottish sort of rain that never falls, just exists around you. I stepped out of the stable, brushing the dirt from my coat when Marco appeared, half-running, half-freezing.
He was holding something in his hand. Red wax. Gold seal.
Ah.
"The Friday Council sent this," he said, breath fogging. "They said it's… important."
Of course it was.
It always is when men who hide behind velvet and cigars remember I exist.
I took the envelope between my fingers, felt the wax — still warm. They always liked their little theatrics. Red for urgency, gold for authority. I cracked it open with my thumb, scanned the first line.
By order of the Friday Council, Leone Giancarlo is requested to appear—
I stopped reading. Crumpled the paper slowly, deliberately.
Marco blinked. "Sir, you—"
"I'm not going," I said simply.
"But it's the Council."
"Aye," I murmured, smiling faintly, "and I'm still not going."
He looked nervous, shifting from foot to foot like a boy caught between fear and loyalty.
"They'll see it as defiance."
"They'll see it however I tell them to see it," I replied. I dropped the crumpled letter into the horse trough; the ink bled out, curling like blood in water. Marco hesitated. "They say the last man who refused—"
"Ended up in the river," I finished for him, lighting a cigarette. "Aye, I remember. Shame. He couldn't swim."
I exhaled, smoke curling upward like prayer.
"The Council forgets I don't work for them. Just my father."
Marco frowned. "So what should I tell them when they ask?"
"Tell them the horses threw a shoe," I said. "Tell them I'm indisposed. Tell them whatever sounds polite enough to disguise the truth."
He nodded slowly.
As he turned to leave, I added, "And Marco—"
He paused.
"If they send another letter…" I smiled, that easy, empty kind of smile that makes men step back without knowing why.
"Burn it before it reaches my hand. Red ink doesn't suit me."
The rain hit harder again, and somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled over Edinburgh.
I slipped the cigarette from my lips and stared at the stable lights flickering in the wind.
They thought they could summon me like a servant.
But I stopped taking orders the day I buried the man who gave me my first.