Bound by Duty

Chapter 8 Should I call home

Morning came quickly. Vincenzo was already awake, standing by the glass wall, overlooking Milan as the city stretched into motion beneath him. The light was soft, but his expression was stern. Behind him, Lucia still lay in bed, though her eyes were open. “You’re leaving early.”

“I have to,” he replied without turning. “When was the last time you spoke to your family?” he asked. She pushed herself upright against the headboard. “My family?” Vincenzo nodded. “I don't know. A few weeks ago, I think.” Said Lucia while staring at him. “Why?” she asked. He finally turned. “If you did hear something... would you tell me?”

“What are you saying?” Lucia asked again. “If you heard something unusual,” he said. “Anything at all. Would you tell me?”

“What exactly am I supposed to hear?”

“Anything.” Said Vincenzo. Lucia swung her legs off the bed. “Vincenzo, you're not making any sense.” He remained silent. “You think I know something.”

“No.” Vincenzo retorted, “Then why are you asking me this?” Lucia stood up. “Are you doubting my loyalty?” He didn't answer. “I left Sicily,” she said quietly. “I married you. Do you think I'd betray you?”

“That's not what I said.”

“But it's what you're implying,” she interjected. Vincenzo didn’t respond; instead, he adjusted his cuff, grabbed his coat, and walked out. The door clicked shut behind him. Lucia remained standing in the middle of the room, staring at the closed door as though it might suddenly open again. Slowly, she sat back down on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “Why would he ask that?” she asked herself. Her gaze drifted towards the phone resting on the bedside table. “Should I call home?” She thought out loud, and the answer came almost immediately. “Yes,” But another thought followed just as quickly. “What exactly are you going to say?” she asked herself

“Nothing suspicious. Just enough to find out whether something was wrong; there is a chance I might learn something,” another voice retorted. “There is also a chance you would create a problem where none existed.” Her fingers kept shaking profusely. “But what if something really is happening?” The questions kept piling up, faster than she could answer them.

She rose from the bed. “If I don't call, I remain blind. But… if I call, I risk attracting suspicion.” She murmured to herself while pacing back and forth. She stopped beside the window and wrapped her arms around herself. “Maybe I should trust Vincenzo.” The thought lasted all for few seconds before another one came rushing almost immediately: “Trust him with what?” Her gaze drifted back to the phone. She stared at it for several seconds before finally reaching for it. She began dialing, only to stop midway as her thumb hovered over the screen, but she couldn’t bring herself to click the call button.

Vincenzo was still in his thoughts when the elevator’s chime sounded. He didn’t look at the floor numbers. The doors slid open with a soft hiss. He simply stepped into the parking area, walked straight to where his car was, and drove straight to the club.

Across the city, Matteo stood waiting at the private terminal, his hands buried in his coat pockets. The jet door opened; moments later, Antonio stepped out and descended the stairs. Tall and broad-shouldered, he carried himself with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to chaos. His dark hair was neatly combed, and his olive complexion gave him the unmistakable look of a southern Italian. Matteo stepped forward. “Antonio.” He called out. Antonio spotted him immediately. The corners of his mouth lifted into a faint smile as he approached. “Matteo.” His gaze swept over him. “You look like hell.” Said Antonio

"Good to see you too," Matteo replied. Antonio chuckled. "I'm serious, though. Has Chiara finally started giving you some peace of mind, or is she still driving you crazy?" Matteo snorted. “That's rich coming from you.”

“I never claimed to be a healthy example.” Antonio shrugged. The two men exchanged a brief embrace before pulling apart. Matteo smirked faintly. “We need to move; Vincenzo is waiting.”

“Alright, let’s go.”

By the time they arrived at the club, Vincenzo had already gone through half a bottle of whiskey and three cigars. One of his men stepped into the office. “Matteo just landed.” He said Vincenzo nodded slightly. The door opened again. This time, Vincenzo turned. Matteo walked in first, and just behind him, Antonio followed. Vincenzo set his glass down slowly. Antonio stepped closer, adjusting his gloves as he approached the desk. The two men exchanged a brief nod. Vincenzo gestured toward the chair opposite him, but Antonio ignored it and remained standing. “I'm sure Matteo already briefed you on the situation.” Antonio nodded once while his eyes swept across the office. Vincenzo opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the photograph; he slid it across the polished wood. Antonio picked it up. His expression hardened the moment he saw the entire De Luca family, with Vincenzo's face circled. “Who were the motherfuckers that delivered this?” he asked. “They didn't leave names,” Vincenzo replied. “And Lucia didn't recognize any of them.”

“It's obvious they're coming for you, and for them to let you know that you're their target is no joke.” Antonio interrupted him. “They'd better abort any plans because we’re going to give them hell,” Matteo muttered. Antonio ignored him and placed the photograph on the desk. “Anything else?” Antonio asked. Vincenzo remembers and reaches into the drawer again. He tossed the black card onto the desk. Antonio picked it up. “This was sent with the photo?” he asked while moving his eyes between the card and the image.

“No, I picked it up at the warehouse. It looks familiar. I thought I might have something to do with the attack,” said Vincenzo. Antonio looked at Vincenzo. “You've seen it before?” he asked. “Yes, at my wedding in Sicily,” Vincenzo answered as he leaned back slightly. For a moment, Antonio said nothing; he simply stared at Vincenzo. “Of course, this is exactly why I'm still single,” he said with a faint smile. Neither man responded; Antonio continued. “Women, they bring trouble every single time.” The room remained silent; Vincenzo's expression didn't change, not even slightly. Suddenly, Antonio's smile began to fade. He cleared his throat and set the card down. “What about the warehouse?” he asked.

Matteo answered. “I'd be surprised if the cops haven't sealed it off by now.” Antonio shook his head. “I don't care, I want to see for myself.” Vincenzo stood up. “Fine,” he said while grabbing his coat from the back of the chair. “Let's go.” Antonio nodded. As they head for the door, Vincenzo glanced at Matteo. “The footage.” Matteo looked over his shoulder. “I'm working on it.” He answered. Vincenzo stepped closer, “Call Alexandro and tell him that I want every capo in Milan summoned, also tell him to gather our best, I want them ready at a moment's notice.” Matteo gave a single nod. As they continue walking towards the door. The city skyline of Milan faded into the rearview mirror, replaced by the hilly areas of the countryside. Antonio sat in the back; his eyes half-closed. Matteo drove, Vincenzo watched the road ahead; no one spoke. Matteo’s phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen and answered immediately. “I have the photograph of the crime scene as you requested.”

“Where are you?” Matteo demand

“Our usual spot”

“Alright, on my way.”

Antonio leaned forward slightly. “Friend of yours?” Matteo slid the phone back into his pocket. “Kind of,” Antonio grunted and settled back into his seat. Matteo flicked on the turn signal, and the car drifted into the exit, leaving the main highway; gradually, the countryside gave way to industrial buildings and narrow service roads. Matteo turned onto a side street lined with aging brick buildings. At the end sat a small café squeezed between a mechanic's garage and a closed electronics shop. Matteo pulled into a parking space across the street. “We're here.” He said.

Antonio looked through the window. Inside, the café was nearly empty, but a man in a dark jacket sat near the back, stirring an untouched espresso. He didn't look up when Matteo entered. Matteo approached and sat across from him. The man slid a thick brown envelope across the table. “That's everything.” He said. Matteo picked it up and returned to the car; he started the engine and pulled away from the curb; the warehouse once again became their destination. Slowly, the warehouse came into view. Still sealed, Police tape stretched across the entrance. They stepped out; Antonio walked ahead of them this time. He stopped at the entrance, looked at the doors, then stepped inside. Vincenzo and Matteo followed. The smell hit first: smells of burned metal and dried blood. Sunlight filtered through holes in the damaged roof, casting pale shafts of light across the warehouse floor.

Matteo handed him the envelope containing the photographs. Antonio removed the stack and began flipping through them. The first few showed the scene exactly as it had been discovered. Without a word, he started walking. Vincenzo and Matteo followed. He stopped beside a large dark stain on the floor and held up one of the photographs. The image showed a guard lying on his back near a stack of crates; he compared the picture to the stain beneath his feet. Then continued deeper into the warehouse. Every few minutes, he stopped, studied the photographs, then compared them against the evidence left behind in the warehouse, slowly transforming the photographs into a sequence of events unfolding second by second inside his mind. After nearly twenty minutes, Antonio walked to the center of the warehouse and spread the photographs across a crate; he arranged them until the entire attack lay before them. “This wasn't a firefight.” He said, “What was it then?” Vincenzo inquired. Antonio pointed at the first photograph. “They entered from the south entrance and neutralized the guards in less than thirty seconds. After which everyone was pushed to the center.”

“How many?” Matteo interrupted him; Antonio remained silent for several seconds before answering. “Not how many,” Vincenzo interjects. “An exact number, Antonio.”

“Maybe three,” he replies. “That’s impossible.” Said Matteo. Antonio shook his head while pointing to the photographs. “The shooting is too disciplined, no wasted rounds, no overlapping fields of fire, and everyone knew exactly where to stand.” His finger stopped on the final image. “What are you saying?” Vincenzo inquired, “I'm saying they knew exactly where every man would be before they arrived.” Said Antonio while gathering the photographs.