"Tell me, how have you found this place?" Connelly was a man of few words and little lies, he would say it as it is. "If I am being brutally honest, it feels like a prison." Don Vicente let out a brilliant laugh. He was convinced that he was about to be fed some bullshit before he asked that question. "Are you always like this with your honesty?" "It maybe the only way to speak." Said the blonde Irishman with slightly darker blue eyes, Don Vicente could tell that he was younger than he made himself to seem. He must have been old due to experience, and it turned him on to know more. Those who have seen hell or known it, have nothing to fear, no debt to pay to death or suffering, just an edge to wait through as the days go by. "Then you have not known that one must always be polite to his host." Said don Vicente as he tried to scare the young Irishman. "a host is only good when he can condone the extra bags of worry that come with accommodating his guests." He said, as he took a gulp from the long wine bottle. "Why do you insist on suffering?" asked Connelly, "how do you mean?" asked Don Vicente as he received the bottle from him, "it is clear to me that you mourn your friend, yet you act like you feel no pain in front of people." What was supposed to be a short gulp turned into a series of large gulps by Don Vicente, "you have no idea what it is to be me. In this place." "This place?" "Yes, this place, the villa, Venice." He said as he reluctantly passed the bottle for which its content was now below the middle of the bottle. "You are right. I do not know anything about being you in this place. But I know that you are a human being, and I see you suffer." Connelly drank through the silence that came after his statement till the bottle was emptied and he threw it away. "Pain is a huge part of my life, I have welcomed it, I sit with it, I talk to it, and it responds, you should try it. It is not as bad as you perceive. It to be." Said Ace Vicente as he, for the third time attempted to walk away, this time, Connelly would not try to stop him. As he reached edging bush, he turns and said, "come, have dinner with me. You and your brothers."
They walked to the entrance of the mansion, Gabriella now sat at the window looking out, she sees the men returning, monitoring them.
shot in the head twice during the war of houses while in his sleep and Vigo Rush was set ablaze by an explosion while on a boat ride in the Venice canals. It was the death of these men that brought about the possibility of war. Don Mateo Manzoni had found that his older and wiser men were being killed for the sake of an unnecessary war but hesitated to fight anyway as he believed deeply in the making of peace. He sustained about fifty bodily gunshot wounds in an ambush but is a story for another day.
Connelly, Limerick born, is the first son out of seven of Rory Oisin, the self-proclaimed king of Ireland, a distant relative of Eddie McGrath of the Irish mob in New York. Whom, as they say he never died. Young Connelly has always been of mob royalty, and this was his and his brothers first time doing business outside of the Irish boarders. Their father, Rory Oisin runs the biggest drug and crime gang in Limerick and the entire Ireland. Constantly at war with the Irish mob in America, he decided to branch in here in Venice as game recognize game in these streets. An alliance had to be formed by the Irishmen and the undisputed king of Italian crime Don Ace Vicente and it did not matter how long it took. Ace Vicente was stalling as he was hoping to keep the young Connelly with him here in Italy. But Connelly knew and honestly did not care, the young man now wanted to be away from his father's shadow, he wished to make a name for himself be it home or abroad.
"You could fall in love with anything, but do not think for once that your love comes from them." Said Connelly who now had to embrace the fact that the man he looked up to was just another hurting man who was in desperate need for companionship. His brothers come in for dinner. Two months it had been since they arrived in Italy, they had witnessed the funeral of Rodrigo Sampha and the crumbling moaning of Ace Vicente and now feel like have been put in prison as the man refuses still to sign the deal. In short words, let us just say that tensions were high, for lack of better words. Those were the days when paper meant everything and signs were important, "the word of mouth was never enough, it could never be enough, most men, even the most illustrious were