Salvatore Romano sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his fingers tracing the smooth grain of the wood as he stared at the faces around him. The dim lighting in the room cast shadows over his features, making it hard to read the sharp glint in his eyes. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of cigar smoke and the murmur of low voices, blending with the faint hum of the city outside.
The room itself was an extension of Salvatore's presence—opulent, but not flashy. Dark, polished wood lined the walls, interrupted by a few understated but expensive pieces of art. A large window behind him framed the bustling streets of New York below, reminding everyone who walked into this room that power was both subtle and overwhelming, much like Salvatore himself.
At his right stood Marco, his capo, a man as cold and unyielding as the steel knife he always carried. Marco's eyes never strayed far from Salvatore, his loyalty unquestionable, though his silence often felt heavier than his words.
"You hear about Luciano?" Marco's voice broke the silence, low and calculated.
Salvatore leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him. He didn't respond immediately, letting the silence hang between them, testing Marco's patience. That was Salvatore's way—he never rushed, never spoke more than necessary. He had a presence that demanded others fill the gaps.
"He's been making noise," Marco continued when it became clear Salvatore was in no hurry to speak. "But nothing we can't handle."
Salvatore's lips twitched into a near-smirk, the kind that never quite reached his eyes. "Luciano... he thinks he's clever," Salvatore said, his voice smooth, but laced with a quiet menace. "But he's predictable. Men like him always are."
The few other men in the room shifted uncomfortably in their seats, exchanging brief glances. They knew that when Salvatore spoke, it was wise to listen carefully. His calm demeanor often concealed deeper currents, and they could never tell if they were standing in shallow water or at the edge of a whirlpool.
Marco cleared his throat and leaned slightly forward, as if wanting to get closer to Salvatore's thoughts. "You want me to send a message? Remind him who's in charge?"
Salvatore shook his head slowly, a faint chuckle escaping his lips. "No need for that. Luciano's time will come... but not yet."
The weight of his words seemed to press down on the room. Outside the window, the sound of honking cars and distant sirens barely pierced the thick walls, a reminder that the chaos of the city was always close, but never quite reached this room. In here, Salvatore controlled everything.
A waiter entered quietly, setting down a decanter of wine and crystal glasses. His hands trembled slightly as he worked, conscious of the eyes following his every move. Salvatore didn't look at him, but the man's nervousness was a silent testament to the reputation of the man at the head of the table. Even the smallest mistakes could have consequences.
Salvatore poured himself a glass of wine, his movements deliberate, methodical. He swirled the deep red liquid in his glass, watching it catch the light before taking a slow sip. His mind seemed far away, contemplating something beyond the walls of this room.
"You seem distracted," Marco noted, eyeing him cautiously.
Salvatore glanced at him, his eyes narrowing slightly. "A man in my position can't afford to be distracted. I'm simply... observing."
Marco didn't press further. He knew better than to question Salvatore's thought process. What the other men in the room didn't understand was that Salvatore was always calculating, always three steps ahead. The way he moved, spoke, even breathed, all reflected the careful balance of power he maintained.
Outside the meeting room, the estate grounds stretched out in all directions, a fortress hidden in the midst of the city. The guards patrolled the perimeter, their presence subtle but undeniable. Every person on the property knew their role, just as every man in this room knew his place.
Marco nodded, understanding the unspoken. "If Luciano makes a move, we'll be ready."
Salvatore didn't respond immediately. He took another sip of his wine, savoring it before placing the glass gently on the table. "We won't need to be ready," he said, his voice soft but filled with certainty. "We'll already be there when it happens."
The tension in the room dissipated slightly at his words, though the men knew better than to relax fully. Salvatore's calm had a way of masking the storm brewing beneath. He stood up slowly, the weight of his authority filling the room as he moved.
"That will be all for tonight," he said quietly, though his tone left no room for argument.
The men began to rise, filing out of the room one by one, but Marco lingered for a moment longer. His eyes met Salvatore's, a silent question hanging between them.
Salvatore nodded once, almost imperceptibly. "Trust me, Marco. When the time comes, you'll know."
With that, Marco left, the heavy door closing with a soft click behind him.
Salvatore stood alone in the room now, the quiet settling around him like a shroud. He looked out the window at the city below, a slow smile spreading across his face. Everything was falling into place, just as it always did.