chapter 3

Vale's car slid to a stop, tires screeching against the asphalt as he pulled into the final stretch. The engine died with a heavy rumble, and silence swallowed the air, broken only by the distant hum of the crowd's roars and the fading screech of tires. The rival's car was barely visible in his rearview now—lost to Vale's relentless pursuit.

Vale's fingers twitched on the wheel, blood smeared across his forehead from the impact. He didn't care. His pulse was steady, his thoughts crisp. He opened the door and stepped out, his boots hitting the ground with quiet confidence.

The crowd swarmed, but Vale remained a statue amidst the chaos. His eyes, cold and focused, found the rival at the far end, still sitting in his car, eyes wide in shock. Vale's gaze didn't waver as he walked toward him, each step sure, calm, but carrying a weight that made the air around him grow heavier. The rival swallowed, nerves dancing beneath his cocky veneer. But Vale didn't say a word. He simply met his gaze, cool and composed, as if the race had been nothing more than a brief inconvenience.

Without a word, Vale turned his back and began walking away, the tension snapping as his footsteps echoed in the night.

Eva emerged from the crowd, her eyes catching Vale's as he approached. The moment Vale stepped away from the car, she was there, her eyes narrowing as she spotted the blood on his forehead. Her lips pressed into a stubborn pout, clearly unconvinced by his calm demeanor.

"You're not getting away with this so easily," she muttered, almost under her breath. It wasn't calm, but the way she spoke—half scolding, half concerned—told him that she wasn't letting him off the hook.

Marco followed her, his eyes flicking between Vale and the rival, a flicker of excitement still sparking in his gaze. But Marco's excitement was quickly overshadowed by the anger bubbling inside him. His fists clenched at his sides, ready to march back to the rival and give him a piece of his mind. Before he could take a step, Vale's hand shot out, grabbing his arm and holding him back.

Marco blinked in surprise, but there was something in Vale's eyes—a subtle, almost unspoken command. A warning not to waste time on this.

Vale's voice, soft yet firm, broke the moment. "Let it go, Marco."

Marco didn't argue. He simply nodded, though the frustration still simmered in his chest.

Meanwhile, Eva's fingers brushed against his skin as she cleaned the cut, her touch firm but careful. She frowned, seeing the blood, and huffed in irritation. "You're so reckless," she said, her tone low but heavy with concern. Despite her words, it was clear she wasn't angry—just frustrated, like she wanted him to take care of himself.

Vale didn't smile, didn't make a joke. His eyes flickered to hers for a moment, a quiet acknowledgment of the tenderness in her touch, the way she seemed more worried about him than he was about himself.

Marco stood behind them, arms crossed, still simmering with adrenaline. His girl was close by, her eyes scanning the scene with a sense of awe at the way Vale had handled himself, both on and off the track.

And so, the night came to an end like this.

................

*At Antichità Romano*

The day had soured into a brooding sort of dusk, the sky stained a shade too dark for early evening. The weekend's reckless fire had burned itself out. Adriano stood behind the counter, half-heartedly wiping down the glass display case with an old rag, moving on instinct more than purpose. He was planning to close up soon—just a few final tasks, and then home.

A few regulars had wandered in earlier, mostly browsing, no real business. Now the place was nearly empty, humming only with the soft spin of an old ceiling fan and the faint creak of old floorboards settling into silence.

He was just about to flip the closed sign when the bell above the door jingled—sharp, out of place.

Adriano didn't look up right away. It was late, and he figured maybe—it was Marco. He had always been the kind who'd show up unannounced, hands in pockets, with a grin and some wild story to tell, or maybe just to share the quiet.

But something about the sound—too crisp, too sudden—unsettled him.

He paused, fingers tightening slightly on the rag, and looked up.

A man stepped in.

A weary figure, gaunt, eyes darting around nervously. His coat was dark, weathered, but his eyes—those eyes—were sharp, though almost vacant.

He didn't speak right away. Didn't take off his coat.

"Il Padrino," the man said with a strange, deliberate tone, his gaze landing on Adriano, then flicking away almost immediately, as though expecting someone else.

For a second, he stood frozen, caught in the doorway like he might turn around and walk out.

But then his jaw tightened. He grit his teeth like swallowing that decision would hurt, and made his way forward anyway.

Something in his step said this wasn't how it was supposed to go. But he'd do it.

He approached the counter in silence, and then—like reciting words from a dream he barely remembered—he rasped:

"Take my order."

Adriano blinked, trying to read the man. He wasn't a regular customer. Not in the slightest. Something felt off. Yet when the man mentioned "Il Padrino," Adriano froze.

The name stuck with him for a few seconds, like a sudden epiphany brushing against the edge of his mind—but he couldn't quite catch it. Il Padrino. His godfather. The man who had picked him, given him this shop to look after, treated him like his own child.

But the godfather had left a few weeks ago, like he sometimes did, vanishing without warning. It would take time for him to return.

Adriano wanted to say something, to correct the man—but the way he'd spoken the name, like it was more than just a name, like it carried weight, certainty, hope... it sent a shiver through the room like a dark promise.

Still, he opened his mouth to speak—but the man was already sliding a black briefcase onto the counter. The movement was stiff, almost mechanical. It landed with a soft thud, as though it held more weight than it should have. An envelope followed. He slid it across the counter, the envelope's wax seal gleaming faintly in the dim light.

"Don't ask questions," the man said quickly, glancing over his shoulder before leaning in, almost whispering. "No names. No questions. Just take it to The Glass House. Red velvet mask. Nothing else."

Adriano stared at the items—the briefcase and the envelope—feeling an uneasy weight in his chest.

"But... what's this for?" he asked, still not entirely sure what was happening.

The stranger gritted his teeth, as though the question was one too many.

"Take it. You'll know what to do."

Adriano's fingers hovered near the briefcase, his mind racing with confusion. He hesitated. His instincts told him this wasn't a good thing.

But the man didn't wait for a response. He simply placed a few notes on the counter before turning sharply, his heavy footsteps echoing across the wooden floor. He reached the door, hand on the knob—but before stepping out, he paused.

He turned, casting one last, unsettling look at Adriano.

"Be there in five days," he said, the words thick with something unspoken. "It needs to be done."

Then, as suddenly as he had arrived, he was gone.

The bell above the door jingled again, sharp in the stillness. Adriano stood motionless, his hand still hovering near the briefcase. The ceiling fan spun overhead, humming softly—louder now in the silence. The last of the day's light slipped away.

He had no idea what had just happened.

He lowered his eyes, as if trying to make sense of it.

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