2. Taste Of Want
The cold breeze of the Mediterranean Sea brushed against my skin like the lingering touch of a lover’s hand... soft, intimate, and addictive.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.
Italy always did this to me.
The warmth of the sun balanced by the chill of the wind, the chaotic calm... it reminded me of Greece, the only other place that ever felt like home.
The sun had just begun its rise, painting the sea in hues of molten gold.
Light danced on the water’s surface, turning it into something surreal... like an illusion of heaven.
A place I know damn well I won’t be going after death.
But I’ve made peace with that.
Hell doesn’t scare me anymore. Not when I’m already tasting heaven here, on Earth.
The maid’s voice sliced through my thoughts, snapping me back to the present.
I hummed in acknowledgment, finally turning away from the view and stepping inside.
Ethan Angelos ML
If the croissants are like yesterday, fire the chef.
I didn’t bother looking at her. Just dropped myself onto the armchair near the balcony, crossed one leg over the other, and let my fingers wrap around the coffee cup with practiced elegance.
She nodded silently and vanished and I took my first bite.
You know that feeling... when you've waited for something so long, so obsessively, that it becomes more of a fixation than a goal?
That’s what today is for me.
I’ve spent months chasing it, I've scoured auctions, private dealers, black markets... gone mad over it. And now, finally, it’s going to be mine.
And not from some nobody, either. The dealer? He’s an old friend. Once upon a time, he was my go-to for drugs, but that was very long time ago, when I was young and reckless.
I parked my Maserati right in the porche of the mansion.
The sleek growl of the engine faded as I stepped out, keys swinging casually between my fingers.
The place reeked of taste. Marble floors, towering columns, and doors carved by hands that cost more than some people's homes.
A few maids were bustling around the porch, heads bowed in their morning duties.
As I passed, some glanced up. Their eyes widened. Cheeks flushed crimson.
I knew that look. I’d seen it a thousand times before...awe, attraction, maybe even a little fear.
And I didn't mind any of it.
In fact i offered them a slow wink... smooth, effortless...and they giggled like schoolgirls caught sneaking glances at the bad boy in class.
I’ve always known the kind of effect I have on people.
I’d barely taken a few steps into the house when I saw him... standing on the first-floor balcony, cigar in hand, a big-àss grin stretched across his face.
He called out, voice echoing down like a damn king greeting his guest.
I replied, smirking as he made his way down the grand staircase.
We clasped hands in a firm shake.
No small talk. I didn’t have the patience for that today.
So I asked without wasting a breath.
Ethan Angelos ML
Where it is?
He let out a low chuckle, puffing on his cigar.
Lorenzo Romano
Impatient as always
He muttered, eyes gleaming with amusement.
Then, without another word, he turned and
led me toward a room tucked behind double oak doors. Stepping inside we settled into the leather couches
A maid entered gracefully, carrying a bottle of aged whiskey and two crystal glasses on a silver tray. She poured in silence, the amber liquid catching the soft light like liquid gold. Then she bowed slightly and slipped out, leaving the room heavy with anticipation.
Romano didn’t say much... Just lifted his glass, smirked, and took a slow sip.
Then he gave a subtle signal with his fingers.
A few minutes later, a man appeared, holding a finely crafted wooden box in his hands... dark mahogany with brass inlays, the kind of detail that whispered elegance and screamed wealth. Even the box alone could’ve paid someone’s rent for a year.
The man placed it gently on the table between us, and Romano leaned forward, lips curled into that smug grin of his.
Lorenzo Romano
Here’s the thing you so desperately wanted, Angelos.
My fingers twitched with anticipation.
And for a second... just a second... I forgot how to breathe.
Taking the box, I opened it delicately... like I was unwrapping a piece of art rather than a weapon. And there she was.
A 19th-century silver-plated Colt Paterson revolver, one of only three in existence, customized with an ivory grip engraved in Italian “Vincere o Morire” To conquer or die. The barrel was etched with intricate floral scrollwork, the kind done only by the finest hands in Europe, long dead now.
It was legacy. Power. Madness wrapped in elegance.
My gaze lingered on the craftsmanship the perfectly balanced weight, the shine of the silver, the ghost of violence embedded in its very core.
Ethan Angelos ML
She’s even more beautiful in person,
I murmured, running my thumb along the cool ivory handle
Lorenzo Romano
Of course she is.
I took one long look at the gun...then closed the box with care, as if sealing away something sacred.
Ethan Angelos ML
How much?
I asked, not because I didn’t already know the price, but because formality had its place even between old friends.
Lorenzo Romano
For you? I should say it’s a gift... but we both know I’m not that generous.
I pulled out my cheque book and signed the obscene amount without a blink.
He glanced at the amount written on the cheque and grinned.
Lorenzo Romano
Still as efficient as ever.
I rose, picking up the box with a satisfaction that settled deep in my bones.
As I turned to leave, Romano leaned back on the couch, glass in hand.
Lorenzo Romano
You’re not running off just yet, are you?
I Paused and raised my brow
Lorenzo Romano
Stay for dinner. It’s been years since we shared a decent meal, and you didn’t come all this way just to grab and dash.
I looked down at the box in my hands, then back at him.
Ethan Angelos ML
You bribing me with food now?
Lorenzo Romano
I’m bribing you with nostalgia... and my chef’s duck confit.
I scoffed, but a smirk crept onto my lips.
Ethan Angelos ML
Fine. One dinner.
He raised his glass toward me like a toast.
And glass clincked together
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