Page 32 of Fatal Sloth

Dario, one of my strongest soldiers, enters alongside Enzo, who is lugging his laptop under his arm. I gesture toward the chairs in front of my desk, silently inviting them to take a seat. Dario settles in as Enzo plops his laptop on my desk, clicking away at the tabs.

He swivels the laptop in my direction, revealing a series of images on the screen. The sight of the burnt black truck with its mangled license plate jolts me to attention. "Theo sent me this; it was reported last night under the L-train," Enzo explains.

“Whose is it?”

"This was the black truck from the CCTV on the docks,” he grumbles, frustration evident in his voice. Although the license plate is singed, it's a match to the one we saw from the docks.

“Plates were stolen. That's why Theo had a hard time pulling it up in his database. But I sent it out to everyone, anyway,” Enzo adds.

“And?” I prod, my patience wearing thin.

“It’s Diego's ride," Enzo declares, flicking through the images of Diego's torched truck.

"How the fuck do you know?" I snap, annoyed at myself for missing the details of that bastard's vehicle.

"I noticed it," Dario chimes in with a grim edge to his voice. "I spent three days sleeping in that damn truck for a stakeout."

"Was he inside?" I demand, my frustration boiling over.

"No, just the truck. Not a hit. Not a message declaring war. It’s like they knew we spotted the truck at the docks and tried to erase the evidence. Or Diego is the mole, working for them because they wouldn’t keep him alive this long unless there was a reason," Enzo explains, painting a bleak picture of our predicament.

"I don't give a damn what it takes. Find him. Dead or alive. If that fucker betrayed me, betrayed La Cosa Nostra, he'll be dead when I get my hands on him." The words slip from my lips with a deadly calm, the tension in the room thickening with every syllable.

Enzo and Dario exchange a glance before swiftly exiting the room. Finally left alone, I slump back in my chair, feeling exhaustion settle over me. My eyelids droop, weighed down by fatigue, and I realize I can't push myself any further today.

With a weary sigh, I power down the laptop and push away from the desk, the overwhelming urge to collapse into bed hitting me like a ton of bricks. Each step toward the door feels like a marathon of effort.

When I finally reach my bedroom, I strip off my clothes clumsily, too tired to care about anything other than sinking into the comfort of my bed. With a sigh of relief, I collapse onto the mattress.

But even as I surrender to sleep, my mind continues to race with thoughts of Diego, a fucking mole, and the countless other problems weighing on my shoulders. For now, all I can do is hope Enzo and Dario find answers while I sleep.

20

Mia

As I sink into the plush cushions of the living room sofa, the soft chatter with Marie is a welcome distraction from the eerie quietness of the house. Roman's tantalizing aromas waft from the kitchen, promising a delicious dinner ahead. Sebastiano is still asleep, and for once, the house feels too quiet.

Suddenly, Daren enters the room, accompanied by two unfamiliar men. Their presence is fleeting, though, as Daren quickly handles whatever business he has with Marie and escorts them out the front door. I can't help but wonder about the nature of their visit, but Marie's inquiry about my dancing days shifts my focus.

Marie turns to me with a curious expression, her eyes reflecting a hint of curiosity as she poses the question. "Do you still dance?" she inquires, her voice laced with genuine interest.

Memories stir within me like delicate threads unraveling from the fabric of time. The image of the ballet studio comes to life in my mind's eye—the polished wooden floors, the mirrored walls reflecting a symphony of movements, the echo of piano melodies filling the air.

Marie's question about dancing catches me off guard, But as I think back on those times, they feel distant, almost like another lifetime. "Dance? Me?" I chuckle nervously, shaking my head. "Well, I use to dance ballet but haven’t since I left New York.”

She grins, mischief twinkling in her eye, but before she can respond, Daren walks back in alone, and Marie excuses herself to speak with him, leaving me in my thoughts.

Her question is simple, but it awakens a flood of memories from my ballet days. I used to spend hours in the studio, perfecting every plié and tendu. The discipline of ballet demanded nothing less than perfection. When I would step on stage, the rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins—it was a feeling unlike any other. Performances were moments of pure magic; the stage was my safe space - nobody could hurt me on stage. The stage was just me and my music. It was my escape from the darkness. A darkness nobody knows about - Sebastiano is the only person who saw part of it but doesn't know half of it. To everyone, I'm known as the ideal daughter, the perfect student, and the sweet little ballerina, but on the inside, it's a different story. Anything less than perfection is not tolerated in the Russo household. The thoughts send a shiver down my back, making the little hairs on my neck stand up.

Moments later, Marie returns to the living room and invites me to accompany her to the home gym.

“Did Daren leave?” I inquire, curious about his sudden departure.

“Yes, Mia Cara, he only came to supervise some workers,” she replies with a reassuring smile.

“Workers?” I echo, my interest piqued. “What were they working on?”

“You'll see,” she responds cryptically, leading me down the hallway toward the gym.

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