Oscar has never tried to fit in and has never wanted to, but when his party friend, Max, is revealed to be mafia prince, Marcus Gallagher, suddenly being a 'lone wolf' is no longer an option; not if Oscar wants to woo his prince and get out alive!
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"Noooooo, no, no, no! Dannazione! Why would you have them do that?!" Rufino whined while he paced dramatically in Mitchell Berti's dining room. "I just gotta guy in there! On the inside! You could've ruined everything!"
"Look, this wasn't the first time the Gallaghers have had their shit shot up," Arturo snipped.
"I know that! What if you'd killed my fucking spy, stronzo?"
"Ruffi, take it easy," Mitchell said as smashed the end of his cigarette into the ashtray next to his breakfast plate. It was about nine in the morning, and he had a hell of a headache. He didn't really appreciate Andrea Dina's boy pestering him before he'd even had the chance to finish a single cup of coffee.
"We didn't!" Arturo held his arms up in frustration. "But I stopped them from getting their hands on another one of your family's shipments! Are you really gonna stand here and cry about that like a fucking child just 'cause we might have hurt some little weasel you found, willing to squeal on the Irish for a little cash?"
A slew of slurs were flung back and forth across the table, as heavy and disruptive as physical objects. Some in English, some in Italian, either way, it was all beginning to get drowned out by the pounding in Mitchell's temples, just behind his eyes.
"Arturo," Mitchell finally said. It wasn't loud. In fact, Mitchell Berti was an incredibly soft spoken man. He didn't have to raise his voice... Didn't need to. He and Benni Dina had all the biggest sticks.
"Yeah, boss?"
"Keep your dogs on a tighter leash for now... If Ruffi really thinks there's something to gain outta this mole of his, I wanna see where it goes," he said, before spearing more soft, fluffy eggs with his fork.
Arturo's shoulders slumped. "Yeah, boss..."
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It felt good to be back in his own clothes. The way they clashed with the tidy, bright and gilded interior of the mansion only brought more attention to a fact that Oscar was all too aware of—he shouldn't be there.
He was a blemish on an otherwise perfect canvas of whites and beiges. He was the crack in the perfect crystal glasses sitting polished and ready for use above the bar. And he was completely alone... At least, that's how it felt.
