Antoni P.O.V
The dark red doors don't make a sound as Antoni opens them. La Petunia Rossa is one of their family's mature bars, its wooden doors and aged whiskey only opening for service after dusk. As such, waiters and waitress' scurry back and forth, prepping the restaurant for business.
They all bow their heads when he strolls past them, a murmur of “Ciao, Signor" slipping past their lips. Antoni responds to each one of them kindly, a pleasant smile gracing his lips each time. La Petunia Rossa has always been his favorite bar and restaurant in New York, the day his father gave the keys over to him to run was one of the happiest days of his life.
He still remembers the soft smile Dante wore that day, the way his usually coal brown eyes lightened into warm honey. That was the first time Dante had called him Bello since he was a child. The endearment rekindled a fire in his heart, snuggling into a spot Antoni thought would stay void forever.
He vowed that day to never make La Petunia Rossa into a chain. He wanted to keep this little garden all to himself and the people of New York's, its walls nestled within West Village just like his father's words nestle in his heart.
With purpose glinting in his eyes, he continues through the restaurant. The surface of the bar to his left shines brightly, the dark black marble reflecting the iron beams along the ceiling on its surface. White tablecloths clad thick tables that are scattered within the area to his right, some circular and some rectangle with brown wooden chairs pulled in close to them.
The arched windows further to the right all have their dark green curtains pulled back letting in the afternoon sunlight. Each window is spaced five feet apart with a hanging pot of red and white petunias dropping right above the arch's highest point, and a table of deep mahogany below it with stained Tiffany lamps placed atop.
At night, their orange glow mixes in with lit candles on each of the tables, and along with the flowers, create a feeling of warmth and safety throughout the area reminiscent of Italy.
It reminds Antoni of hanging guts above a grueling fire.
The illusion breaks as he reaches the back of the bar. The temperature of the air instantly drops, danger prowling along the red brick walls like spiders.
Chef Mattia is setting down bowls of spinach pasta and garlic shrimp in front of the seven chairs circling the grand table. He winks at Antoni when he walks in, causing Antoni to stifle a smile behind a forced cough. Chef Mattia has been working within their bars and restaurants since Antoni was a little kid, always trying to make Antoni smile whenever he can.
'Not today, Chef.' Antoni thinks smugly.
“Sorry I'm late." Antoni announces. He unbuttons his suit, leaning down as he does to kiss his father's cheeks.
“Boof, any later and we would've eaten your share." Dante laughs, his belly rolling heavily as he does. The others around the table snicker alongside him. “Now that my working son has finally arrived, let us all dig in. Bon appetite."
Antoni looks to his right at the wince breaking through the moans of a good feast. His right hand and bodyguard Gabriel is sitting there; he has a cut along his bottom lip and the skin of his knuckles are broken.
“What happened to you?" Antoni whispers with a smirk. “Got into a fight with a kitty cat?"
“Ha!" Gabriel gives up on trying to spoon food into his mouth and reaches for his glass of red wine. “If Marcello was a kitten, I'd have sent the hounds on him already," he growls. “It would be his blood we drink tonight."
Antoni scrunches his eyebrows in confusion before Luka speaks from across the table. “Another warehouse was hit. Bianchi didn't get anything though, we lit it up ourselves when we realized it couldn't be salvaged."
“How much did we lose?"
Luka looks away from Antoni's piercing eyes. “Too much." He grumbles, shame dampening his smooth voice.
“Antoni. I want that law firm up soon." Dante demands, not even looking up from his plate.
“I can try-"
“No." Dante interrupts. He points his knife at Antoni, the serrated tip piercing a small piece of shrimp. “You will tell the men that plans are progressing ahead of schedule. The longer it takes, the more that bastard keeps taking my things. I will not stand for it."
“Yes, Padre." Antoni replies firmly. He doesn't question why his father is so insistent on building a law firm. The last time he showed ... concern over him and Victoria managing a law firm together, it didn't end well. His head throbs with the memory of the thick law book hitting him in the head.
“Eh, is it true that the Russo daughter ran away?" Alonzo prompts from beside Luka, eyes wide in wonder.
Antoni's hands still. His heart starts racing, its feet moving quickly to a staccato beat.
“Run away, bah." Dante takes a long sip of red wine before scoffing. “That principessa doesn't have the guts to run away. Not that she could, anyway. She is mafia."
“Where has she gone then?" Alonzo asks.
Worry washes over Antoni like a cold river, but he keeps his face masked with indifference. Victoria may be a princess, like his father said, but she's a princess of the dark; guts and strength of will aren't an issue. It's other people who are. They'd gang up on her and try to defile her. He lowers his hands onto his lap, so no one sees his shaking fists.
He can't let his father know that desire lurks within him for Victoria. It would be like tying a noose around her neck, the stool her feet lay arched on tied to a rope being held by Dante. Antoni would be trapped in the dank underworld forever, so long as Dante kept hold of that rope.
Luka's voice passes through his thoughts, soothing their torrents. “To a friends' house, Signor Giuseppe said."
'Cora.' Antoni's mind supplies quickly. He remembers how close the two girls were the other day. If there was anyone Bell had to run away to, it would be Cora. His stomach burns knowing that he wasn't one of her options.
“Doesn't matter anyway." Dante smacks his lips and continues eating. “She will be back soon, and you need to keep her in line." He sends a pointed look at his son, teeth gnashing fiercely on spinach.
Antoni forces his lips to twist as he leans back in his seat. “Don't worry, Padre. I told you I'd keep her on a leash and in my line of sight, which I'll do." He declares, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
“Does she know yet? About the firm?" Gabriel questions with a raised eyebrow.
“Of course, she knows, lo stupido. Why do you think she left?" Alonzo clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. Gabriel frowns and raises his knife at him when a piercing clang rings out around them like a shot.
“Ah, stai zitto." Dante is looking between Luka and Gabriel with a frown. His fork is still shaking on the table from where it clanged against the bowl. “No more talk about signoria Victoria and her idiozia. She is his problem now." He gestures to Antoni as he speaks and nods his head before picking up the utensils again.
“Now, mangiare. The food is getting cold."
Antoni waits till loud laughter and husky voices swarm the table then reaches into his suit pocket and brings out his phone. He keeps it under the table, his eyes downcast as if admiring Gabriel's shoes.
He types quickly – 'I heard you ran away. Tell Cora I said Ciao.'
Pocketing his phone, he turns to Gabriel. “So, tell me about the big bad wolf who managed to land a hit on you, hm?"
Gabriel groans, before launching into his story from last night. Antoni finds himself becoming fully immersed in the story, laughing when he's expected at the way his right-hand man retells stabbing one of the Bianchi henchmen in the eye, when his heart vibrates.
No, not his heart. His phone in his pocket, right above his heart.
“Oh, scusami." He pulls out his phone and blinks slowly.
'Cora says f*ck off, respectively.'
She replied. She must have figured out it was him, and still ... she answered. She let him know that his assumption was right and that she's safe with Cora.
Antoni releases a breath slowly through his nose he didn't realize he was holding.
'Cora says that, or you, Bell?'
His phone doesn't vibrate for the rest of the meal and soon, Antoni is walking out of the restaurant. His shoes clank harshly on the wooden floorboards. The fruity, nutty scent of the petunias sour as he walks away, as if his mere presence unleashes the build-up of decay collecting within its roots.
Soothing.
Resentment.
Anger.
He glances at the red rose shining on the lamp by the front door as he passes, wondering how much time he has left till the final petal on his rose falls off, and it is his guts that hang from the ceilings instead.