The dimly lit room in the basement of the last villa on the cobblestone street reeked of expensive cigars. It was a musky, almost sweet tang, that huffed up from the men's mouths, across the stale air, and out the cellar window. A few of the vines that covered this opening seemed to shudder in the wind and wither with the smoke. The sound of an old, rusted Vespa pulling up to this lovely abode alerts the suited men of the expected visitor.
They wait patiently huffing their smokes while the man up above fiddles with his keys, and makes his way to the tiny dilapidated door of the house. "Oi, fratello you bastard! Open up!" The older Vargas brother grins as Veneziano pounds the knocker in frustration. Slam slam slam! Then a pause. Slam slam slam!
Rinse and repeat.
Lovino rolls his eyes, laughs and nods for one of the men to let the guest enter. Veneziano's pounding is cut off and those in the cellar hear faint cursing as the foul-mouthed Italian is lead inside. He'll give sorry looks to the vagabonds lazing about the sorry old home. The addicts lighting up their joints in the kitchen offer the young man a hit while the women in the bedroom halls promiscuously raise an eyebrow, inviting him in. 'Ziano shakes his head, wondering what kind of 'business' his brother has been running lately.
Dirt and dust drifts down from the decaying ceiling with each step. Lovino leans back in his wooden chair, cradling the back of his head in his hands, while skillfully rocking the stool against the table with his feet. He hums an old folk song, one of pretty women and broken hearts. At last, Veneziano reaches the last of the cellar steps and his brother jumps up to meet him. Their embrace is a passionate kiss upon both cheeks. Something every good European knows by habit, whole the rest of the world turns a blind eye and silently shuns.
"Veneziano, its nice of you to finally join us back home." The younger smiles - a genuine grin he so rarely lets slip nowadays.