The man who had bought that house almost a century ago had been displeased with how simple it was. Surely, it had been an entire house with three floors and a front yard, which had been much back then, and he had worked for it. Hard, too hard for a house like this, although nobody would have believed him since he couldn't have told anybody.

This hadn't been Chicago and he hadn't been Al Capone. It had been Dublin and his name had been Darragh O'Connel.

The first man who grew up in this house hadn't minded that it had been a red brick one like all the others in the street. The door had been painted blue, just like the windowsills and it had looked really pretty this way. And although it had looked pretty this way, one day in the year after his father had passed away, Aaron O'Connel had decided to paint them green and planted ivy for it to grow on the facade.

And the ivy still entwined around the wooden trellis drilled into the bricks of the front, the windowsills were still green just like the door after Aaron had been gone for four years. His son didn't mind the look of the house either; he actually did not care about it all. Harry O'Connel had far worse problems occupying his mind than how the ivy slowly started to grow over the window of his study.

"How did that happen?!" Harry thought out loud, tapping his fingers on the table. "Why can't my life for once go in a good direction?! Why can't this job for once not be a total pain in the arse?! Why can't something in this godforsaken country work for just once! The state's a total catastrophe and the organized crime. How?!"

Chewing on his lower lip, he looked out of the window and let the thoughts ramble on in his head.

Of course this job had meant trouble. Of course this job had meant work. Of course he hadn't wanted to do it. And of course he couldn't have said no to it. Mafia was not the ordinary family business. Mafia was a legacy, not just tradition. Our thing had his Scottish colleague once explained, the first Sicilian Mafiosi called it our thing and still do.

"I keep telling you to get help somewhere, Harry" Paddy said and Harry rolled his eyes.

"I can't be helped in any way anymore but thanks for your concern for the poor sinner" he replied to his bodyguard.

The huge man leaning against the wall beside the window lifted his shoulders for a deep breath and let them drop again, an annoyed frown on his face but it faded quickly.

"You know what kind of help I am talking about. We need to find somebody on our level and we need to do it quickly."

Harry looked upwards then he put one elbow on his desk and leant his face on his hand, continuing to stare at the cloudy sky outside.

"But how?" he asked. "I need connections for this and my only real connection is Gavin. We can't just jump into this European mess and hope somebody wants to help us before someone else has already gobbled us up."

"Did somebody say connections?" Charlie said, entering the room.
Harry looked to the door which Charlie just closed. Turning to him, he had the smug grin on his face that Harry knew for almost 24 years by now.

Right now, he was not exactly in the mood for it.

The other young Irishman kept grinning: "I just waited for the cue to make my entrance."

"Wanker" Harry spit, way less amused than the following giggle from Charlie was, and started tapping his fingers again. "Connections, and? Charlie, who the hell did you find that doesn't want to kill us? Because, aside from Gavin, pretty much everyone who hears I need help is just a wolf spotting the injured lamb, no matter how much sheep clothing they'll wear."

"Face the facts, pal," Charlie gave back. "You're an injured lamb both ways and we all know way to well of those English wolves that will get us sooner or later if we don't do anything."

Harry glared at his friend for a few seconds before a frustrated moan slipped from his lips and he buried his face in his hands. "I hate it when you're right with that kind of crap," he hissed quietly.

"Ah, but don't make your headache worse" the other man said and pulled a note out of his suit pocket. "I've already did ... things."

"Things? Charlie, it ended more than one time in a mess when you did 'things', what kind of things?" Paddy asked and Charlie looked a bit annoyed at him:

"It did not end in a mess, old man, and the kind of things like asking for help."

"Tosser, don't do that shit without me" it came from Harry, who still had his face covered. "I'm still your boss, I decide what we're going to do here, no matter how fucking right you are."

"All you did recently was complaining and whining about everything, I think that pretty much tells us what kind of decisions you were and would be making - none. But anyways, I" Charlie waved with the note, "am not only damn right here, but also have this nice phone number which could free us from all the stress. I asked around our informants a bit and a Sicilian colleague called Vento seems to have eyed at the north of Europe for quite a while.

"So I arranged a few things" he glared at Paddy, who buzzed out something along the lines of "We'll see, Charlie", before turning back to Harry:

"And now it's up to you to call him."

Harry had parted his finger at the "But anyways", now putting down his hands completely:

"You only found out his number? You didn't do anything else yet?"

"Nothing directly related to him, if you mean that" Charlie replied. "I know for sure he seeks for partners, not easily defeated prey. And I know that he is the number one in almost whole Sicily and one of the big European players despite his small territory – just like us. Well, minus the global players but pressing these little numbers on your phone could quickly change this."

His smug grin turning into a frown and he took a closer look at the note. "Or this is number of the cute guy from the pub yesterday, I am honestly not so sure anymore. Would still quickly change something for me."

"And we saw, Charlie" Paddy quietly commented with a smile while Harry groaned and reached out:

"Give me the fucking note, there is a 50/50 chance I'll kick you either way, no matter who's on the other end of the line."

"I can't believe I am doing this, I can't believe this Vento is doing this" Harry muttered and threw a stone into the shallow waves of Dublin's harbour sitting on the edge of the dock while they waited for the Sicilian.

"You want to send somebody here? I thought we already had agreed on that I come to Sicily" Harry had answered confused yesterday when the man on the other end of the line had told him that. These phone calls had been easier said than done.

"Yes and it only took us three phone calls to agree on that." The voice with the faint Italian accent had sounded friendly but not friendly enough to hide the sarcasm. "Our boss' ways might seem strange but I can assure you, he has his reasons to send somebody beforehand."

"I'd like to know those reasons" Harry had said displeased, having had the urge to put the phone away when he had heard the other man's laughter. It had been irritatingly nasty.

"You'll know them soon enough."

"At least now they are the one in the lion's den, not us" Paddy grunted. The younger one forgot about the calls and looked up at him.

The Northern Irish, a big hunk of a man, really looked his age right now in the pale moonlight with the stubble on the rough face. Harry could recall a time when the dirty ginger hair hadn't been that fair and the wrinkles hadn't been that many. However, he could not recall many times where he hadn't like to see this face in the last 24 years and a faint, resigned smile appeared on his before he looked in the water.

"But it's like a bad detective novel! Meeting at the harbour at midnight. We even have full moon! One more cliché and I'm gonna throw up, I swear" he muttered again and threw another stone.

"Well, cliché doesn't mean it's a bad novel" Paddy said, earning a face from Harry that had a bugged out "Seriously" written in it. The older man only shrugged: "Just my share of life experience."

A few minutes later, the little headset earphone in Harry's ear started:

"Sir, somebody entered the 3 Branch Road South. Long coat, hat, frizzy hair. Darker skin, too, but I'm not sure. Seems to be our man."

Harry smiled and got on his feet: "Indeed. Keep an eye on that guy, Foley." A short "Sure, Sir" ended the conversation or at least switched to another channel since Paddy still talked to somebody else.

"Just stay there … Yes Foley, Christ, what are you so nervous?"

Harry couldn't help grinning when he heard Paddy's easy going tone with the newcomer.

"It is nothing, just keep an eye on your surroundings in case something suspicious happens. It'll be alright, you do your job."
Right after he stopped talking, Harry heard the buzzing noise of his headphone and Paddy nodded towards the large shadows the warehouses cast: "There he comes."

Harry shoved his hands in his pocket and waited, trying to see what would come his way, but it was too dark to see anything. Yet he heard footsteps.

And finally a person appeared from the pitch-black.

The man was slender, but not too tall. Maybe one or two centimetres taller than Harry. Long coat, hat. The frizzy hair was brown and tied to a loose ponytail. His skin was tanned.

"Buona sera, signori" he said with a soft, but deep voice. Italian, no doubt.

"Good evening, sir. I hope your trip from Sicily over here wasn't too troublesome" Harry answered with a faint, hopefully not too fake smile. The other man smiled back, lifting up the front brim of his hat.

His eyes were not lidded nor wide open and although it was still dark and the other was more than a metre away, Harry could make out the colour. It was some sort of very light brown, actually coming really close to dull gold. The fringe was side parted, a curl on the right side.

"Fortunately not."

"Great to hear. Now, what's your concern, Mister … ?"

The Sicilian didn't pick up on it: "I am here to tell you when we'd like to meet you. There's a flight this Sunday, 13.40. Flight 34. Booked for Callahan. I hope you can arrange that."

"How could I say no when the flight's already booked."

"And all on the house, as we may add. We also have a hotel. Villa Igiea, three rooms booked for Callahan as well." His smile was like the one of a salesman: "I'll hope you like it, it's one of the best we could find."

"Your hospitality seems to know no boundaries, does it."

"We aim to please" the Sicilian replied, tipping his hat. "And I am also here to inquire if there are any other eventualities you need to clear up now. I have to inform you that further information on where to meet in Palermo will be sent your way once you arrived there."

"Well, I'm not too sure if this counts as eventuality but may I ask why your boss really sends somebody to come here? Only for folderol, that's a tad suspicious, don't you think?" Harry replied with another faint but definitely challenging smile.

The man looked over the harbour, over to the lights on the other side of it:

"He wanted to get a glimpse of what is the future surroundings for our potential cooperation are." Then he smiled again at Harry: "I think he will like this island very much; it isn't Sicily but it does look beautiful here as well."

Harry wanted to laugh, yet just grinned instead: "I feel like I should reply with a 'Thank you' but that still are quite fishy reasons, aren't they? So shallow."

The other shrugged: "Who knows? Maybe they are, maybe it's more important than you think Signore O'Connel. All I know is that they are true."

He raised his arm and pulled his coat sleeve back a bit, revealing a watch.

"And I hate to be rude, but I didn't plan on staying long here and should actually hurry back to the airport now."

"Then I don't want to hold you up, I wouldn't like to be the guilty one when you miss your flight, Mister…"

He still didn't know the other's name.

The man smiled once more, turning around and raising one hand: "I wish you good night, Signori!"

Fuck your flight Harry thought, calling: "Hey, Mister, you just one last question!"

The other stopped.

"Sí?"

"What's your name?"

A second went by before he looked over his shoulder and grinned: "Vento, Signore."

Like this, he disappeared into the shadows and Harry couldn't stop staring at the point he had stood just a second ago.

"Are you kidding me?!" he yelled, but received no other answer than the receding footsteps.

A soft wind got up. The Irish's eyes were still fixated on the pitch-black.

"This guy is fucking with me, isn't he" Harry said in disbelief and annoyance.

"We'll find out" Paddy replied calm and dry. "We'll find out."