Marco wrinkled his nose over the display on the table but couldn't help it. Even though the knife didn't belong there, he had been too lazy to go outside and put it into the Mito when Michele had put it down on the table earlier.
"Mancuso got it from the hideaway, must be the one the Irish had, huh?"
"Damn right it is and they still have the stupid handle" Marco muttered annoyed, eyes rushing over the parts of the deconstructed Beretta 501 instead of actually paying attention and examining properly. Just because the thoughts inside his head rushed as well. Stupid enough, it practically was all the same thought.
I want that handle for the fucking knife back before you idiots hopefully piss out of our lives.
I don't want to play guardian for this stupid date with this rude Irishman.
I just want this madness to be over.
As he stopped at the knife again, he added And I don't want to see this flirty douchebag one more time.
He bristled, letting his gaze wander around the room in order to calm down. He had seen Michele's dining room countless times, the deep red wallpaper, the black marble floor, the few unframed paintings on the wall, the huge window making up almost the entire upper half of the wall right to him, the massive dark wooden table with the matching chairs and the two doorframes. Only the one leading to the corridor had an actual door; the other one connected dining room and kitchen.
The kitchen where Lorenzo and Michele were busy preparing food for tonight.
For that stupid date with that stupid Irishman.
Marco realised that instead of distracting himself in order to calm down he should just pull himself together and checking if his rifle was still alright before putting it back together.
Meanwhile, Lorenzo shared a similar fate with his thoughts.
Street food … You are really making street food for dinner, you can't really want him that much, huh?
While kneading the dough for the Cannoli he just couldn't get rid of the cranky smile on his face. He was amused for very weird and actually really idiotic reasons.
Maybe he just wants maximum outcome for minimal effort. Easy but very tasty food for a formal deal and sex. Probably all he wants from the redhead.
"Lorenzo, why are you pulling … such a face?" Michele asked, cocking an eyebrow and voice turning slightly worried midsentence. Lorenzo couldn't help but snicker quietly and shrug, while the other put the ingredients he had fetched from the pantry on the counter.
"I just … I don't know" he answered while Michele was busy organizing the stuff in front of him before he turned to the younger one:
"So no reason? Just feeling funny?"
"Yes."
Michele looked at him for a few more seconds before he opened the cupboard above his head:
"Well then. How is the dough coming along?"
After no answer and seeing out of the corner of his eye how Lorenzo stopped kneading and instead stared at the dough with a frown, he turned to him:
"Lorenzo?"
"To be fair Michele, he doesn't even seem to go anywhere …"
Michele grabbed the cutting board in front of him, motioning like he wanted to throw it at the other, all with a small smile on his lips.
Lorenzo only laughed in response, going back to kneading the dough:
"I don't think one more minute will hurt."
"Sure?" Michele asked, making a quick step sideways towards the other, pressing a hand on the dough himself.
"Yes sure" Lorenzo said with a smile and he sighed:
"Sure."
While he started to cut vegetables, Lorenzo's thoughts wandered off once more.
Are you a little excited? Or are you just as finicky as always? Latter one, surely. Just wanting to make sure everything is perfect as you always do.
"Please help me cutting after you put the dough into the fridge, will you" Michele asked after Lorenzo wrapped the dough up in film.
"Sure!"
The minutes after that were spent in silent, both side to side and snipping various things, until Michele couldn't help and glance over to the other, making himself smile.
"You've became a lot more patient."
Lorenzo stopped, turning to him with a frown: " … since when …?"
"Since I don't have to wash of your blood off my boards anymore."
The younger one laughed quietly and returned back to cutting: "I see."
"I can't believe my little boys are all grown up by now …"
"Michele…!"
"I'm your big brother, I'm allowed to be like that" Michele snickered, quickly ruffling through the other's hair: "But truly, I am relieved I managed to teach somebody how to cook that well. Who else would help me now with all of this?"
Lorenzo just flashed a big smile at him: "Always at your service, Michele!"
And as he shoved the last tomatoes from the board into a bowl, he asked: "Should I start making the ragù?"
"Sí. Also, check if the fat in the fryer is still okay. If not …"
"If not we have to do that pain in the arse that is to clean that shit" Lorenzo said almost under his breath while he, bent over in front of a drawer, pulled two pans out and put them on the stove. "Using a pan would have been way easier."
"And the right way to make Arancini and I still want to kick myself for having to use the deep fryer, but sadly we have no time" Michele replied. "And it's not only a pain but also very time consuming" he added, voice sounding somehow vacantly. He had stopped cutting, instead rolling his head around once before staring upwards at the cupboard.
Lorenzo heard him mumble and scratching something, listening carefully while he put oil in the pan and gathered the other stuff he'd need. And finally, Michele let out a weary and frustrated sigh.
"Cazzo, this will become a problem" he said.
"What will?"
"The whole cooking here. I don't know if I can manage it in time, especially since you have to leave."
Having picked up his knife again, he started gesturing:
"I have to decide between perfect food and perfect host, and that is just … I need more time. Should've taken that into account earlier, cazzo!"
"Or maybe another helping hand?"
Marco peeked inside the kitchen: "You know, I am almost done and after I put the stuff in the Mito, I'd help."
Michele just stared at him, slightly squinting, before pouting and turning away: "Yes, sure, thanks for your help, Marco."
"You're welcome …?" he said puzzled, eyes on his brother, their looks becoming even more confused when Michele chuckled quietly:
"No, I am really thankful. Just finish, then come back and help your brother."
But just a little time later, he added: "Wait, I got a better idea, after you're done, you come and help me."
"Alright Michele."
"Do you not trust us together?" Lorenzo said with a smirk in his voice.
Michele answered with a smile as well: "Of course I trust you together! Just not in my kitchen."
"Marco, did you hear that?"
"I am feeling really offended right now."
"There is serious business and then there is my kitchen. I am sorry, but the pancake in my face is still vivid in my memory and you two will not start a food fight here."
Marco had just shouldered the rifle and put the knife in his pocket when he heard that. Once more, the eyes of the twins locked when he glanced into the kitchen.
A food fight would be such a fun way to ruin this date with the leprechaun.
Harry couldn't see the others from here, but he envied them nonetheless.
He hadn't eaten anything since noon and despite waiting for his 'cab' that would take him to Michele for the meeting, he envied Charlie and Paddy who were most likely sitting on the terrace, enjoying a peaceful and normal dinner. Meanwhile, he stood at the gate of the Hotel's area for at least 10 minutes by now.
He just really hoped the food would be good. Even if everything would fail, he would have a satisfied stomach. He didn't even have to worry that his tooth gap would prevent him from eating; it didn't bleed nor hurt when he didn't touch it and even when he did, it was just for the second his tongue poked at it.
"Where the hell is your bloody minion, Vento, it's already five minutes past half past seven" the Irishman muttered, wondering if the other simply forgot or if this was something like being fashionable late. He and Charlie had checked out etiquette when it came to Italy and meetings like the one that was lying ahead of him; being late hadn't been included in the versions they had looked at.
But a car stopping in front of him interrupted him from his thoughts.
The driver of the silver Mercedes limousine let one of the car windows down; he seemed to be younger than Harry – something around twenty – head full with black curls and a scruff on his tanned face.
He lowered his sunglasses with a small smile, looking properly at the Irish for two seconds before saying:
"I suppose you are Signore O'Connel. Signore Vento sent me to pick you up."
"I see" Harry replied. "I am Signore O'Connel and your name?"
"Laterza, Signore. Now would you please get in, I don't think Signore Vento wants us to be late."
"Aren't we already?" Harry muttered while getting in the front passenger seat, earning a weird look from the Sicilian.
"No, Signore, I think we are in time" he said quietly with another small smile and that were the last words spoken in the car for the next minutes.
Harry once again admired Palermo when they drove through narrow alleys and the broad streets. First one consisted mostly of old, often run-down and sometimes even fit for demolition houses and small shops left and right of the road, the latter ones had big stores of clothing brands, jewellery, restaurants, supermarkets and cafés, sideways lined with trees blossoming pink.
Not that he got to see that much of it anyways, Laterza headed outside of the city, road going alongside the sea.
"Damn, that's still beautiful" Harry whispered, turning to the driver when he heard him chuckle.
"The sea?"
"Yeah … "
"It is. I come from a city a bit more inland, still amazed by having the water all around me."
"I am amazed that it is actually pretty and not a dirty green mess" Harry replied with a smile, making Laterza laugh.
"Oh, that sounds horrible. We are there in a few minutes by the way. Just wait a bit then you will spot the house. You can't overlook that mansion."
A mansion? Overdoing it a bit, aren't you Vento.
But indeed, most of the houses he now spotted on the side of the road were actual houses, most in a good or very good shape, fences around the properties.
Unlike the street which seemed to get worse and worse the farther they drove away from Palermo.
After the next turn, the Irishman knew what Laterza had meant by mansion; even from afar the house looked like the roman villas he had seen in his history books that filled his shelve as kid.
"Definitely overdoing it, Jesus Christ" he whispered. "What were you aiming for, mansion of the landlord?"
"Isn't he technically one?" Laterza whispered as well, Harry turning to him but the other didn't notice so they remained silent until they stopped in front of a gate.
During the last metres, Harry slipped his hand in his pocket to make sure the phone was there. It was a one way flip phone they had gotten at the train station so he would at least be able to contact the others, just in case.
"There we go. Have a nice evening, Signore O'Connel" Laterza said quietly, flashing a short smile at the other man.
"Well, you too, Mister Laterza" Harry gave back, getting out of the car and staring at the black bars in front of him as the Mercedes drove away.
He just wondered whether he would have call for Michele or if he simply couldn't see the doorbell when the car came back and drove past him again. And while he looked after it, somebody shouted "It's open!" from inside the fence.
Michele stood about 20 meters away in the door of his house, smiling at him.
"Are you fucking trying to shit me, you fucklord" Harry hissed when he pressed the handle down but the gate didn't do anything. Throwing his hands upwards, he shouted back "It's not!"
The Sicilian didn't move at first, just frowned, before he quickly made it over and pressed down the handle himself, muttering something in Italian.
"Scusi" he snarled and turned around, sprinting back inside the house, leaving Harry behind with the feeling that the universe had decided to take the piss out of him tonight.
"I am … apparently I accidentally closed it, I'm sorry" he mumbled when he came back, unlocking the gate and pulling it open.
When he looked at Harry, the Irishman inhaled sharply, feeling the blood shoot down into his crotch, and took a step back.
Michele's golden eyes looked right into his, the first buttons of his dark red shirt were open, offering a good look on his chest.
His first thought was definitely I am so glad he can't see my boner followed by I am as bloody queer as Charles.
"Signore O'Connel?" Michele's voice brought him back to reality and Harry coughed once into his sleeve.
"Sorry, I haven't had something to eat in a while, I feel a bit dizzy" he said and Michele chuckled amused, looking at him in his entirety.
"My, you are looking very posh, Signore O'Connel. If I had known this I would have dressed better as well" he smiled, closing the buttons of his shirt.
"Thank you" Harry replied quietly when Michele stepped back, his arm gesturing to the door:
"I think we should finally go inside, shouldn't we? I apologise for the complications."
The Irish wanted to say something but got distracted once he paid actual attention to the house, no bars in front of his face.
The grass was surprisingly green for the weather, a path of white granite leading to the steps of the front porch; it was a terrace made out of some light wood, trapped between the other two parts of the fronts, around two metre longer than the middle. Pillars held the roof of the porch, the door was a white double one with huge, green opal glass panes.
The only thing decent about this villa was its white walls and the red roof.
"Do you like it?" Michele asked and Harry turned to him, wondering if he had stared that long and obvious.
"It's an interesting choice for a house, Vento" he gave back, one eyebrow cocked, taking a few more steps inside of the yard and the Sicilian closed the gate behind him.
"Yes, it is" he said with a grin, walking up beside him, grin on his face and eyes on the house for a few more seconds before he turned to Harry: "Let's go inside, we have things to discuss."
For a moment Harry had forgotten that he was here for business and not for staring at all the Sicilian beauty surrounding him.
"Right" he backed, following him to the front porch and inside.
He thought the outside was over the top. He apparently was wrong if he compared it to what he saw now.
The room was huge, almost a hall, white, shiny granite for the floor and a deep orange for the walls, littered with paintings. At the back of it, two stairs at each wall lead to a small balcony which belonged to the corridor of the upper floor.
"Is that a fucking glass ceiling?" Harry asked, Michele only chuckling again.
"And a pain in the neck to clean it. Nobody was practical here back in the day" he joked while the Irish stared at him in disbelief:
"Michele, what is that fucking room?"
And another snicker slipped from his lips, turning around and leaning against the doorframe, half lidded eyes that made the Irish's heart skip a beat again.
"A corridor, an opening hall, a staircase. Can't you see it? And it is way too much."
Harry felt like adding a sarcastic "Oh no, it is just right, almost decent" but held himself back. The Sicilian sounded serious.
"And now, let me introduce you to a normal room for a change" Michele said, adding a "Harry dear" before opening the door, showing with a wave of his hand to follow him.
"Decent one indeed" he said after entering. The supposedly dining room was large, so was the dark wooden table in the middle of it, two sets of table mats and cutlery lying opposite to each other at the top end. To his right was the huge window he had already seen outside, to the left was the kitchen.
He at least assumed this from the look through the doorframe before a hand caught his chin and turned him around:
"Ah ah ah, Signore O'Connel, you'll only spoil yourself" Michele whispered, face only a few centimetres away from Harry's. And as much as those eyes had turned the Irish on lately, they didn't look that nice when the small smile on the Sicilian's lips didn't reach them.
He put his hand around Michele's wrist, his voice close to a hiss:
"Spoiling myself, huh? I am sure it will be a lovely surprise, right?"
"Of course, bello" Michele said, his fingers letting go of the other's face.
"One to die for?"
The Sicilian laughed quietly but seriously amused now:
"We are being a bit paranoid, aren't we?" he asked after his wrist got released. He pulled out one of the chairs: "Just have a seat and don't worry too much. My cooking sure has sent people to heaven, but never in that way."
"Nobody who spends time around you would end up in heaven once they are dead" Harry just gave back under his breath, earning a questioning look from the other.
He only passive-aggressively stared back, saying: "Don't we want to get on with it?"
"Impatient, aren't we?"
"You wanted to talk about business, Vento, not just be pretty and stand around."
A short sparkle appeared in the Sicilian's eyes.
"Well, that is true, but I wasn't the one who started being unprofessional. So, before I get the wine and we start our business talk, I want to ask – Is it Signore O'Connel or Harry for now? Because if you want a serious conversation I want to know what I am about."
"O'Connel it is." For now.
"Good. Then you should also make sure you won't let a Michele slip, shouldn't you."
"Of course."
Michele disappeared in the kitchen while Harry wondered if the other was honest about cooking himself or if somebody else did it for him; cooking was after all a very strange hobby for a mafia boss. And cooking for your own business dinner was a very weird thing no matter what your job was.
Then if I end up poisoned it maybe wouldn't even be him, he thought. Just an accident, just somebody else wanting to get rid of me.
He shook his head when an unpleasant thought went through it.
Somebody who thought it would be funny to take me out the same way as my father.
Michele interrupted his thoughts, putting a wineglass in front of him as well as on his own table mat.
As he put the wine bottle on the table and the corkscrew in, Harry noticed how quickly and smooth his motions went, well-versed as if he had done it a thousand times before.
"Will be back in a second, Signore" he said after pouring some in first Harry's glass and then his own, putting the bottle down on the table and closing it with a stainless steel bottle closer.
The Irishman wondered where he had the closer from, but hesitated long enough to ask such an unimportant question that the other was already back in the kitchen, so instead he grabbed the glass and sniffed.
As far as he could tell with his limited knowledge – he had always been way more of a booze and beer person – it smelled dry. Strong, not like hard liquor but leaving your throat burning nonetheless.
"Are you a gourmet of wine, Signore O'Connel?" Michele asked as returned, Harry lifting his arms to give him more space when he put a plate down in front him. It wasn't a very large plate and not filled to the brim either.
He really hoped that this was a more than a one course menu because otherwise he would not only envy but outright hate his bodyguards this evening.
"Not really …" he answered eyes on the other, who sat down across from him after placing a plate with the same dish on his own mat.
Harry took one last breath of the wine, this time to check if he smelled something strange, something that definitely didn't belong into food or someone's body.
But as far as he could judge it was just wine.
The next thing he paid more attention to was the plate in front of him.
He supposed it were fried vegetables, aubergines and tomatoes, maybe some pepper? And it had a weird smell, definitely sugar but something acrid as well.
"You like to stick your nose into things where it doesn't belong, don't you Signore O'Connel" Michele remarked entertained, hands folded and chin resting on it and the Irish's eyes shot at him:
"I am afraid I will have to hear the curiosity killed the cat thing once more."
"So I guess this isn't the first time somebody told you that."
"Curiosity hasn't killed this cat yet. Besides, the rest of that saying is 'But satisfaction brought it back.'"
Now Harry guessed what the sparkle in the other's eyes was – interest, almost admiration.
Something along the lines of this. Perhaps. He was just guessing after all.
Whatever it was, it only found his way to the surface through his eyes.
And his eyes still on Harry, he grabbed the wine glass and held it out to his dinner partner:
"Well then, to your health you curious cat."
Harry raised his as well and answered the other's "Salute" with a "Sláinte!" out of habit, earning a raised eyebrow but nothing more until Michele put the glass down:
"Irish?"
He had been right – it was a very dry, kind of sour wine:
"Yes."
"I see. Well then, let's start. Buón appetito, Signore O'Connel" he said, picking up his fork and starting to eat.
Not knowing how to reply this time, Harry simply did the same, realising though that he subliminally took another breath of the piece of eggplant in front of his mouth.
We are being a bit paranoid, aren't we.
Since when is a dinner a battle?
Since our lives are a war.
As he still couldn't make out any toxic flavour and Michele gave him once more a questioning look, he just stuffed it in his mouth.
Well, that was a surprising taste.
First of all, it was cold despite clearly being fried and secondly, the sweet-and-sour of caramelised sugar and vinegar pleasantly tingled on his tongue, instantly making his stomach feel weird, wanting more.
"So, Signore, where did we left off before that unfortunate incident yesterday?" the Sicilian interrupted him after a few more bites – there was pepper in it – and Harry put down another fork full of tomato and eggplant he was just about to put in his mouth.
"Well, let me think" he said, placing the fork on the plate and taking a sip from the wine, if sip was even the right word. It was a dry and sour wine, yes, but it suited the dish perfectly and Harry was thirsty anyways.
"Presumably about your financial problems. The wine you keep chugging down like water would be enough to cover most of your debts, if I may be honest."
His first urge was to spit the wine all over the table like in a bad sitcom, instead the Irish only choked on it, thumping his fist against his chest.
And the next urge when his eyes went to the bottle was to just snatch it and run like in some bad cartoon.
If he had been a few years younger, he would have done it. Something stupid, something incredible ridiculous. Something for the sake of doing it. Maybe for people talking about it.
Harry O'Connel, class clown, school prankster, probably the biggest dork in the entire borough, willing to risk everything for fun and maybe for reputation.
"I was kidding, stop eyeing at the bottle, next thing I'll have to witness is you stroking it and whispering my precious" Michele said and Harry's eyes jerked to him but the other was already occupied with his food again.
Picking up his fork, the Irish stared at it for a bit before remembering what their last business talk consisted off:
"Right. Our last talk was about my financial problems and you just wanting to make me your lap dog."
He hoped his glare would come across as one even though he was chewing on the best thing he had eaten in quite a while.
Michele's expression was unimpressed at least:
"Well, Signore O'Connel, that is a very biased and unprofessional thing to say."
"I am sorry, Mister Vento – You just want to give me money as a test. Trial time. Wanting to work with me, but no other help than money, money that I'd owe you."
If you wrong bastard really like me that much, I must say that you can differ from business and non-business when it is important though.
Can I manage that too?
"You'd owe me something if I would help you in the ways you suggested as well. Are you afraid you can't get back on your feet without a helping hand?"
"I'd rather have a partner to work with than just a loaner."
"Pardon me if I will catch you off guard, but my first impression when I found out a bit about your family and connections was that you already have a stable partner to work with. More or less stable, I mean – The Isles is a troublesome place, aren't they?"
"I assume you mean McAlistair" Harry replied, eyes on him but shoving around what was left on his plate. Michele hadn't finish either, just putting tiny bits into his mouth whenever Harry talked. Fortunately, the Sicilian talked longer than the Irish so he planned to do the same – just with larger amounts.
"Yes he is a partner, but that is a different kind of story."
"One that goes long back, I suppose."
"Exactly. Also, just because I have one safe partner doesn't mean I want him and me to be the only foundation of this wonky construction."
"What do you have against a trial time, Signore O'Connel? I can understand that you don't just want a loan, I simply want to help you with not immediately jumping into it." He sounded tired.
"That it isn't a trial time. Because so far, you haven't lost a single word about that you will just drop me after it. You'll give me money, which I have to pay back, no matter what."
"Just drop you after it?" Michele sounded genuinely confused, taking a sip of his wine as Harry explained:
"This isn't a trial time. Trial time means it'll have no consequences when I say no. You just want to put me on a leash and go for a walk to decide if I am worth being stuffed in a cage."
It was quiet for some time, Harry finishing what was left on his plate before the other spoke up:
"You mean that my trial time is only there to trick you into being dependent from me anyways? Is that what you want to say?"
"I guess it boils down to exactly that, yes."
"You don't think very highly of me, do you Signore O'Connel."
"I don't think very highly of our business, Mister Vento."
Michele chuckled, exhaling noisily through his nose, eyes on the other's plate:
"Fair enough, Signore."
He stood up, collecting their empty plates: "Excuse me now, I'll just prepare the main course and then I'll be back." He also took his wineglass between his fingers, nodding towards Harry's: "You better finish this as well. By all means, take your time doing so but I have a better wine for the next prepared."
"This is a waste of wine" the Irishman replied before emptying his glass while the other disappeared into the kitchen.
"Why would it be one? I'll just close the bottles again, it's not like wine goes bad!"
"Well the bottle is open now!" Harry gave back, giving him a surprised look when he showed up in the doorframe again:
"If you don't mind we can have one more glass after our discussion, Signore – Provided you are still there then."
"Depends on the outcome of our discussion."
Especially of the one we haven't had yet. Maybe we can talk about that over a glass of wine?
"I know. Also, if you want to have a glass, I have better ones than this. The last one is very acidic, I only went with it because it goes good with the dish, you know. Vinegar and tomatoes are tough to pair with wine. The one for the next course won't be that mild either, but we'll find a good one for later, I promise."
He smiled faintly at Harry's response because it was a mildly bewildered look and a quiet "I see" before taking a look around the room.
He still knew that Michele went away, not really paying attention to the painting he had his eyes on. Maybe Harry was easily impressed when it came to food but who cared. It had never been a problem before.
Oh man, I want to date a good hobby cook, he's going to be so disappointed -
Date?
Harry rubbed over his face, resting his chin on his hand.
Wait, at least wait with those thoughts after the business part is over, you bloody git.
He heard the buzzing and fizzling noise of something being put into hot oil and despite knowing better he tried to get another peek into the kitchen.
Michele didn't seem to notice as he placed the white balls – he wondered what it was and if it would taste as good as the first course – in a deep fryer, back towards the door.
Still not noticing, he turned the stove on, flames heating a small pot.
He knew the Sicilian would notice if he'd try to get a better look around the huge kitchen, so kept his eyes on him.
Maybe also because the other himself was a very pleasant view.
Yet he was still enough in his mind to quickly admire the paintings again when the other turned to the door.
The next minutes he listened to the noise coming out of the kitchen, trying to sneak a peek every once in a while, being successful at not getting caught, thus realising how big the kitchen was. And wondering what some of the utensils hanging from the walls and placed on shelves were good for.
"I feel like I have seen this place before …" he said, eyes squinted and focused on one of the paintings when Michele came back with another bottle of wine and two clean glasses and the Sicilian followed his look:
"Hm? Ah, maybe. It is just a picture of the coast."
"It kind of looks like the view from my hotel."
"Who knows?" Michele gave back, a kind and warm smile on his face. It suited him.
He kept explaining as he opened the bottle: "I bought it from one of those street painters, you know? Some of those guys really have talent, it's a shame people rarely buy their paintings."
"Are all paintings you have by street artists?" Harry asked as the other poured wine into their glasses:
"Most of them. There are a few that are … heirlooms." He grimaced, almost making the Irish laugh.
"'Heirlooms'?" he asked instead and Michele shrugged, picking up Harry's empty glass from before and turning to the kitchen: "One day I might explain, Signore. Now we clearly have other things to discuss, right?"
"Right" he muttered, eyes on the empty mat in front of him, reminding him how weird and unsatisfied his stomach felt since he finished the last plate.
And it growled when the Sicilian placed a new plate on the table, making Michele laugh as he set down his own:
"Something wrong, Signore O'Connel?"
"No, just hungry. Haven't had much, like I said before" he replied the other just smiled again:
"Well then, Signore. Should we just resume to our conversation after dinner?"
"We managed to uphold it before now" Harry gave back, stopping with figuring out how to eat the fried golden balls in front of him. Garnished with a little tomato sauce he wondered what would be inside. Was it just two really big croquettes? Sure looked like it. Fried Fish? Meat? "So I see no need for delaying."
"If you say so … You last said that you don't think very highly of our business?"
Once again he had to look back up from his plate, now having cut one of the balls in half, discovering the inside filled with mainly rice, but also tomatoes and pieces of mince: " Yes, right."
And once again, the other was clearly amused by his curiosity when it came to the food:
"They are called arancini, Signore. Rice balls, usually fried and filled with ragú, spinach or butter. Common Sicilian food."
"Ragú?"
"That's what I did – well, I added some mozzarella, I hope you like it. It's basically the sauce you have with spaghetti Bolognese, as you can see."
"Ah" was Harry's only answer, followed by a glare when he heard the next sentence by the other:
"And before you sniff it like a dog again, there's no poison in it, trust me. Would only ruin the taste and I hate to ruin food."
"Would it" he said, voice almost a growl. "Thank you for the segue though – I don't trust anybody easily in this pigsty called organized crime and sure as hell won't change that now and face plant badly."
"I did already, hence the trial time."
And once again, Michele looked tired when he explained that: "I tried bonding with another European family. I got tied up into business dealings I had nothing do to with and which added nothing for my benefit – quite the opposite actually."
Harry didn't answer immediately, to busy chewing on the way too huge chunk of rice he shoved into his mouth. It did taste like Bolognese and was even spicier than the first course but not enough to burn his mouth, just salt, pepper and onion making his tongue tingle pleasantly and cheese easing it again.
As Michele kept talking, he took the opportunity to take another bite:
"I got into trouble, I messed with people I never wanted to mess with", his voice got quieter and derisive: "Mess with back then. If I had known …"
Harry used the short pause he made to pipe in now: "You got dragged into things you didn't sign up for and that came back to bite you in the arse. Isn't it what you want to tell me?"
Michele smiled before starting to eat as well: "Once bitten, twice shy, Signore."
"So now you are trying to at least not be the one who gets short-changed this time."
"It is not like I will try to short-change you O'Connel, this is clearly not my intention. It also isn't my intention to drive you away from me – I am genuinely interested in a partner and I do think your business has a lot of potential. You have a lot of potential if you would just set your mind to it, Signore."
"You sound like my old literature teacher and I don't like it" Harry replied exhaustedly and Michele snorted:
"Scusi. But my statement stands – I'd love to work with you, I really think this could work out great, but I won't be incautious, for my own and most likely also for your benefit."
"Again, so caring for me" Harry said with the same bored tone as before: "And I don't really buy it. But okay, you want me, even a blind man would have noticed that – "
He bit his tongue, ignoring the sparkling in Vento's eyes as he carried on: "So how about a compromise – you give me enough money to get off my back about it when either of us feels like dropping out, just to make it a real trial time – I get the chance to take care of my financial problems and you can perfectly see me living up to my potential!"
Michele smiled faintly, tired and fake: "The amount of money I'd be willing to 'lose' wouldn't be enough to make any great leaps forward, Signore O'Connel."
"I take what I can get – and what I can get here is a wee bit of money and a future partner. One that already has drawn the wrath of Arthur Kirkland upon them, all the better."
He grinned at the other, for a second wondering if it looked weird now with the tooth gap but then decided that he couldn't care less; having relaxed during the last minute and coming across almost carefree now.
Carefree or self-confident. All the same in the end.
More moments were spent in silence, it felt longer than it could have been to Harry and the only reason he didn't ask for an answer was that he was too occupied by the food and wine again. The wine went easier down his throat, being noticeable less dry than the one before.
"Alright." Michele said seriously but with a friendly expression on his face: "It does sound like a plan to me. I agree."
"We have a deal?"
"We have a deal. We can sort out the details after dinner, but we have a deal. Would you like to set up the contract right after it as well?"
Harry bit his lip before he shook his head: "No, I want witnesses when we do it. Tomorrow, in front of the others."
"As you wish, Signore" the Sicilian gave back, cocking an eyebrow when the Irish held his glass out to him:
"To our deal and hopefully a good cooperation in the future!"
But after they clinked and put the glasses down again, an odd silence spread in the room again, different from the one before, even different from the one in the box. Not as heavy and tired like when they were trapped together, but light and threatening. They had both finished their meals, but the dinner wasn't over yet. They came to a conclusion with their work negotiation, but there was still something left to discuss.
"Well, ready for the last course?" Michele asked, standing up and collecting plates once more, Harry's eyes unfocused on the middle of the table.
"Business talk is over, right?"
"I suppose, Signore."
The Irish focused again, namely on the Sicilian: "Call me Harry then for the rest of the evening."
Another one of those kind smiles appeared on his face:
"Alright, Harry, back to the first names." He picked up Harry's empty glass: "I suppose, bello works just fine as well, won't it?"
"You'll say it anyways" he answered, making the other chuckle.
"You are just too beautiful to not let you know, Harry."
The Irish rolled his eyes: "Any other corny phrases for me? Or would you rather tell me what's for dessert?"
A beam spread on Michele's face: "You."
He didn't like the sun so much anymore, Arthur decided. Couldn't have O'Connel chosen some place cold and rainy? He was used to this weather and it was way easier to bear with than heat. Rain, one just wiped out an umbrella or put the hood of one's jacket on. But when it came to heat, one's only chance of any kind of relief was either praying for wind or getting rid of one's clothes.
His only chance now was waiting for the sun to go further down, because while the breeze of the coast was helping, the Englishman still had to take off his suit jacket and loosen his tie.
"And all for nothing maybe" he muttered while leaning against the car he had gotten here with, 'here' being another one of the countless dirty field ways. Miah had taken way longer than he should have, but at least he had been thorough. If you poked that man's interest, he would move mountains although you never told him to do so.
"I found several paths surrounding the area, I even came up with a plan –"
"You did enough, Mister Miah. Thanks for your effort."
"You're welcome Sir…"
He had gotten the chance to play spy, Arthur thought amused when it triggered memories from his own childhood. His parents watching the James Bond movies with him, his mother covering his eyes during particular violent (or erotic) scenes, all of them going to the cinema when The World Is Not Enough came out. He was 9 at the time, his future plans to become either a secret agent or a wizard, having already swallowed the first three books of the Harry Potter series by then.
"Are you sure he can read them? It is a pretty thick book. He's 7, John."
"Balderash! He's a bright boy, honey, it'll only help him improve! Besides, he picked it himself and I am sure he will like it, who doesn't like fairy tale stories about wizards?"
Never mind it hadn't been a fairy tale, Arthur had loved it nonetheless like his father had predicted and both of his parents had endured his obsession all over the years. All his wishes to go to Hogwarts, all the spell and potion "practice" – latter one just being him messing the kitchen up – encouraged by the two. Except for the potion practice of course.
Just like the playing spy before, long before the realisation, that the only thing he was ever to be destined was a Bond villain or Voldemort, came to him.
Being at the whole secret agent topic, he wondered if he had any bugger from the MI5 or Scotland Yard after him; if yes they did a bloody good job at not being noticed.
That was when the real world interrupted his thoughts: Somebody left the house of Vento – those twins a look through his binoculars told him – entering a car and leaving.
But just as he had relaxed, the car did something unexpected, driving up a cliff almost out of his sight.
"Oh, so you are afraid we'll ruin your little party Vento" he said, yet getting back in his car, hoping he could drive out of their field of sight before they'd spot him.
He waited after driving a few meters, now rough-and-ready hiding behind several olive – or any kind of small fruit – trees and dry bushes. It didn't exactly lightened up his mood that he had to sacrifice his perfect observation spot, but it pissed him off that now he had to be even more careful to get down there once … once he had the opportunity to take care of Vento and O'Connel.
Now we have to play hide and seek, sneaking up like a spy, don't we Arthur.
His look crept to the glove compartment. Behind couriers was a gun hiding now, along with a pair of gloves. Just to be sure, he would get rid of it once he had done it, in case somebody would find their bodies. He had thought about using the old revolver but it would have only gotten in the way. The old revolver was an Enfield No. 2 Mark 1, Britain's standard WW2 gun and an heirloom from his grandfather. Old, battered; unreliable and weak from the start. And he supposed his father's 'love' had more to do with tradition or family pride than with connecting with his grandfather. Arthur knew almost nothing about this man except for his name – Harold Kirkland. His own father John Kirkland hadn't like talking about him, had answered his son's questions regarding his grandfather sparsely.
He shook his head – Enough thinking about his family, he had to get a job done here. He had to take two men out tonight to be finally at peace. To finally, finally get a rest from this hot water called Europe.
O'Connel and McAlistair couldn't stop getting on his nerves, the Bonnefoy-Vento affair a few years ago had tested his young career to an extent which he definitely did not want to relive now. No more Sicilians in his part of Europe. And no more troublemaker on his isles. McAlistair wouldn't be able to hold all of Ireland alone either before those damn buggers could reform. But the Welshman …
"Goddammit Arthur, pull yourself together" he growled at himself, getting out of the car again. He could go back to planning all of this once they were dead – like they should be already. Sleeping with the fishes. Being six feet underground. Having met a sticky end.
More euphemisms ran through his head while he watched the twins on the cliff, but nothing unordinary; just a lonely red Mito. So he focused on Vento's house again and there he was. O'Connel, standing in front of the gate, shouting something. Vento coming over, then hurrying back inside. He came back and unlocked the gate, letting the other in and it took them yet another minute to go inside.
Now Arthur had to wait. He didn't know for what exactly but he would know a chance when it showed itself and he would take it. His eyes wandered back to the glove compartment.
Ready for a Rendezvous with death, you bastards?