Salvatore Dalla Part 2

After an hour of nonstop running, drenched in sweat, I stop at a small Caffetteria to buy some water before heading back to the estate, realizing just how far I had gone.

That wasn’t my intention, but I needed to blow off some steam, and nothing is better than pushing my body to exhaustion. I could’ve gone to one of the training centers I maintain, fought with one of my brothers or soldiers, or even with my head of security, but I really didn’t want to look anyone in the face.

My well-known inner emptiness was enough for me.

I take a few large gulps as I make my way back, reaching the road that leads to the path home, and continue walking until I finish the bottle. I’m going to start running again—pushing my body to exhaustion is one of the things that gives me the most pleasure. It might be a bit masochistic, but the muscle pain helps me focus on something other than my fucked-up reality and its countless responsibilities.

In an unusual moment, I get distracted while changing the song on my phone app, and that’s when everything happens.

A man suddenly throws himself at me in a failed attempt to steal the device from my hands.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask, as I flip him onto his back, pinning him to the ground.

At that moment, the man, who I now see is an older gentleman, looks at me in terror.

“My lord, forgive me,” he pleads, realizing the mess he’s made as I point my gun at his forehead.

“Who are you? Who sent you to attack me?” I ask, and the fear in his expression makes me think he’s seeing the face of the devil himself.

That’s exactly what some of the people I’ve tortured over the years have said—that I was the demon incarnate. I can’t say they’re wrong; in fact, I agree with them. That’s exactly how I feel—superior and untouchable, master of the souls and bodies that I have under my control.

With a skill I’ve acquired over the years, I can tell that this man lying on the ground in front of me poses no real threat. But he’s made a grave mistake, and he’ll pay for it.

“No one, sir, have mercy on my mistake. I’m just a desperate father trying to feed his daughter,” he stammers, and I see that he recognizes me.

A lot of people know who I am; to be honest, I believe everyone in Italy knows that I’m the head of the Dalla Costa, not just a businessman. But no one even dares to speak of it, including the police. Those who tried aren’t alive to tell the rest of the story.

“And you think stealing is the way to do that?” Okay, I’m not exactly the best person to give anyone a moral lesson, but my position demands action. I didn’t have a choice—he does.

“I can’t find work,” he explains. “No one wants to hire a crippled old man.” He only has one arm, which might explain his lack of employment, but his actions and choices have no justification.

I take out my phone and ask Amadeu to meet me immediately. This man made a critical error, but the truth in his words stopped me from killing him instantly with the gun still pointed at his forehead, or even with my knife. Maybe, deep down, I still have some remnant of a sense of justice. What I’ll do with him, I don’t yet know, but I’m certain that from today onward, he’ll never see the daughter he supposedly wanted to feed again—he’ll be my prisoner.

No one steals from the Dalla Costa and goes unpunished.

Amadeu arrives faster than expected, his headlights cutting through the misty alley as the old man stares at me, his remaining hand trembling but clenched tightly.

“Please,” he says, his voice raw with desperation. “I just wanted to save her. My daughter... she is starving....”

The words gnaw at something I’ve buried—something I’d rather keep buried. But mercy? That’s not in the Dalla Costa bloodline.

Amadeu steps out of the car, his face a mask of grim professionalism. “What’s the plan?” he asks, glancing at the man on his knees before looking back at me.

I flick the safety off my gun, weighing my options, and finally lower it. “Take him,” I order. “Lock him up until I figure out what he’s worth. Maybe someone will pay for his life. Maybe he’ll rot.”

The old man’s eyes widen, a mix of fear and relief. He doesn’t thank me, though—he knows better than to think this is mercy.

As Amadeu drags him to the car, I light a cigarette and glance up at the night sky. A single star glints back, mocking me.

Because for the first time, I’m not sure if I’m punishing him for stealing from me—or for making me question who I’ve become.

Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what to do with him. Or maybe he’ll figure it out for me.