May 7 2021. 22:03. Rome. Gala day.
The uniform is a snug fit for me.
It's not too uncomfortable, but it's snug enough that I notice it every time I move.
Black slacks. Fitted jacket. Security earpiece. Low-profile shoes. Another wig styled and tucked back differently. Minimal makeup. Coloured contacts swapped out. A voice modulator adjusted once again to make me sound like someone new if anybody bothers asking questions.
Since changing out of the dress, I've been moving through the venue's behind-the-scenes sections without much issue. Shock's keycard gets me through most lower-level checkpoints, and the rest comes down to posture.
The back corridors are a completely different world from the gala outside.
Of course, there's no champagne or polished smiles here.
At best, there's muffled music bleeding through the walls, staff moving quickly with trays, security teams adjusting positions, technicians whispering into comms, and event coordinators trying not to have public breakdowns every time something changes.
The walls are cleaner than most places I've worked in, but the energy is the same as any high-pressure operation.
And for better or worse, everything seems fine.
No panicked guards. No suspicious devices. No weird network issues that Shock has reported to us.
Which somehow makes me trust it less.
I pass two staff members arguing quietly about table placement, then a pair of guards discussing shift rotations. A technician hurries by carrying a case of cables while another security officer barely glances in my direction before returning to his tablet.
Eventually, I make it deeper into the venue than most staff are probably supposed to go.
Access grows tighter the farther I walk down the halls, and for good reason too.
With each passing minute there are more guards, more closed doors, less noise from the actual gala, and more weight in the air.
Then I reach a room where the tone changes completely.
Several large doors greet me. I push them open gently, and immediately I know I've stepped into the real gala.
Not the public one outside. The real one.
Inside the room, Dante stands with Shock among some of the most powerful people in the Neapolitan Camorra.
The room itself is large, filled with tables, seating areas, and clusters of conversation.
Wissen stands farther back, exactly where he said he would be, present without looking like he's directing anything.
But seated throughout the room?
Underbosses and plenty of lieutenants, aides, and trusted associates.
A shitload of them.
The number of underbosses alone looks close to ten, which is honestly insane.
Then again, I'm not exactly the most knowledgeable person when it comes to internal mafia politics.
Men and women wearing expensive suits and enough cyberware to buy a small building sit throughout the room. Some have simple replacement limbs. Others have modified skulls with exposed circuitry fashionably woven into flesh. All of them wear controlled expressions and carry enough influence to start wars with a few phone calls.
Beyond the obvious difference between the more improvised, chaotic nature of North American gangs and the far more distinguished feel of the Camorra, there's a certain level of respect and awe I can't help but feel towards them.
And no it's not their fashion sense.
It's that these underbosses are practically institutions in their own right.
The sheer fact that all of this is happening before the Don has even arrived is even more impressive.
The conversations, the alliances, the old rivalries hidden beneath polite smiles, and the countless social reunions taking place throughout the room all feel like pieces of a machine already in motion.
And somehow, everyone manages to make it look effortless.
I lean against a wall and scan for the names Dante specifically warned us about.
Antonio Romano. Elena DiMartino. Marco Vitale.
Those three I know to watch.
Ah. There.
Antonio carries himself like a banker first and a criminal second, which probably makes him twice as dangerous. Elena looks composed in that terrifying way people do when they're used to being obeyed. Marco has the posture of someone constantly assessing what can be taken apart, rebuilt, or turned into a weapon.
Beyond them? There are far too many faces and relationships for me to map immediately.
Some greet Dante warmly while others remain strictly polite.
A few barely hide their disapproval though.
The conversations remain civil, thankfully. But there's something underneath every smile and handshake. It's not hostility exactly, it's more patient than that. But for sure, everyone is measuring everyone else.
Dante, currently standing in the middle of it all with the briefcase containing the railgun, handles it well.
He moves through the room with a calmness that makes him look like he belongs here.
Shock, though? That's where things get interesting.
Most people acknowledge Dante. Very few properly acknowledge her.
Some offer polite compliments about Vancouver. Some call her clever. Some ask about her work like they're humouring a child who happened to get good with computers. Others dismiss her entirely, treating her as little more than Dante's younger sister who left Italy and came back dressed nicely.
Every time it happens, I see it.
Shock's eyes tighten slightly. Her smile remains in place but loses some warmth. Her hands stay calm even when her posture shifts by a fraction.
And every time Dante notices, he corrects them, firmly.
Enough that everyone hears it.
"Olivia has earned her place."
"She is here because I trust her."
"She has done more for this operation than most people in this room understand."
The first time he says it, the room shifts slightly.
The second time, people start taking the hint.
Whether they believe him is another matter entirely.
Shock never looks at him when he defends her.
Instead, she keeps smiling and continues playing her role perfectly.
I linger near the edge of the room, close enough to observe but far enough away that nobody cares.
At least, that's the hope.
The sheer amount of information moving through the room is ridiculous.
Every conversation has layers.
There are discussions about shipping routes, but what they really mean is weapons. Someone references family loyalty, but they're talking about votes. Somebody else jokes about security while really asking whether Dante can protect himself.
A laugh from one corner makes another corner go quiet.
Antonio speaks with Elena for less than thirty seconds, and Marco watches the entire exchange without blinking.
Dante answers a question from an older underboss before smoothly redirecting the conversation toward future stability.
Shock contributes once, briefly, talking about network security and some of her "adventures" in Vancouver.
A few listen. Although it's difficult to tell how much they genuinely care about what she has to say. The rest don't seem interested at all.
One man smirks like he's already decided she doesn't matter.
I memorize his face.
Just in case.
The room feels overwhelming given the number of social dynamics in play.
And I'm not even the one being tested.
I adjust my posture slightly, keeping my expression neutral as just another guard.
Faces blur together after a while.
Everyone smiles. Everyone shakes hands. Names are exchanged. Compliments are offered. Small laughs come and go. Everyone pretends everything is normal.
Captains. Lieutenants. Advisors. Old family associates. Trusted representatives. Business partners.
Far too many people for anyone to comfortably keep track of.
The room constantly shifts as conversations form and dissolve. Groups split apart only to reconnect somewhere else a few minutes later. One underboss leaves a discussion. Another immediately replaces him. Someone new enters. Somebody else disappears.
It's like watching politics disguised as a family reunion. Then again, maybe that's exactly what this is.
A loud burst of Italian laughter cuts through the room.
My attention shifts toward Rafael.
That man is impossible to miss, holy shit.
He moves through the gathering, greeting people with broad smiles and firm handshakes. Every few minutes, he exchanges jokes with somebody, slaps another man on the shoulder hard enough to nearly knock him sideways, then immediately pivots into asking security personnel if they're doing their jobs properly.
It's… weirdly wholesome.
One second he's acting like everybody's favourite uncle. The next he's checking positions, verifying routes, and quietly confirming personnel assignments.
Nobody seems offended by it either. If anything, most people appear relieved when he checks in.
Rafael somehow manages to make security audits feel friendly.
Meanwhile, Shock periodically checks the gala's camera feeds.
At first, I think she's simply monitoring everything manually. Then I overhear part of a conversation.
"Automation's handling most of it."
One of the nearby security specialists blinks. "Seriously?"
Shock nods casually. "Yep. Pattern recognition, movement flagging, route monitoring, anomaly detection. If anything weird happens, I'll get notified." She snaps her fingers. "So unless somebody invents a new way to be suspicious, I can actually socialize tonight."
The specialist looks mildly horrified.
Shock looks proud.
Honestly, both reactions make sense.
Then a set of footsteps draws my attention toward the entrance.
A few moments later, the doors open and Tetra walks in alongside several security personnel.
He looks noticeably more comfortable than the first time he entered one of these rooms. His eyes scan the crowd before briefly landing on me.
We exchange a small nod. Nothing more than that.
Then we continue about our business.
Tetra drifts toward the outskirts of the gathering with the other security personnel.
From a distance, I can tell he's doing exactly what he'd naturally do anywhere else.
Making friends. Or at least attempting to.
The luxury surrounding us clearly isn't his world.
The tailored suits. The expensive cyberware. The generations of wealth and influence packed into a single room.
It's probably making him feel even more out of place than he did back in Vancouver.
Yet somehow he's adapting.
While everyone else networks through power, influence, and politics, Tetra networks through familiarity.
A joke here. A shared complaint there. A conversation about shift schedules. Another about food. A third about someone's hometown.
Simple things.
And while he's making friends, I can't help but feel like a proud parent watching their child finally learn how to talk to the other kids in class.
Although...
I pause, giving it some more thought.
It's not like Tetra never knew how to talk to people. It's just nice seeing him adjust to an environment faster than he did in Vancouver.
Yeah.
I think that's it.
I look past Tetra after that, trying to see if I can find Mister, assuming he's not too far behind Tetra's group.
But I don't see him at all.
Which probably means he's exactly where he wants to be.
Every now and then, I try listening in on conversations in English or in the Italian that I do understand, hoping to hear something about what Mister is up to.
Unfortunately for my curiosity, nobody seems particularly aware of his presence.
Which is also good for us.
On top of all of this, I can't help but wonder what Remi's up to.
Part of me is a little concerned that we also put him in a security uniform, but it's either putting Remi outside on his own or at least surrounding him with friendly faces while he roams the halls.
Hell fucking no is he getting added into the room the rest of us are in. That's for sure.
For my own curiosity's sake, I imagine Remi genuinely enjoying himself.
Maybe he's out there treating one of the most politically important nights in Dante's life like a networking event mixed with a concert.
Talking with guests or guards. Laughing his ass off. Making connections. Collecting contacts. Accepting compliments. Hopefully not collecting any one-night stands that end up screwing him or us over.
I can totally see him somehow convincing a small group of attendees to listen to music directly from his phone.
… I hate that I can so clearly picture Remi doing every possible dumb thing right now.
Part of me wants to call it a problem and a complete dumbass. But at the same time... the guy is kind of unforgettable in that regard.
All in all, the gala is functioning well. At least from what I can tell.
More conversations fly past me as I continue watching from my position near the edge of the room while people move around me, not really considering my presence.
Across the hall, Shock finally breaks away from another discussion.
She looks considerably more relaxed than she did earlier.
Not relaxed enough to lower her guard, but relaxed enough that she's no longer checking camera feeds every five minutes.
Instead, she starts making her way through the room.
First, she stops near Tetra and exchanges a few words with him.
Then she drifts over toward Wissen. That conversation lasts longer.
Not surprising at all.
Wissen could probably turn a one-word answer into a fifteen-minute discussion if he wanted to.
Eventually, though, something catches her attention. I notice it immediately too.
At first, it's just a brief walk in a different direction. Then she slows to a halt, her eyes locking onto something—or rather, someone—across the venue.
Several familiar faces, judging by her expression.
The problem is that I can't see who she's looking at from where I'm standing.
Sadly, the crowd blocks most of my view.
What I do see is that she eventually walks over to greet them.
Curiosity immediately gets the better of me, and I begin shifting positions through the room, carefully moving around clusters of guests while trying to find a better angle.
Unfortunately, whoever caught Shock's attention is buried behind a wall of expensive suits and important people.
Great. Very helpful.
For now, I'll have to settle for wondering.
Nearby, Tetra remains positioned near the outer edges of the gathering, still chatting with security personnel.
At least he's having fun.
Part of me is tempted to join the conversation, but I force myself not to get too involved with other people and instead focus on the mission at hand.
Still, Tetra keeps one eye on the room whenever he thinks nobody's looking. Good.
Then the atmosphere changes. It's not sudden. Rather, it's gradual.
Conversations around me begin slowing down and are gradually replaced by murmurs and whispers. People stop moving quite as much. Heads begin turning one by one toward the same destination.
Then I finally see who Shock was talking to.
Several guards in expensive designer suits.
Damn.
Even without seeing the entrance, I know immediately what's happening.
The most important person in the room has arrived.
My gaze shifts toward the doors, and my suspicions are confirmed.
Don Alessandro Caruso. The leader of the Neapolitan Camorra walks in surrounded by security and longtime associates.
He's older than I expected, probably somewhere in his seventies, with silver hair neatly combed back and a face lined by decades of stress, power, experience, and unsung kill counts. His suit is immaculate without being flashy, tailored perfectly and expensive enough that nobody needs to ask how much it cost. There are no unnecessary displays of wealth on him. He doesn't need them.
The room reacts accordingly.
Political figures pause their conversations, business discussions quietly end, and several rival personalities temporarily set aside their disagreements. Nobody announces the Don's arrival and nobody demands silence, yet the room naturally gives it to him all the same.
People simply know.
Then again, power has a way of doing that. And if Dante's stories are anything to go by, there is also a tremendous amount of history and respect behind that reaction.
Don Alessandro moves through the room with the confidence of someone who has spent decades sitting at the top of the mountain.
"Buona sera."
He shakes one man's hand.
"È bello vederti ancora."
Another receives a pat on the shoulder.
"Come sta la tua famiglia?"
The responses come quickly.
"Don Alessandro."
"È un onore."
"Grazie per essere venuto."
The greetings continue as he makes his way through the room.
When Rafael approaches, the Don's face visibly softens.
"Rafael." The older man smiles.
"Don Alessandro." Rafael grins before pulling him into a brief embrace. "You still look younger than half the men in this room."
Several people laugh.
"And you are still a liar," the Don replies.
The two exchange a few more words in Italian before Rafael steps aside and allows him to continue.
Several underbosses gradually position themselves within view.
Antonio Romano greets him first.
Elena follows.
Marco shortly after.
One by one, the various underbosses pay their respects.
Then Dante steps forward, with the room paying particular attention to that interaction.
"Don Alessandro."
"Dante." The older man's expression remains warm but measured. "It is good to see you."
"And you as well."
A simple handshake follows.
The conversations continue for another minute before they begin dying off as the pleasantries are gradually exhausted and the real reason everyone came here slowly comes to the forefront.
Eventually, no amount of small talk can stall the inevitable.
I straighten slightly against the wall, my attention fully focused now.
My eyes sweep across the room, checking where the underbosses, their entourages, notable guests, and security personnel have positioned themselves. The last thing I want is for my focus to slip at the worst possible moment.
This is the moment I was paid for, and I intend on earning my keep.