You know the drill, please do not post on this forum unless you are Imperial WBs or me (Thornwood). Feel free to read along if you wish!

Vince Romano sat alone in the dimly lit study, his tall frame hunched slightly over the worn violin in his hands. The bow glided effortlessly across the strings, pulling a rich, haunting melody from the instrument as his dark brown eyes closed in concentration. The sound filled the room, soft and aching, almost mournful. For a brief moment, the outside world seemed to slip away, leaving him alone with the music.

It wasn’t often he let himself indulge in this. The violin had been his mother’s—she’d taught him when he was a child, her voice gently coaxing him to perfect every note. It was one of the few things that connected him to a time before everything had become complicated, before the world had been so heavy. Every time his fingers touched the strings, he could still hear her laugh, see her smile as she’d sat beside him, showing him how to hold the bow just right. Those days felt so far away now, buried under the weight of everything he’d had to take on since then.

When his parents had died, everything had changed. Vince hadn’t been ready to take over, to step into a role that suddenly felt too big for him. He was just a kid—barely twenty—and Luca, his younger brother, had been even younger. But the world didn’t care about age, didn’t care about readiness. The day his parents died, Vince had gone from being their son to being the head of the family, and every decision that followed felt like a test he wasn’t prepared to face.

His mother had always insisted that the violin be part of his life, and for a while, he had. But after the funeral, after the chaos of the estate and the empty house that felt like it was closing in on him, he’d let it gather dust. He’d buried himself in work, in trying to keep everything afloat in a business that wanted to watch him drown. There was no room for music. There was no room for anything but survival, for keeping his father's name alive. But tonight, for reasons he couldn’t explain, he’d found himself picking it back up. It was as if the violin called to him, pulling him back to a time before all the dark things.

A soft knock at the door broke his focus, and his hand stilled on the strings. He lowered the violin, glancing toward the door, “Come in.”

The door creaked open, revealing Luca. His younger brother's dark eyes flicked to the violin in Vince’s hands, a grin forming on his face, “I’m interrupting, aren’t I?”

Vince gave a sly smile, leaning back in the chair, “You're always interrupting."”

Luca stepped into the room, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. The familiar sight of his younger brother—still tall but not yet fully grown into the man Vince knew he’d become—always stirred something protective in him. Now freshly twenty-one, Luca looked more like their mother than Vince, the same sharp eyes and wild, untamed energy. He was impulsive, always acting before thinking, and it made Vince worry about him.

“You’ve been holed up in here for hours,” Luca said, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of concern, "Mama Rose is complaining you've missed too many dinners."

Vince ran a finger lightly over the strings, the faintest flicker of a smile touching his lips, “That old crone is always complaining."

And she was, of course. As was to be said of every grandmotherly figure. Though of no relation, the cook had stayed on under Vince's persitance and now acted like a mother in his own parents' stead. And if she'd have heard him call her a crone, Vince would surely never survive the night.

Luca snorted, leaning against the doorframe, “You can say that again."

Vince hesitated, looking back at the violin, his fingers tracing the grooves of the wood, before sighing and setting the instrument aside, “Alright, I’ll be down in a minute.”

Luca raised an eyebrow, watching him closely. “You sure? You’ve been... distant lately.” His voice softened slightly, as if he was treading carefully, “More than usual.”

Vince met his gaze, his expression unreadable for a beat, before he shrugged, “Just thinking. You know how it is. Grown up stuff”

Even from here Vince vould tell Luca wasn’t convinced, but thankfully he didn’t press it further. He knew when to let Vince be, and when to leave him alone with his thoughts. Vince had always been the stronger one—the one who took charge after their parents died. They’d never talked about it. Not really. There were things that didn’t need to be said.

“Yeah, I know,” Luca replied, his voice quiet but firm, “Just don’t stay up here too long. She’ll come up and drag you out herself if she has to.”

Vince gave a small, almost imperceptible smile, nodding in agreement, “I’ll be down.”

With a final glance, Luca turned and left the room, the door clicking shut behind him. Vince sat there for a moment longer, letting the silence fill the room, but he knew the peace he found in the music wouldn’t last. It never did. There was always something pulling him back—something waiting for him. The weight of everything that had been left undone.

But for now, just for a few more moments, Vince let himself be just a man holding a violin, lost in a melody that carried the ghost of his mother’s love. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever let himself feel that way again.

--

I hope this is alright! I feel like a little something other than a jump into action could be good :)

Freya Michaelis

Vince stared at the closed door, listening to Luca's fading footsteps. The echoes of his brother’s concern lingered, mingling with the faint hum of the strings as he set the violin back into its case. He locked it carefully—a habit born out of respect for the instrument, and perhaps for what it symbolized. His mother’s voice echoed in his mind again, soft and insistent: “Music will keep you human, Vince. Don’t ever lose it.”

But humanity came at a cost in his world.

He rose from his chair, his movements fluid and deliberate, and crossed the room to the window. Pulling back the heavy drape, he looked out at the sprawling city below. The lights glimmered like fireflies, masking the darkness beneath—a darkness Vince knew all too well. This city wasn’t just his home; it was his empire. And like any empire, it thrived on power, control, and fear.

Romano Exports, the legitimate face of his family’s operations, was only part of the story. Behind closed doors, the Romani name commanded respect—and dread—in the underworld. From high-stakes gambling rings to the steady flow of contraband through the docks, every deal, every shipment passed through Vince’s hands. He didn’t choose this life, but he’d learned to master it. For Luca’s sake. For the sake of the family name.

A soft rap on the window glass pulled him from his thoughts. His gaze snapped upward, landing on the shadow of a figure on the fire escape outside. His heart didn’t skip a beat. He was used to visitors who came uninvited.

Reaching under his jacket, Vince’s hand brushed against the cold grip of the pistol at his side. He moved to the latch and slid the window open, keeping his expression calm and controlled.

The figure stepped inside with a practiced ease, shedding the shadows like a second skin. Franco. One of his most trusted enforcers. The man’s leather jacket gleamed under the faint light of the study, and his face was carved with tension.

“Boss,” Franco said, his voice low and rough. “We’ve got a problem.”

Vince shut the window behind him and gestured toward the chair by the desk. Franco didn’t sit, his restlessness clear in the way he shifted his weight.

“Talk,” Vince said simply, leaning against the edge of the desk.

Franco hesitated for half a second, his dark eyes flicking to the violin case before snapping back to Vince. “One of the shipments. The dock warehouse. It’s gone.”

Vince’s jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the edge of the desk. “Gone?” His voice was quiet, measured—a tone that sent a chill through anyone who heard it.

Franco nodded grimly. “Cleaned out. No signs of a struggle, no alarms. Just... gone. And the dockhands are swearing they didn’t see anything.”

For a moment, Vince said nothing, his mind racing through possibilities. Theft? Unlikely—no one in the city would dare touch a Romano shipment without expecting swift and brutal consequences. Maybe it was a message. Or worse, a move to undermine his family’s control.

“Who knew about the shipment?” Vince asked finally, his voice sharp.

“Just the usual crew. Nobody new,” Franco replied. “But... there’s more.”

Vince arched a brow, waiting.

Franco stepped closer, lowering his voice. “There’s word on the street. Someone’s been asking about the Romani operations. Someone who doesn’t belong.”

“Who?” Vince demanded.

“Don’t have a name yet, but they’re bold. Asking the wrong people, in the wrong places.”

Vince’s gaze darkened, his mind already working through the implications. Someone had stepped into his world uninvited, and they weren’t playing by the rules. That meant one thing: they wanted a war.

“Find them,” Vince said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And when you do, bring them to me. Alive.”

Franco nodded, already moving toward the window. “Consider it done.”

As the enforcer slipped back into the night, Vince stayed where he was, staring at the violin case. The peace he’d found earlier had already slipped through his fingers, replaced by the familiar weight of responsibility and the promise of violence.

This was his world. A kingdom built on shadows, where every decision carried consequences. And in this world, Vince Romano didn’t just survive—he ruled. And now, he had an old woman to satisfy with an appearance at dinner.

Freya Michaelis

The dining room was bathed in a warm golden glow, the flickering light from the chandelier casting dancing shadows across the dark wood table. Plates of freshly made pasta, roasted vegetables, and crusty bread sat steaming in their places, while the rich aroma of garlic and basil filled the air. Vince sat at the head of the table, his expression composed but distant.

Mama Rose had come into their lives as the housekeeper, but after the tragic loss of Vince and Luca's parents, she stayed on, her role shifting from servant to something far more personal. With her warm, flour-dusted hands and a voice that could scold and soothe in the same breath, she became their anchor in the storm of grief. Though her hair had silvered with age, her sharp wit and fierce loyalty remained unyielding. These days, she was more a grandmother than a hired hand, fussing over them with homemade meals and unsolicited advice, reminding them in her no-nonsense way that, no matter how powerful they became, they were still her boys. Anyone could see it, even as she gave him a withering look for drinking as she poured him a glass of wine.

Across from him, Luca was attempting to lighten the mood, telling a story about an incident at one of the legitimate warehouses. Vince barely registered the words, his thoughts still on the missing shipment and Franco’s grim report.

“You’re not even listening, are you?” Luca’s voice cut through, pulling Vince back to the present.

Vince looked up, his lips curving into a faint smile, “You talk too much, Luca. Hard to keep up.”

Luca rolled his eyes, but before he could respond, the sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway broke the brief reprieve. Everyone at the table stilled, their senses sharp as they turned toward the door.

The butler, an older man with a stoic demeanor, entered and moved directly to Vince, leaning in to whisper something in his ear. His expression didn’t change, but his hand tightened slightly on the stem of his wineglass. He set it down carefully and rose from his seat.

“Excuse me,” he said smoothly, his voice calm but carrying an edge that silenced any questions. As he stepped into the hallway, Franco was already waiting, his face lined with urgency.

“Boss,” Franco started without preamble, “we found part of the shipment.”

Vince arched a brow, his movements deliberate as he adjusted his suit jacket, “Where?”

“An old dockyard just outside city limits,” Franco said. “Whoever hit us didn’t take everything. Left some crates behind. And there’s... markings. Tags from the Salvatores, though scratched and badly painted."

Vince’s jaw tightened, his mind instantly dissecting the information. The Salvatores. A rival family, though not necessarily known for their opportunistic tendencies and a penchant for stirring trouble. This was bold—especially for them. His thoughts swirl as they hurry outside, towards a waiting car.

“Remnants?” Vince asked, his voice low.

Franco nodded, “A few crates busted open, like they didn’t have time to clear everything. But enough to make it clear who wants to take credit.”

“Credit or blame,” Vince murmured, his mind already working through the angles. If the Salvatores were truly behind this, it was a direct provocation. But something didn’t sit right. The Salvatores were rivals yes, but not careless. They wouldn’t have left evidence behind unless they wanted to send a message—or someone wanted it to look that way.

“Send a team to secure what’s left,” Vince ordered, “And send someone to the Salvatores. I want to know exactly what they’re playing at.”

Franco hesitated, “You think they’d risk this? Breaking the truce?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out,” Vince said. His tone carried the weight of finality, his eyes cold and calculating.

The truce. A long-standing agreement among the families, each one assigned to some kind of task to keep the city they all fought to control running smoothly, though generations old. it had been what prevented all of them from going under, from biting at each others' throats, though only three main powerhouses remained: the Romanos, the Salvatores, and the Michaelis. As Franco left to carry out the orders, Vince sat on the plush leather seat of the car, fingers tapping teh steering wheel anxiously, his mind racing. The Salvatores might be the obvious culprits, but Vince had learned long ago that the obvious answer was rarely the truth.

He could only watch as the house fades from view, shadowed by lumbering trees and secrets. Family dinners could wait.

War couldn’t.

Freya Michaelis