aerial o magari sono stronzi come lui. Intendo Rodney non David che anzi non so assolutamente perché mi piace
Chapter One: The Future Floats
The ocean was a mirror—black, endless, perfectly still. Not even moonlight dared touch the surface. And yet, something moved.
Slicing silently through the night was the Primal, a sleek, obsidian yacht so advanced it defied radar, sonar, even rumor. It was the kind of vessel whispered about in the darker corners of Monte Carlo and Macao, dismissed by most as a myth dreamt up by drunk billionaires or paranoid intelligence agents.
At its center, on a deck lit only by cool strips of bioluminescent blue, sat a long obsidian table that reflected the faces of men who did not like to wait.
“…And that’s why I say, gentlemen—this is the future,” declared Rodney Pitelli, leaning back in a gravity-defying carbon fiber chair, fingers steepled. “Not the guns. Not the drugs. Not whatever backwater hellhole you’re bombing this week. This. Yacht. And everything it stands for.”
Vince Malone, built like a disgruntled warthog in a linen suit, slammed a heavy fist on the table. “You bring us out here—in the middle of goddamn nowhere—for a TED Talk on floating Instagram stories?!”
Rodney smirked. He was young—too young by underworld standards, and he knew it. Thirty, maybe, but with the careless arrogance of someone who'd never had to earn fear the old-fashioned way. Perfect skin, perfect suit, hair like he’d stepped out of a cologne ad. Everything about him gleamed—except his respect for tradition.
“I’m sorry, Vince,” Rodney said, voice honey-smooth and soaked in mock sympathy, “did you have something vintage to share? More narco routes? Eastern European gun crates no one knows how to pronounce?”
“Someone’s stepping into my territory,” Vince growled, ignoring the jab. “Colombia. My turf.”
“Oh no, not Colombia,” Rodney said in exaggerated horror. “How dreadfully analog. Tell me, Vince, do they even have Wi-Fi there yet?”
Before Vince could lunge across the table and show the kid exactly what analog violence looked like, a faint noise echoed through the hush—Thud.
Vince paused. His eyes flicked sideways. “What the hell was that?”
Rodney tilted his head. “Mice.”
“On a yacht?”
“It happens,” Rodney shrugged, swirling his wine.
“I don’t accept—ghk… ghh…”
Vince’s words dissolved into a wet choke. He stood, eyes wide, clutching at his throat, blood bubbling between his fingers. A second later, he collapsed forward, face-first onto the polished table with a sickening slap, throat neatly slit.
She stood behind him.
Petite. Silent. A girl, maybe twenty at most. Dressed entirely in black—tactical but elegant—like a shadow that had decided to wear lipstick. Her face was delicate, doll-like, save for the icy indifference in her eyes and the jarring streak of bubblegum pink that cut through her otherwise jet-black hair.
Rodney leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Perfect as always, Shadow. Ten out of ten.”
She frowned, tying her hair into a tight ponytail with clinical precision. “Nine and a half. I made noise.”
Rodney waved dismissively. “Still top marks in my book.”
Around the table, the other bosses sat frozen. Some still holding their glasses mid-air. Shadow began to walk slowly around the table, her footsteps light as mist. Every now and then, her fingers brushed a shoulder—each touch leaving behind a jolt of tension like a static shock. No one dared breathe.
Rodney clasped his hands. “Now that Vince has… graciously yielded the floor—shall we talk business?”
Chapter Two: Tenerife, Interrupted
The sky over Tenerife bled into hues of tangerine and gold, the ocean sipping the sun like a last drink before nightfall. On a candlelit terrace overlooking the waves, Patrick adjusted the little velvet box in his pocket for the hundredth time that evening.
Eva laughed at something he’d said. Her laughter was the kind that made him forget every plan, every anxiety, every single reason not to drop to one knee right then and there.
He opened his mouth.
“Patrick!” a booming voice barked across the terrace.
Patrick’s face crumpled like a house of cards in a hurricane. “No…”
Charging toward them was a human mountain in board shorts and a tank top—red beard, red hair, and the grin of a man who hadn’t even considered knocking.
“David!” Patrick hissed, standing up as the big man threw an arm around him with bear-like enthusiasm. “What the hell?!”
David squinted at Eva, then back at his friend. “Ohh… Oh no. Were you…?”
“Yes,” Patrick muttered through gritted teeth. “Was being the key word.”
Eva covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.
David scratched his head sheepishly. “Well damn. I just came to ask how it went.”
Patrick shot him a look that could curdle champagne. “It didn’t, because an idiot Irishman came stomping through the scene like a rogue circus elephant.”
David shrugged. “Hey, better now than mid-kiss, right?”
Patrick glared. “You’re sleeping outside tonight.”
“I’m in a hostel, man.”
“Perfect. Stay there.”
Eva finally burst out laughing, and the mood, while ruined, was oddly whole again.
Patrick sighed, sat down, and glanced out at the ocean. Somewhere far out there, he imagined, something wicked and expensive was floating in the dark, and somewhere behind him, his life continued to unravel in the most ridiculous ways.
He clinked his glass against Eva’s.
“To future interruptions,” he said.
