Paris.

Priam Taravella | 26 | Capulet CEO of Taravella Tech, Lobbyist "I am not afraid of my demons anymore. I'm worse than them." ALLEGIANCE: Capulet - stable HEALTH: Uninjured - stable POSITION: Emissary - stable

[priam-taravella]

priamtaravella: Happy Valentine’s my love! @JulianaCapulet  I can’t believe how lucky I am to call you my fiancée and my best friend. PS: This is what she told me to write. I’m being held against my will, send help. #jk #loveyoualways

[shisasan]

Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf (1927)

[ofcastora]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LIZ!

All affluent in yellow, bought and sold By Kings that hammer roses into gold: I did not know I loved their warring thorns Until they flowered into spikes so hard My blood made obdurate the rose’s stem.  My God was generous! O much too much! The nearest rose is now beyond my reach.                                       ( King Midas by Howard Moss )

@priam-taravella​

[evcravens]

DASHBOARD DIGEST, ft. @priam-taravella & @gertrudezhang

[priam-taravella]

tomassabello​:

.

“It’s been a while since I’ve pined over anyone,” The actor lies, blocking out all thoughts of the cheating wife he still isn’t over. Thinking about Juliana instead hardly brings the comfort it once did. It doesn’t matter anyway; he hasn’t felt like himself since his marriage first fell apart a month ago, and he very much doubts Juliana would approve of the man he’s become.

… But then, is a mob heiress-turned-boss really one to judge?

He wonders where Priam stands in that transitional hierarchy; whether the emissary is ready to play husband and consort to Juliana’s queen. Despite himself, it still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “Yeahhh, think I’d still take Montague.” He lies flippantly, watching Paris pour him a glass of wine. Truth to be told, Tomas thinks he’s very much done with both mobs; be it Capulet or Montague. Still, he isn’t here to open up and share his private thoughts with a piranha like Priam Taravella. 

“There’s something to be said about passion, at least. Your Capulet philosophy sounds like a strategy created by cold, shiny robots. I hope to God you don’t win the war if that’s the case,” The actor adds with reckless and uncharacteristic indifference; “What a boring place a Capulet World would be.”

.

“Maybe that’s your problem, Hollywood. If you had pined for your wife, maybe you still would’ve had one,” Priam pouts, and looks at Sabello with pity like they both realised he was an idiot and it was okay. Sad, but okay. Perhaps its the destruction of his marriage that has the actor to seek out Priam to scratch some kind of self-sabotaging itch. Even Sabello has enough brain cells to realise he’ll get nothing but venom and thinly veiled insults from Taravella.

Bless Juliana and her generous heart. The man sitting opposite to him is really nothing but a charity case, is he? For all his fame and money, even.

“Please, do,” Priam enthusiastically nods as the other expresses their preference for Montagues, “I’d rather they carry the dead weight, not us,” hand to chest, he’s grinning. “Let’s be real, you’re as useful in a mob war as a crocheted pisspot, mate. What, will you monologue people to death? Actually, now that I think about it, you probably can.” Taravella taps at his temple with his index finger, looking misleadingly pensive.

He lets the actor’s last words linger in the air. Taking his time, Priam sips at his wine, lights up a cigarette, lets out a long inhale of smoke and leans back. “Is that supposed to be an insult? If you’re looking for excitement you can fake it behind a camera. I’m not quite certain you can do passion in real life, though. Again, not to go for a low-hanging fruit, but... your wife probably agrees.” Priam sucks air through his teeth, making a hissing sound. 

[priam-taravella]

evcravens​:

There’s something about Priam Taravella today.

It’s the slash of white teeth across a shadowed face, something self-satisfied and brassy that reminds Everett strangely of a shark, strangely of a cocksure university boy, strangely of… Cosimo. Then Everett blinks, and it’s gone, leaving him wondering if he’d imagined the jagged edge to the man’s characteristically smug demeanor in the first place. The Taravella heir had always been a Capulet in the surface-level silver-sheen sort of way, but not in the methods that shaped a man, not in the crimson-slicked fingers sort of way, the sign-away-your-soul sort of way. Not until April, at least. The thought rises to mind, there-and-gone. Has Priam finally grown his teeth?

It doesn’t sit with him as well as it nearly should.

Still, the sentiment doesn’t stop him from slipping into the opposite seat ten minutes after an old school friend bids him a good night, leaving Everett to his own devices. Devices, in this case, consisting of nursing the rest of his schiava not by the bar, but across the table from the young CEO he’d spotted in that trattoria earlier. There’s that Taravella warmth, Everett thinks, when Priam cracks a grin that’s all elastic from wine and polished by privilege. He’s seen it often enough. Worn it, too.

“I’ll bite,” he offers drily, crossing an ankle over his thigh as he leans back into his chair. Everett glances over at the clock on the wall. He can’t stay much longer, given that he’s supposed to be cooking Catia dinner in an hour and a half, but he’s never been one to turn down a bit of quick socialization. The evening is warm, the breeze is refreshing, and he’s feeling a surprising lack of latent anxiety today. Perhaps it’s the feeling of normalcy that’s slowly begun to creep back into his life… or the fact that the outdoor lighting is dim enough for Everett to not worry about the faded lovebites Vivianne’s much too fond of leaving on his neck.

Or, it’s the wine. Another likely contender. Everett cocks a brow, tilting the glass of valpolicella in his hand with a prompting, “And?”

.

Here’s a juxtaposition – two men, born in luxury, offered the best in life that Verona could offer, one of them ending up in the clutches of mafia because of their father, and the other in spite of him. Whatever remnants of morality Priam possessed is slipping through his hands like a silky garment, whilst Everett Everett stubbornly tries to hold on to his. It’s like watching the last grains of sand fall through the hourglass in slow motion – soon, it’s bound to run out, and turn itself upside down. Priam might be too much of a skeptic to believe Everett can retain his noble nature, but the man seems hell-bent on deluding himself. 

And Priam likes Craven just enough to respect the decision, but it’s always dangling on the tip of his tongue to try to pierce through that armour, make him face the reality. One way or another, Everett has to accept the metamorphosis of a man living in crime or die, in a metaphorical sense, at least. It’s a fool’s errand to believe his soul won’t be chipped away bit by bit, with every murder he has to witness, and yet not be able to do anything about them.

Fifty shades of morally gray, speaking from personal experience, is a far beneficial area to exit, especially when you call yourself a Capulet, or a Montague, Priam believes.

 “And?” Taravella echoes his question with a scoff. “Even you are not innocent enough to miss the punchline, Craven.” He tips his glass toward the fellow emissary, “to Everett Craven, the green light of nobility that us mere mortals can only admire from afar.” His toast is dripping with sarcasm, quite obviously, but it’s one of those rare occurrences when his snark intents to amuse, not bite, or insult.

[priam-taravella]

lavolumnia​:

It’s not like Taravella to give false praise. 

Well, that’s a lie. Rather, it’s not like Taravella to give her false praise, even though he never hesitates to use his silver tongue on the unsuspecting ears of other members of their high society. Which means he’s weighed the risks of what he’s about to tell her, and decided that there’s a chance she might take it the wrong way - and, smart enough to know his own good - is keen to prevent that from happening. 

This, among other reasons, is why she likes Priam. And when he finally he comes clean about his concerns, la Capobastone understands why it is that he hesitated to voice them in the first place.

She doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, she accepts the cigarette he’s lit for her, takes a drag, and watches the smoke that leaves her mouth, pillowing into lazy, climbing tendrils. She turns his words over in her head, and after one minute turns into two, she puts a voice to her own thoughts. “Non ti sbagli del tutto.” She affords him quietly to start; you aren’t entirely wrong. “They’re young. Not as well-versed in politics as they should be, either. Tybalt must learn restraint. Juliet must overcome her gullibility. Both need more experience.” Vivianne concedes, treading a tightrope between honest truth which Priam’s earned for his loyalty — and the painstaking faith she’s putting in the young Capulets that will spearhead a new generation.

“But you’re forgetting something, Priam… They aren’t doing it single-handedly.” I’m the hand behind the throne, she doesn’t say, though her sober gaze implies it as she watches him. The head too, if all else fails. “A Capulet Mob needs a Capulet head, especially when the previous one has been removed from the position by force. To do things any other way would be too much a leap, too unsettling a change. We’d risk losing the loyalty of the same supporters who make this organization what it is in the first place. What’s more,” The Underboss continues, voice softening, “It is Juliana’s birthright… If she isn’t ready for it, she must be made ready. There is no other option.”

Leveling unbridled Montague rage with calculated Capulet cunning is what they called a POD - Point of Difference in a corporate world. Calculated and cunning are certainly not the words Priam could use to describe either Juliana or Tiberius. The emissary is skeptical of the leading capabilities of the two people he considers closest, enough that he questions if the trouble of ousting Cosimo was even worth it.

Hearing Vivianne offers at least some reassurance. She, too, can see why Priam is concerned, which means she will do something about it, like Vivianne Sloane always does. “Thank you for confirming my doubts. I was beginning to thing I was the only one not popping off celebratory bottles of champaign – not very team-player-y of me,” it’s clear sarcasm, Priam never deemed most of the fellow Capulet loyalists worthy enough to chum up to them, bar few exceptions.

“I suppose you’re right. Although, I worry you’ll have to spend too much of your time trying to rein in Tibeius and push Juliana instead of focus all of your attention on the Montagues.” Quite honestly, Priam hasn’t doubted for a second that Vivianne wouldn’t be the real figurehead behind the trio, but hearing it from her puts his mind to ease, nevertheless. “That’s fair. I’ll give you Juliana, but Tibby?” A soft laugh escapes his nostrils. Of all people, Priam knows the level of destruction his best friend is capable of. Then, he huffs, coming to terms with a new reality. “What’s done is done. You have my help, shall you need it. I’ll have Tiberius’s back when he inevitably flies off the handle.” 

[priam-taravella]

tomassabello​:

.

He doesn’t know if divorcing a woman he thought he’d grow old with has somehow activated the self-sabotaging part of his brain over the last month or so. But if it has, Tomas knows no reason to hold back. No motive to prioritize his own safety any longer when he goes home to an empty hotel room, and no one to welcome him most nights. So if he spots Lofty Prince Priam at the café he’s chosen for a quick bite to eat that evening, he doesn’t stop himself from approaching. He welcomes himself to the man’s table, even — a parallel to the presumptuous way Priam himself had first approached him in a restaurant, many months ago.

“Very funny. Do you Capulets think yourselves so different to those across the bridge? I’m really curious, actually. Spell it out for me, Paris,” The celebrity invites, letting the younger man’s alias drop from his mouth with mocking emphasis as he drops into the chair across from him. “Really, I’ll buy your next bottle, if you do.”

.

Like a moth to a flame, Sabello is drawn to Capulets, it seems. Perhaps he’s hoping Priam will be joined by his fiancée? The thought amuses the emissary, enough to generously ask the waiter to bring them another glass.

As much as Priam enjoys a Montague misery, the news of Sabello’s marriage falling apart doesn’t bring much comfort. Maybe tiny bit. Maybe a foolish sense of adventure will prompt the newly single actor to go after someone who he has no place going after. 

When the waiter brings the second glass, and reaches for the bottle to pour, Priam stops them, taking the task upon himself. 

“You’ve spent enough time pining after Capulets with your mouth agape to answer that question yourself, Hollywood, don’t play coy,” he flashes his teeth, a wolfish grin. “But if you’re not observant enough, what the hell, I’ll play along.” The emissary twists his wrist to bring up a bottle without spilling the drops. “Montague is a hot, blind rage, and Capulet? Cold, steely calculation. The first may win some battles, but the second wins the war.”

[priam-taravella]

Date: July 20th

Time: Evening

Location: A cafe near the river bank

Status: Open to all

Verona is always showing its teeth. It’s either snarling, or laughing. Tonight, Priam feels, it’s the latter. 

It’s one of those nights of brutal self-inquisition, when Priam finds the four walls of his lavish penthouse too suffocating and seeking no one’s company in particular, the Capulet prince finds himself sitting in a café, outside, nursing a bottle of wine, and a cup of black coffee, an odd combination, and watching river march to the beat of its own drum.

He got people killed today. Quite a lot of them. All for his personal gain. Sure, it advances the Capulet agenda, no doubt, but the new weapons deal solidifies his position within the mob like never before, and it’s just a beginning. Priam now has the blood of a few Capulet pawns he willingly sacrifised to lure out the Montagues and their weapons supplier, and even though he feels no remorse, it’s a strange feeling. To play with the lives of others like a puppetmaster. At least they met a swift end in a shootout, but the Montagues he had taken by the police will have no such luxury. They’ll die in prison, but only after they spill the information Priam needs and after they start to beg for a merciful death. He’s seen to that. It’s amazing the influence Taravalla money combined with Capulet power can buy.

Priam’s reach grows by day.

He will follow his ambitions like a cat chases sunshine on a lazy Spring Sunday. Other be damned.

A toast to his own victory, Priam pours another glass of the finest wine on the menu, and whilst his eyes are fixed on the amber liquid, he can hear a sound of a chair drag against a pavement. Unexpected company.

Not interrupting pouring the wine, Priam greets a newcomer with an entertained smile. “Want to hear a joke? A circus animal, an infant and a virgin walk into a bar. The bartender asks, what can I get you, Mr. Montague?”   

[priam-taravella]

tomassabello​:

.

Tomas watches the Capulet with a certain degree of muted awe, wondering not for the first time how it is that damn near every mafioso in Verona has the same MO when it comes to ignoring the very basic rules of social etiquette. It’s a blatant faux pas as Priam drags out the (already spoken for) chair across the table and eases himself into it, seemingly without a care in the world. And yet so-called ‘Paris’ hesitates about as much as Boris Kovrov did the last time Tomas found himself in similar company over dinner — which is to say — not at all. 

“Hollywood,” The actor echoes in a deadpan, nodding his head slowly. “That’s real cute. Listen, Pr-… Signor Taravella, if this is about what I suspect, lemme just cut to the chase. You’ve got nothing to worry about in terms of your big engagement. Where I’m concerned, at least.” 

Had he known of the man’s engagement while spending time with Juliana? Undoubtedly. If he searches his soul for truths buried deep in fertile soil, Tomas might even recall brief, blinking moments when he’d envied the man for it. But to his awareness, it’s never been a thought worthy of much note. After-all, he himself is married, therefore he and Juliana were two lines simply not destined to cross.

Until they did. One night in late March, for a few tingling, terrible seconds on a park bench as the heiress’ lips fused to his, searching for something he couldn’t give her.

“Oh right — Congratulations, I guess.” He adds, in a tone that conveys very little felicity of any kind. Always in search of silver-linings, Tomas tells himself that maybe it’s a good thing this conversation’s happening right here, right now. After-all, for all his indiscretion, Priam still looks too much a gentleman to risk a public scene, in a crowded restaurant filled with half the respectable upper-crust of Verona. Which means with just a few bread-crumbs’ worth of luck, maybe he’ll escape any more front-page antics with Capulet head-honchos. 

Priam Taravella eats men like Tomas Sabello for breakfast and spits them out.

As far as being nice goes, no one can be quite as silver-tongued and gentlemanly as Priam when he wants, but the man before him is not nearly important, nor relevant to deserve his good side. Instead he gives out the same smugness and superiority that radiates off of him most dies, around most people.

“Worry?” A sarcastic huff leaves his throat, “You’re not nearly important enough to cause me any worries, Hollywood, but your delusional sense of self-significance is quite amusing. You’re a mild annoyance at best. You know, like a fly that keeps buzzing around while you’re trying to have a nice meal on a terrace.” Priam leans back, straightened against the chair, eyeing the actor up close. Juliana did always have a tendency to take a pity on stray dogs.

His marriage to Juliana, whilst initially not his idea, but Cosimo’s, has become a key piece to his long-term plan. As Priam continues to build his business empire, he intends to fully leverage his ties to the criminal underworld. It’s not he can’t achieve success without it, but with the Capulet force to further his agenda, he’ll be unstoppable. It’ll be cold day in hell when Priam Taravella lets little playthings like Sabello cause even the slightest hiccup on his road to glory.

“Grazie. We’ll be sure to send you a card,” Priam smirks, dripping with sarcasm. “I’d love to invite you and your lovely wife to the wedding, but I’m afraid we’ve capped the guest list at 500.” He wonders just how deep into his fascination for his fiancée this poor fool has dove in, maybe gauging that will prompt Priam just how drastic his measures should be. 

[priam-taravella]

↳ INSTAGRAM: @priamtaravella uploaded a new photo

priamtaravella: Bullseye. 

[usersukuna]

[goodquoteco]

It scares me sometimes, the emptiness I see in my eyes.

The Wonder Years  (via disorder)

[priam-taravella]

lavolumnia​:.

She smiles when he enters, with a very tongue-in-cheek remark for greeting. A very Taravella-esque remark, really. If the ease of her smile makes for a rare sight, it’s made rarer still when Vivianne relinquishes the file she’s been studying and reclines back in her seat; displaying a relaxation she hasn’t felt in a very, very long time. 

The smile doesn’t even fade when he hints at a conversation that she probably won’t like, and strides immediately to her window; the distraction in his gaze a testament to the as-of-yet unspoken troubles on his mind. Vivianne studies him for a moment longer as she sinks her spine against the back of her chair. 

“What; no victory lap? No applause? Here, I’ll do the honours, Taravella.” She hums, gaze drifting off his profile and over to the window. Then, voice curling with a lazy, sardonic overtone; “Congratulazioni, Vivianne. – Grazie, Paris… I wasn’t sure you’d pull it off without significant bloodshed. – Neither was I… This calls for a celebratory drink, doesn’t it? – What a splendid idea, Paris.”

The woman’s eyes drop to his cigarette. “… On second thought, a cigarette will do. Light me one, emissario. And, seeing as there’s no outrunning you when you have a question in mind… Parlare liberamente.” Speak freely.

Questioning a woman of Vivianne Sloane’s stature isn’t the smartest thing for a member of the Capulets – or any mafia, really – to do, but Priam intends to capitalise on all the goodwill he’d earned with the underboss. He is sure there are reasonable explanations to her latest moves, and he’s sure she knows his reluctancy stems from wanting to see those reasons, not to show disrespect or undermine her in any way.

“Vivianne,” Priam lets out an amused huff at her little monologuing dialogue, “You’re literally the only person I fully respect in this mob, and that is the highest praise I can give in itself. Don’t get me wrong, I love Jules and Tib to death, but they’re just as qualified to run the mafia as I am to be a chief of cardiac surgery.”

He wasn’t intending to jump straight into it, but, oh well... The emissary lights a second cigarette for the underboss and his eyes trail the trajectory her fingers mark to and away from her lips. A formidable woman she is, indeed. Hell, had they been closer in age, and she not a mother figure to Juliana, who’s to say Priam wouldn’t have shot his shoot. Perish the thought. “Alright. I guess I just want to know what is it that I’m not seeing? Don’t get me wrong, Cosimo deserved what he got, but do you really think Juliet and Tybalt are fit to steer the helm?”

[priam-taravella]

paoladamasco​:

Priam chooses a cafe not too far from her home, and Paola wonders if he has been trailing her. She can’t put it past him; she knows just how sharp his dark eyes are, and how prettily his lips can curl over honey-sweet poison. After all, it’s how the two became friends. Like calling to like, her resourcefulness calling to his cleverness. They were a pair to behold; a duo to fear, if the two ever managed to find themselves walking the same path.

But they never have, and likely never will. It’s precisely what sets them apart from one another. Priam climbs to the top, while Paola reaches for the bottom. Peeling back every layer in hopes that the core of Verona still has something honest to offer her. To anchor her.

She’s losing hope that such a thing is possible. She wonders if Priam was more successful while he was abroad.

With a wry smile, Paola takes the seat opposite Priam, grateful she just retired her crutches. She may walk with an imperceptible limp, each step like the precise cut of a blade, but her back is straight and her balance is steady. “Such high praise,” she sings back, “From you, that only means trouble.”

The warmth in her eyes betrays her true sentiments at seeing Priam again. She can’t call him friend, but he’s a familiar face in a city that still, after more than half a year, feels unfamiliar to her. “When did you get back? It feels like you left so long ago, I can’t even remember the last time I saw you.”

The remnant ghost of a past friendship takes a seat between them, an invisible monster to remind of what had been lost and what could’ve been. The wars are built on sacrifices, and theirs is only a drop in the Ocean of blood and tears. He looks at her now and sees another wasted potential. What will become of her now? The Montague name will erode the woman she could’ve become, the Montague life will turn her into a cog of the killing machine.

She is no longer his concern, not if she wears the Montague badge...

“Me? Trouble? Never,” he dangles the last word on his lips, a taunt, a fallacy. “Besides, it seems you’ve been getting into trouble all on your own, no further assistance required.”

Priam has been gone a little over a month, and yet, the distance between them has grown with a gaping hole, and their last encounter almost seems like a lifetime ago, a parallel reality, where they’re not defined as a Capulet or a Montague. His expression softens at the memory. “It’s only been a few days. A lot has changed since I’ve been gone, hasn’t it? Tell me, now that you’re of on them, is Damiano’s crotch fruit as dumb as they say, or dumber?”

Well, he tried not to make digs at the Montagues, but he’s only a man.

[priam-taravella]

Date: June 16th Location: The Twelfth Night, Vivianne’s office. Time: Afternoon Status: Closed for @lavolumnia​ 

“I hear Padua is really nice this time of year,” Priam quips, as he enters the capobastone’s office. 

The Emissary has quite a lot of thoughts regarding everything that went down the past few days. He’s shared his opinions with Tiberius and Juliana, and he did not hold back. Being friends with the Capulets for so long grants him the luxury of speaking his mind freely, especially with someone as short-fused as Tybalt. 

Vivianne is different. He has earned her respect, it certainly wasn’t given via over two-decade-long friendship. When she calls for him, Priam always answers, without a fail. After all, Viviane Sloane is one person above all who he trusts to be a capable leader, regardless who holds what title. 

Whilst rest of the mob is drunk on the ecstasy of recent events, Priam remains stark sober. Cosimo was slipping, it’s clear as day to Taravella, but the way everything has been handled, he doesn’t share the excitement of his best friends. It took a lot of convincing to secure the Gomorra alliance, Priam fears, with sudden changes, all his efforts might be futile. Internal fights rarely inspire confidence, but at least the coup hadn’t transpired until the alliance became official. Will be harder for Garrone to back out now, Priam hopes. 

Inside the office, Priam stands near the open window, a cigarette in hand. “May I? I fear I might need this, if we’re going to get through this conversation.”

[priam-taravella]

The Emissary, Part 1 | Self-Para.

Date: May 17th.

Location: New York, USA.

Note: The self-para explains where Priam has been since the Capulet anniversary and before arriving in Verona on May 20th. What he’s been up to may have impact on the Capulets as a whole, and marks him taking more active (still behind-the-shadows) role within the organisation. New Capulet ally, new source of income and some more.

                                              ——————————

“This ring,” Frank Garrone holds up an impressive piece of ancestral jewelry with pride, words linger on his tongue to emphasize the importance of the moment. Sat in front of him, Priam Taravella’s chest swells with excitement. He, too, knows the importance of the moment. “...Has been in our family for centuries,” the Garrone patriarch continues, then glances at the young emissary for a brief second before returning his gaze to the heirloom in his hand, “Centuries. There are only thirty of these rings in the world.”

Frank Garrone is a man of tradition. When he appoints his daughter, Giovanna as his heir, whispers ripple throughout the continent, across the Ocean all the way to Naples. A woman at the helm of Gomorra? Unheard of. Frank Garrone has lost not one, but three sons to mafia wars, and tradition says his nephew should inherit the throne, but Giovanna is more capable, more cunning and more intelligent than any other man in the family. What she lacks is ruthlessness, but ruthlessness can be learned, the patriarch thinks. Frank Garrone is a man of tradition, but he knows traditions can change, when necessary.

Gomorra, the crime family with Frank Garrone at its helm, has its tentacles wrapped around the most of the North American continent, but East Coast and Chicago is where the mafia is at its strongest. Frank Garrone rules with an iron fist and and his name rings like the wrath of god of thunder.

“I know,” Priam clears his throat, “That’s the Gomorra signet ring. Your ancestor, Miguel Gomorra founded Gomorra, the secret criminal society in the late Middle Ages, around 15th century, if I’m not mistaken. They started out in Toledo. Miguel and his men used to carry out the dirty work of Inquisition itself. Assassinations, mostly. The more jobs they did for the inquisition, the more their power and influence grew, eventually spanned all across the Spain and beyond. Those rings were given to the Gomorra lieutenants, or as they called it back then the‘Holy Warriors of Spain’, the Capos, essentially. 400 years later, Gomorra’s presence in native Spain dwindled, but the spark ignited anew in Naples. With time, Spanish Gomorra transformed into Italian Garrone, and whilst it never reached the same glory there, fast forward again two centuries, and Rafaelle Garrone, your grandfather, moved to the United States and brought renaissance to once mythical criminal society, turned it into the mafia that now holds this whole country in its palm. So yeah, I know exactly how important that ring is.”

Frank Garrone doesn’t put much effort into concealing the smile. “You’ve done your homework, young man.”

“What can I say, I’m always prepared.”

Getting an audience with North America’s most notorious don hadn’t been easy. The amount of strings Priam had to pull would’ve put a whole orchestra to shame. He even name dropped his mother’a side of the family – Savoia. Even Frank Garrone couldn’t resist the temptation, in the end. 

Every person has their inherent vice, and that’s the key to bending them to your will. Priam had learned this simple truth early on. Frank’s, he discovered, was his pride. Appealing his ego – that has been Priam’s tactic and so far, a successful one. A charming smile there, a cheeky compliment there, it didn’t take him long to put Giovanna under his spell and surely enough, she gave him not only a summery of Gamorra history, but a few other tidbits of useful information.

A few days ago, before his meeting with Frank, as Priam takes a stroll down the streets of Manhattan with Giovanna, he can’t help but compare her to Juliana. They’re similar, yet so different. She too, has mixed feelings about her role as a future leader of the mafia. There’s untapped evil in the glint of Giovanna’s eyes that Priam can see. Not in Juliana’s, though. Even when her delicate hand is holding a blade and cutting the flash of tortured Viola, Priam still fails to see evil in Juliana.

“Sometimes I fear I’ll never measure up to my father,” Giovvanna admits, eyes peeled on the ground.

“Your father is no different than any other powerful men, like a senator or a president.” Priam says in-between the sips of his black coffee. “And I see a whole lot of power in you.”

“Do you know how naive you sound?” Giovanna smiles through her crimson coloured lips.

“How so?” He inquires.

“Senators don’t have people killed.”

“Now who’s being naive?” Priam grins.

Back in the lavish, sixteen-bedroom Garrone mansion, while the Garrone patriarch falls silent, the wind is muttering, as if the remnants of the past are counseling the current leader. The emissary awaits patiently.

“Cosimo is a small fish in a small pond,” Frank declares after a while. “Still at war, and struggling to gain an upper-hand on the other one, what’s his name? The Montague, right? Over insignificant Verona...”

“You’re a man who appreciates history, Mr. Garrone,” Priam clears his throat and takes a few daring steps towards the patriarch, “The Capulets might be small in scale, for now, but you’re neglecting one crucial element – they’ve been around for years, centuries, and the only reason they’re still standing, still under the name of Capulet –,” Priam knows this is an aggressive dig at the Gomorra-Garrone transformation, but he hopes for his boldness to earn him respect, “is because they’re not fighting just for money, power, influence, they’re fighting for Verona.” 

Frank Garrone laughs through his nostrils, taking a good look at the emissary yet again. Priam returns the gaze with equal resilience. “Be as it may, what do I stand to benefit from this partnership? I certainly do not care for Verona.”

Priam sees this as an opportunity, and it would be a sin not to sink his teeth into it, “Verona might be a small pond, but it’s a rather conveniently located pond, with a plenty of connections to other ponds. We have allies all over Europe, from Spain to Netherlands. However, the most important matter is as follows: I can deliver Israel. I know you’ve been looking for a better supplier, and I can arrange that. Mossad guns, shipped from Tel-Aviv through Genoa, docks I control. Your costs cut down 20%, whilst the quality improves significantly.”

Priam stops, let the magnitude of his offer sink in, and takes a sip of the whiskey. “...And that’s just the beginning and trust me, Mister Garrone, I intend to be anything but a small fish.”

The Boy Forbes finishes making his case, sinks into the chair, awaiting for the patriarch to speak, hoping his candor doesn’t miss the mark. He’s young, he knows as much, perhaps too young for the man of Frank’s stature to take him seriously, but his arguments are rock solid, Priam knows this in his very bones, and he had never lacked for confidence.

Eventually, Frank breaks away from his deliberation. Tapping on his upper lip, he speaks up.

“You make a compelling case, but there’s still a matter of Cosimo’s capability. Rumour is, he’s surrounded himself with a twenty-year olds and letting his barely drinking age niece advise him. Quite frankly, I am reluctant to place my trust if the case is true.”

Well, the man has a good god damn point, Priam thinks to himself, but he’s quick to think on his feet, making opposing arguments even when he shares Frank’s sentiment. “I realise the optics may not be in Cosimo’s favour,” Priam tentatively responds, trying the words on his teeth before letting them loose, “but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t have the most capable underboss you’ll ever see. Let’s start small, with the first shipment of guns, and take it from there. What do you stand to lose?”

A soft snort escapes the Patriarch’s nostrils. “You remind me of my eldest son. He, too, could convince the devil to keep the throne warm for him if he wanted to.” 

---

Priam boards his private plane, eager to return home after over a month’s absence. Emerging victorious from his meeting with Frank Garrone, he’s now adorning the Gomorra signet ring resting gloriously on his finger. A symbol of a new alliance. In the end, Priam got his way, as he always does. The plans he’s set out in motion go far beyond a simple weapons shipment deal, and if his engagement with Juliana, the gravity of his last name and social name wasn’t enough, this will surely solidify his importance amongst the Capulet ranks.

Priam is just getting started.

The stars in the black sky above Verona look down on Priam’s soul. It’s just as dark. Darkness isn’t the colour of evil. It’s the colour of absence. The absence of morals, The absence of empathy, The absence of compassion. And Priam? Priam is full of absence.