Cost of imperfection

“Smash!”

A glass tumbler shattered violently against the wall, shards scattering like sparks of fury. Alessandro De Luca’s chest heaved, his breaths short and sharp as he stood behind his desk, fury carved into every line of his face. The dim light above flickered, casting jagged shadows that danced like ghosts across the rich mahogany walls of the office.

Across from him stood Luca, Nico, Vincenzo, and Matteo. They didn’t flinch, though the air had grown thick with the scent of rage and wine.

Alessandro paced behind the desk like a caged predator before finally lowering into his chair. He grabbed the half-full bottle of red wine from the table took a long drink directly from it, then slammed it down hard, the thud echoing like a warning.

"You left him in the rain?" Alessandro’s voice was low — calm, yet carrying a venom that chilled the room.

"It rained yesterday, so—" Luca began.

“So what? Hm?” Alessandro’s voice sliced through the silence, fingers still gripping the bottle’s neck.

The guards exchanged wary glances. They had faced death, torture, even war — but this was different. This was Alessandro in his most dangerous state: furious, obsessed, and too quiet.

"Boss, we are sorry," Luca said, stepping slightly forward.

“Sorry?” Alessandro let out a dry chuckle, lifting his eyes at last. They were rimmed in shadows, gleaming with contempt.

"You damaged my property… and you’re saying sorry?"

"Boss…" Nico attempted, but Alessandro was on him before the sentence could form.

"Yes? Go on. Entertain us with your excuses," he said, voice deadly calm.

Nico swallowed the rest of his words and took a step back.

Alessandro rose from the chair slowly, walked around the desk, and leaned forward, towering over them with his full height.

"The instruction was simple: bring Marco Rossi. But you brought him back… sick."

His voice cracked at the last word, but only slightly.

"But he was fine in the car," Matteo mumbled, instantly regretting it.

Alessandro’s head turned toward Matteo with a sharp snap, his stare hard enough to peel skin.

He chuckled once. Then his expression twisted into something inhuman.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" he roared, hurling the wine bottle at the wall with a deafening crash. Red droplets streaked the wall like blood.

It was the second thing he’d destroyed in five minutes.

"I'm sorry, boss," Matteo stammered.

Alessandro’s gaze burned a hole into him but he said nothing.

Perfection.

That was all he had ever demanded — from his men, from his operations, from himself.

But now Marco was lying in bed with fever, weak and pale, lips cracked, breath shallow.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

He was supposed to be the one to break Marco.

He was supposed to be the storm that shattered that quiet resolve, not some fucking rainstorm.

"I wanted to be the one to make him miserable," Alessandro hissed, his voice shaking not with weakness — but with fury too potent to contain. "Not the weather. Not an oversight."

His hand slammed down on the desk. "But you allowed it to happen. Now he's lying there—burning up, shivering, coughing like some stray you dragged off the street!"

The room was silent.

Deadly silent.

Even the sound of the wind outside had stilled.

Luca opened his mouth, then shut it.

Nico, Vincenzo, and Matteo stood as if frozen — waiting for their execution.

Finally, Alessandro exhaled sharply and waved his hand, disgust flashing in his eyes.

"Get out," he said, voice cold enough to freeze bone.

They didn’t hesitate.

They turned, boots echoing on the floor as they left one by one, the door clicking shut behind them.

And then there was silence.

Alessandro stood motionless, his hands resting on the edge of the desk, head bowed slightly.

The room smelled like broken glass, wine, and barely-contained rage.

He exhaled again, slower this time, dragging a hand down his face. The skin beneath his eyes burned with tension. His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

He could still feel Marco's fragile breath against his skin from when he lost consciousness.

Alessandro clenched his jaw again, his heart pounding louder than the silence.

This wasn’t supposed to matter.

But it did.

Goddamn it… it did.