The big silver beast comes to life, hissing and spitting like a giant steam train pulling out of the railway station before a kind of gurgling sound kicks it into second gear. Another minute or so, and I’ll be able to enjoy the best coffee in town.

I call her the beast, since some days she can be temperamental. Actually, we all call her this name.

In the shiny silver of the beast, I can see my reflection.

As I wait for the temperature gauge to heat, I stare at myself. I’ve been experimenting with the five o’clock look, but I don’t think I like it.

It makes me look unnecessarily fierce. I thought it might add some artistic flair, but it doesn’t.

The women seem to fall for me, clean-shaven or not. I think tomorrow I’ll go back to shaving.

Finally, silence.

I grab the mug to fill it with coffee. The machine is totally automated to make sure each and every fucking cup is perfect.

Of course, the type of beans is as important as the amount of coffee. There are some crap beans out there, that’s for sure.

A month ago, I switched brands. I now buy Veneziano, which is of top-notch quality.

I come from a long line of Italian coffee lovers. My motto: If you’re going to have coffee, you may as well have the best. Life is too fucking short to drink bad stuff.

My fingers turn the knobs and dials, and within seconds my beautiful coffee machine is spitting out the perfect espresso.

Two teaspoons of sugar and finito, and it’s ready.

I go back to my desk and sit in my high-backed red leather chair. There are a few minor business things I have to attend to before lunch. Being responsible for the casinos the Monatello family owns, as well as the gambling outfits, keeps me on my toes.

It sounds easy being in charge of casinos, but it’s not.

On bad days, I wish I had a different life.

If I could choose an occupation, it would be an artist. Art is one of my passions. But, fuck, I was born into the wrong family.

There are no fucking artists in my family, or if there are, I’ve not been told about them.

In my family, you do what the head of the family does—did.

Okay, it comes with certain benefits. We’re incredibly fucking wealthy, born with model-good looks, and I can have any pussy I want.

But...

I sigh. No point navel gazing. If I’m to catch this new exhibit in my lunch break, I better get a move on.

On the way out, I leave a note for my personal assistant in case she comes looking for me.

I walk to the small art gallery five blocks away. There’s something satisfying about the independence of walking.

It might not appear so to the ordinary observer, but I’m grateful for my ability to be able to walk. With many people housebound for whatever reason, I appreciate my good health.

As usual, lunchtime brings people into the open. The streets are busy, and the cafés have patrons spilling onto the footpath. Someone knocks into me, spilling his coffee.

“Sorry, man,” he mumbles and keeps walking.

I check my shirt. No stain.

By the time I reach the art gallery, the crowd has thinned out. Not many people venture here in the middle of the day or any other time for that matter.

The building is run-down, there are cracks in the wall, and the render’s peeling off. There’s a bit of work to be done to keep this gallery open. It looks more like a shelter for the homeless than an art gallery.

Just goes to show, never judge a book by its cover.

One single poster to the left of the door announces the current exhibit.

The artist is a young man called Tim Trueheart. I’ve read a review about him online.

He’s got a great ability to capture those rare moments in life we all like to hang onto and make them last forever.

Love.

Hate.

Fights.

Those are his subjects.

As soon as I enter the dimly lit building, my senses are assaulted by a moldy kind of smell, and I can’t help wondering where the mould is and what it does to the paintings.

“Can I help you?” a faceless voice says from the back room to the left of the entrance.

I clear my throat and rummage around my designer jeans pockets for loose change. A small donation is all the gallery asks for.

“Just here to look at the latest collection, George,” I call out to the old man I know to be buried in some type of research about artists and paintings.

“Ah, Antonio.” His cracked face appears in the doorway.

There are more lines in this face than on a city road map. It’s a well lived-in face.

“Hey,” I return the greeting.

“Let me know what you think before you go.”

I nod.

“I should have those plans and an accounting for you in about week,” he calls after me, and I wave my hand in acknowledgment.

It’ll be good to help this little struggling community of artists. I’ve asked for plans and a cost estimate so I can run it past my brothers, but the reality is the amount I’m going to be putting into the place is an afternoon’s worth of gambling in one of our exclusive establishments.

And as far I’m concerned, I’d rather put money into the arts than my own business.

Like I said, I was fucking born into the wrong family.

The main room of the building is a lot brighter, with specific lights placed strategically to make sure the artwork is shown in the best possible way.

When I catch sight of the first huge canvass, my heart beats a little faster. Reds, yellows, oranges, and purples lash out from the painting. It’s as if a giant beast is trying to spew forth anger, hatred and rage.

Wow.

“Pretty good, isn’t it?”

The voice makes me jump. I didn’t notice the woman admiring the work of art. A young attractive blonde, she was wearing heels, a tight black knee-length skirt and a white blouse; probably a PA to someone.

I look her up and down.

“Great on the eye,” I agree and sniff the air.

Sickly sweet perfume wafts in my direction. I suppress a cough.

“There’s one out back,” she says, pointing to her right. “It speaks even louder to me than this one.”

With hands in my pockets, I nod. She may be hinting at more than going to look at a painting, but I’m not interested. Not today.

I’ve got a lot on my mind.

The phone rings, and I excuse myself to move further into the gallery.

“Ciao, Franco,” I greet my brother in Italian.

“Breakfast Friday mid-morning—our usual place.”

I nod.

“No worries, see you there.” I hang up and am relieved to find the blonde gone.

If there’s one thing I don’t like in a woman, it’s too much fucking perfume.

And that chick not only wore too much; she also wore the wrong type.