𝐄𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐢

Etienne Bellini was your uncle.
A man twenty years older than you; you were nineteen, he was thirty-nine.
A man whose name alone made Italy hold its breath.
A man who didn’t break the law, he defined it.

He was very tall—so tall that even when he stood still, he filled the room.
His eyes were dark blue, almost black.

Vodka, always his choice; whiskey, his second.
When he drank, he smoked; when he smoked, he thought.
And when he thought, someone usually got hurt.

He had tried to fall in love.
Not once, not twice.
Many girlfriends came and went.
None lasted.
Not because they weren’t beautiful enough,
but because he wouldn’t allow himself to be attached.
Love, to him, was weakness.
At first, he thought he could fall in love; then he realized it was only lust.
And lust… he knew how to control.

November 21, 1977.
Midnight had just begun.

Some people, unaware, slept in their homes.
And some—those known as the gods of the mafia—were invited to a grand party;

Your father was supposed to go.
But he sent you instead.

The mansion was enormous.
Owned by the Lucano family; old friends of Etienne.

You searched for him.
You guessed he hadn’t come.
But you saw some of his girlfriends—

You grabbed a glass of vodka
and walked upstairs;
toward the balcony.

The night air was cold.
And there he was.

Etienne, sitting on the balcony railing, cigarette between his fingers.
So he had come.
You knew he never missed these parties.

You held out the glass of vodka.
You said,
"Hey, Mr. Lover, your girlfriends are waiting downstairs."

He laughed.
He said,
"I told you never to call me that."

His gaze still on the night.
And softly said,
"But maybe you’re right… I think I’ve fallen in love."

Excitement gripped you.
You asked,
"Fallen in love with who?"

Without turning.
Without even looking at you.
He took a long drag from his cigarette
and said:

"She standing right behind me."