Chapter 4 - The Shedding of the Skin
The old man stared down at the silver coin resting on his knee.
The ragged, pathetic rasp of his breathing stopped entirely.
He placed his hands flat on the padded armrests of the velvet chair.
He pushed himself up.
The joints in his knees cracked, a sharp, defining sound in the tense air.
He didn't look like a fragile, crumbling beggar anymore.
His posture straightened, his spine aligning with absolute, rigid, military precision.
The young man in the blue suit took an involuntary half-step back.
The leather sole of his shoe squeaked loudly against the marble.
The old man reached up with terrifying calmness.
He grabbed the brim of his filthy, oil-stained cap and pulled it off his head.
He let it drop to the floor.
Next, his hands moved smoothly to the collar of the heavy, torn overcoat.
He shrugged his broad shoulders.
The ruined garment slid down his arms and hit the floor with a heavy, dead weight.
Underneath the rags was a charcoal, double-breasted suit of flawless Neapolitan tailoring.
The rich fabric seemed to drink the light of the chandelier.
A platinum tie pin gleamed sharply against a crisp, jet-black silk shirt.
The old man’s face was still deeply lined, but the vulnerability had been entirely erased.
His eyes were cold, dark, and utterly merciless.
The arrogant sneer melted instantly off the younger man’s face.
His heavy gold watch suddenly looked cheap and gaudy.
His jaw went slack, his mouth opening and closing as his vocal cords seized.
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"Uncle Rocco?"
The younger man choked on the two syllables, his face draining of all color.
