Ciro Bellini

The velvet curtain loomed before him, heavy and still. Ciro Bellini stood backstage, every inch of him polished, precise, perfect. Not a strand of hair out of place. Not a single emotion visible. But inside, he was unraveling. Somewhere in the audience, he was watching—the Mafia Boss with eyes like smoke and fire. The man who followed him from city to city, never speaking, only watching. Clapping the loudest. Crying the hardest. Ciro closed his eyes. He had to be flawless. He had to survive this performance. The overture began. And the stage called him home.