YOUR LOVE OR YOUR LIFE

Leonardo Marco Rossi stood by the window of his room looking downwards at his garden which was shrouded in mist. It was 7:20 a.m. and the morning was calm and beautiful, but Leonardo Marco Rossi was boiling with rage.

Last night was a nightmare for him: two of his best men had been slaughtered in a pub in downtown Leadville where they had gone to execute one of Leonardo's arch rivals by the name of McAlister Collins who seemed to have more influence and connection in city of Denver, Colorado.

Leonardo was shocked to his bones when he received the news. He couldn't believe it. Those men were the most ruthless and battle-hardened of all his men, plus they had spent several weeks plotting their moves, planning every single detail how to take down the rival as quietly as possible. So what went wrong? What could have possibly gone wrong? Those men had never failed in any mission before. He trusted them even with his own life, but now not only had they failed, they were also dead.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Leonardo had barked at a dimunitive country man who broke the news to him last night. The man was the owner of the pub. Leonardo had been smoking a Gran Habano cigar in his living room, basking in the knowledge that his arch-enemy would not see the morning light. His mind never conceived or entertained this heartbreaking twist. He had instructed his men to take down the foe as discreetly as they could in order not to arouse suspicion because he didn't want to risk another turf war in Silverton, not because he was scared but because turf wars were bad for business. He went to all-out war only when other alternatives had failed. But now a war was inevitable. No doubt, McAlister Collins had known that Leonardo had sent men to assassinate him, and now he would strike back. Leonardo knew this, and it made him afraid and angry.

"I said what hell are you talking about, you bloody son-of-a-bitch?' he said, rising to his feet and inching towards the messenger who was visibly shaken.

"I-I saw it with my very eyes," the man stuttered, "I witnessed it. McAlister Collins slit their throats himself."

"Are you playing games with me? Terry and Antonio have never failed me!"

"I'm telling nothing but the truth, sir," said the man, "It was McAlister who told me to come deliver the message to you. He said he's coming for you."

Leonardo was silent for a while, simmering with fury, and then he blurted, "That bastard wants war and he's going to see war!"

Standing by his window now, Leonardo knew he had to regroup fast and strike before McAlister advanced towards him. Looking absentmindly at the garden below, something struck his eyes: the image of a lady he had never seen before. She was watering the flowers.

The lady was clad in pink and white— pink scarf, white blouse, pink palazzo pants, pink pair of flip-flops. Leonardo's curiosity was piqued. Who is this girl? he wondered. And why is adorned in pink? Is she trying to attract attention? Leonardo shook his head vigorously, trying to blot away the distraction.

"She must one of the new gardeners," he said to himself.

Leonardo hardly ever had direct conversations with the many people who worked in his mansion. He had men who did the hiring and firing. He couldn't be bothered about things like that. But right now he felt an overwhelming desire to know who this lady was. The pink she wore was doing a lot of things to his mind, things he could not explain.

"Carlos!" he called. The response was immediate. "Yes, boss!" Two men were always stationed behind his bedroom door at all hours.

"Yes, boss?" said Carlos, opening the bronze door and stepping in. He was neartly dressed and the expression on his face told the story of a man who would gladly receive a bullet for his master.

"Who's that bitch downstairs?" said Leonardo, pointing at the window. Carlos walked across the large and exquisitely furnished room and peered down the window.

"Her name's Jenna," said Carlos, "She's been working here every morning for the past one week."

"Bring her to me," said Leonardo.

"Sir?"

"I said bring her to this room, you dumbo!"

Carlos hurried outside while Leonardo lit a cigarette and sat on a plosh sofa at the other side of his king-size bed. Everything in the room screamed class and wealth, from the marble floor to the magnificient painting on the wall. It was a painting of his father, Giovanni De Rossi, who had passed down immense wealth and power to him. The painting was drawn by an artist who lived in Venice, Italy, the native city of the De Rossi family, where they lived until the family migrated to the United States many years ago and built an underworld empire in Silverton. Without Giovanni De Rossi, there would be no Leonardo Marco Rossi. The painting was the greatest tribute he could give to his father, and it was so grand it cost him $60,000.

Just then, the door opened and in walked Carlos and Jenna who had a look of fear on her face. Leonardo was immediately struck by her beauty and he struggled to hide the pleasant surprise and awe he felt. He had never seen a face that beautiful, that otherworldly in its simplicity and innocence. Leonardo took a puff at his Gran Habano cigar and signalled to Carlos to leave the room.

Alone now with Jenna, he shifted regally on the sofa and said, "Do you know who I am?"

Jenna hesistated for a moment before speaking. "Yes, sir," said Jenna reverentially, bending her knees slightly. "Everyone in Silverton and beyond knows Leonardo Marco Rossi."

Jenna fidgeted, wondering what Leonardo wanted with her. She had never been inside the mansion before, let alone inside Leonardo's room.

"Ah, good, good," sang Leonardo, "you know my name already. Now may I know yours?"

"My name is Kate, sir."

Leonardo arched a brow. "Not Jenna?"

"Oh, sorry!" said Jenna, surprised he knew her name. "My name is Jenna, sir. I apologize, sir. I was just a bit nervous."

"Nervous?" Leonardo chuckled. And then he stood up and walked slowly to the east side of the room where an expensive vinyl was, and then he turned it on, and the sound of sensuous Italian music filled the room.

"That's La Cura by Franco Battiato!" he exulted, swinging comically. He turned to her and said, "Do you know what La Cura means?" Before she could answer, he brayed with laughter and waved his hands. "Oh, you're American — you don't know. But let me tell you... La Cura means The Cure. Do you know how I was feeling before I saw you down there in the garden, with your back bent, watering the flowers? Oh, I was boiling with rage, my dear. Pure, naked, black rage. But I saw you, damn, mama mia...standing there like a huge pink butterfly, with your palazzo pants fluttering dreamily in response to the cool breeze of the morning...so magical...from this vantage point you looked like a seraph tending the tulips and the lilies and the bougainvilleas—metaphors for the outpouring of my love hormones—and then my anger gave way to wonder. The anger was gone. It evaporated like it never existed, just because I laid eyes on the miracle of your frame, Jenna. You are The Cure, my dear. Hear, hear, Battiato is singing of you!"

He moved his 45-year-old body to the rhythmic beat of the song, interspersing his giggles with puffs at his cigar, acting like a little boy who had no care in the world.

After a few seconds, he sat down on his gold-coloured sofa and stared inscrutably at her face. Jenna held her breath, scared of what he would say next.

"Since you are The Cure," he said, smirking, "I reckon you should also be my love." He paused, and then continued, "You see, I'm a man of anger. Every day, rage consumes me. Ecstasy and rage...my constant companions. That take turns to fill my soul until it bursts at the seams and hysteria becomes my name. I need you, Jenna. There's something about you...you are The Cure. I'm asking you now to be my woman."

Jenna was sweating now. She knows how dangerous Leonardo was.

"But sir, I have a fiancé already," she said, almost pleadingly.

Leonardo chuckled and took another puff at his cigarette. "Fiancé? Don't make me laugh, please. I'm sure he's one of the poor, sick lads dressed in bleached-out rags roaming the streets of Silverton like vagabonds and begging for daily bread. I'm giving you the chance to be my woman and enjoy wealth, comfort and power beyond your wildest dreams and you cannot say no."

"I-I'm sorry, sir," said Jenna, "but I love my fancé and I can't leave him. I'm so sorry."

Leonardo sat up abruptly from his seat, walked briskly to where the vinyl was, and turned it off. Then he turned around and said to Jenna in a calm but dangerous voice, "Go home and inform your father and your mother and your goddamn fiancé that Leonardo Marco Rossi wants to marry you. No one says no to Leonardo, no, not in the whole of Denver."