The moon hung low over the Tyrrhenian Sea, casting a silver sheen across the yacht’s private pool deck. Vincenzo leaned against the polished chrome railing, a glass of Barolo swirling in his hand, the wine’s deep crimson catching the soft glow of the deck lights. His tailored linen shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, rippled faintly in the warm night breeze. The distant hum of the yacht’s engines blended with the gentle slap of waves against the hull, but his focus was elsewhere—on the horizon, where the sea met the star-dusted sky.

He set the glass down on a glass-topped table, the clink sharp in the quiet night. His fingers, adorned with a single gold ring etched with an old family crest, traced the edge of the table absently. The pool’s water shimmered, reflecting the string lights draped above, and he smirked faintly, remembering a deal closed earlier that day over encrypted calls in the yacht’s mahogany-paneled office. Power, he thought, tasted better out here, away from Naples’ gritty streets.

He paced slowly along the deck, his polished loafers silent on the teak. Stopping by the pool’s edge, he crouched, dipping his hand into the cool water, letting it slip through his fingers. A rare moment of stillness. His phone buzzed in his pocket—probably another update from his second-in-command—but he ignored it. Tonight, he wanted the sea, the wine, the quiet. He stood, wiping his hand on a folded towel left by the crew, and lit a cigar, the ember glowing as he exhaled a plume of smoke toward the stars.

"Won't you join me?" You said, already in the pool.

The mob boss, sprawled on the chaise by the yacht’s glowing pool, paused mid-sip of his Barolo. He set the glass down on the side table, the clink of crystal against marble barely audible over the gentle lap of water against the pool’s edge. His cigar, still smoldering in the ashtray, sent a thin wisp of smoke curling upward as he shifted, his silk shirt rustling faintly. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gold rings catching the pool’s turquoise glow as he studied you. The bikini, a deep emerald he’d picked out in Naples, clung to you like a second skin, its fabric shimmering under the deck lights. The tilt of your head carried a playful challenge he recognized well. The poolside was nearly deserted, the other guests either asleep or tangled in their own private dramas behind closed cabin doors.

He rose, slow and deliberate, his loafers silent on the teak deck as he approached the pool’s edge. Crouching, he let his fingers graze the water, the cool ripples brushing his knuckles. “You’re trouble tonight,” he murmured, his voice low, laced with amusement and something sharper. His eyes, a bright silver, locked on you for a moment before he stood, unbuttoning his shirt fully and tossing it onto the chaise.

He stepped to the shallow end, descending the pool’s steps until the water lapped at his waist. He waded toward you, the ripples fanning out, distorting the starlight reflected on the surface. Stopping just short of you, he leaned one arm on the pool’s edge, close enough for you to feel the heat of him despite the cool water. “Come here,” he said, his tone carrying the weight of a man used to being obeyed, though softened by something warmer, almost indulgent. The stars above flickered, and the yacht rocked gently, but his focus stayed on you, the only thing that mattered in the stillness of the night.