Let's take a step back. My name is Ascanio, a horrible and decidedly uncommon name. If you only knew the others I bear! In reality, I am Ascanio Bartolomeo II, Marquis of the Ancinolfi. Sounds good, right? The classic name that conjures images of endless money, gleaming Ferraris, and affluent social circles. The reality, however, is not quite so glamorous.
I ran away from home at 16. Yes, my family is wealthy, my relatives are dukes and marquises, but a noble title today is worth about as much as a university degree. Actually, a graduate at least earns their qualification; a marquis does not. For most of my life, I had to endure the expectation that one day I would become a privileged person by birth. Elegance, bon ton, impeccable behavior, exclusive parties, balls... but on the flip side, no chosen friends, no public school, no mistakes, no smoking, no alcohol, or drugs. That was until I turned 16, when I decided I could do everything. From there began a whirlwind of emotions: from the first cigarette to the first bottle of wine finished alone, smoking weed, and trying every other drug—though never anything heavy.
I had to scramble to survive. At first, I thought all I had to do was show up and ask for a job. It's not that easy: it's not enough to say, "I am the Marquis." In fact, when I do, people laugh in my face. So, let's just say I've been "getting by" for the past few years. And "getting by" can have its positive side. But in my case, it meant finding food in supermarkets, making it vanish inside my jacket.
Then summer arrived. The jacket was gone, and in a short-sleeved shirt, you can be Lupin, but making a whole chicken disappear is tough. So, I looked for a real job.
I found someone who sold me weed, and I resold it for a higher price. Maybe it's not an honest job, but some call it "commerce." Then, to make more money, I found someone who sold me cocaine, and I resold that, earning even more. I challenge you not to call that "commerce" either.
Now, I'm not exactly a good guy. I've had to lie, deceive; I've even had to beat up innocent people who didn't want to pay... then again, either I hit them, or someone will hit me: it's a bit of a law of retribution.
That being said, I was doing well until yesterday. What happened? Now that I'm no longer under fire, I'm starting to think about it.
Yesterday, as usual, I was having breakfast at a café with my routine cappuccino. As a personal quirk, I change cafés every morning; fortunately, the city is large and has quite a few, though by now, almost everyone recognizes me. Why? When I have breakfast, let's just say I am very, very, very much in a hurry. The reason? I certainly can't afford to pay the bill! I finish my breakfast and, as always, ask to use the restroom, but instead of entering, I turn toward the exit and slip away. No one has ever followed me.
It was time to go to "work," so I headed to the gardens. There I found Tito—I don't think that's his real name, but everyone calls him that, and I've grown attached to it. Tito is a dealer, a bit like me: if I'm the wholesaler, we could call him "the supplier," even if he's not the producer. He tells me the goods have Oriental origins, but we're not connoisseurs—and they are things I would never buy.
He's a big, burly man, settled on that bench for who knows how many years, with only a violin case beside him: I think he wants to look like a street artist, or maybe he is, but I've never seen him play.
He handed me the stuff, and it was a bit more than usual. It was worth a lot, a lot of money. He told me there was a rush: it had to be sold immediately, and I needed to move quite a lot of it, because we were talking about a 200-thousand-euro deal.
I have never had €200,000, not when I was a marquis and not as a drug dealer. But, from the way he talked about it, if I managed to sell it, I'd take home a nice little sum. Maybe, for once, I'd even pay for a few breakfasts.
So, I accepted, took this hefty bag full of things, and ran to my—let's call it—apartment. It was my secret refuge, a bit like the Batcave: I had to hide all my tools of the trade and the merchandise for sale.
I lived in student housing, a perfect setup I'd found years ago. My roommate was Claudio, a shy guy with an eye condition that had made him nearly blind. He had never suspected I wasn't a university student. His limited sight and shyness led him to ask few questions, so he never realized I was 30 years old, with long hair tied in a ponytail, a nose ring, and an unkempt beard. He didn't even know that many found me attractive, but he trusted me. I paid the rent punctually, and he never breathed a word.
Even though we only spoke once a year, we had a good relationship. For me, it was the ideal arrangement: I had my privacy and could move freely, a bit like Batman in his secret lair.
I deposited the merchandise and took only the bare minimum to go to my contacts for my usual sale.
The train station: a seemingly safe place, watched by vigilant eyes. Or so it should be. But the reality is quite different. After 6 p.m. and until noon, the situation changes drastically. The long coffee break of the carabinieri leaves the station unguarded, turning it into a paradise for those who want to take advantage.
I had an appointment with those who, let's face it, are the real delinquents in my line of work. They buy my merchandise to resell it at a high price outside of counseling centers, to people trying to detox, often with fleeting results. Faced with an e-cigarette or a nice fresh tobacco cigarette, the temptation is strong, and many choose the easier path, just as many would abandon methadone for a dose of pleasure. These guys exploit the psychology of people in withdrawal and resell my merchandise for triple its value.
As the dealer I am, I had only brought a tenth of my stock, but they wanted more. The tension rose, and sensing the potential profit, they ordered me to hand over all the merchandise. I tried to diffuse the situation with my usual brazen smile, suggesting a breakfast the next day at our usual spot. But they didn't bite. These aren't rookie kids, but real criminals. They beat me up until, to save my skin, I gave in.
"Fine, I have much more merchandise than I told you. Let me go home to get it." A statement that could surely prove to be a grave mistake.
This is organized crime, not a kids' game. They aren't the usual clients to whom I sell a few grams.
They responded with a veiled threat: "Fine, but we're taking you home."
I already imagined Claudio's face when he would see me return with Mohamed, Stacanov, and Gustavo, armed with a pistol and a baseball bat. What will he think? Will I manage to make him believe they are just three splendid girls? Maybe he'll even fall in love with one of them and finally overcome his shyness and have a beautiful story with Stacanov... but perhaps I was just dreaming. It was more likely we'd be beaten up and robbed of everything.
It was too late to back out now; they held me tight on both sides.
We walked down the street, three splendid guys attracting curious glances from passersby. Look at that handsome guy with the ponytail who even found two girlfriends! Long live polygamy! they must have thought. But the reality was quite different: two were keeping me under control, while the third followed closely, pistol in hand, ready to blow my brains out if I tried to escape.
We arrived at my place. Claudio was in his room, and I tried not to make noise so as not to wake him. I told my three henchmen that only I should go in to get the merchandise, so I wouldn't wake up the whole building. Incredibly, despite the beatings and threats, they listened to me. This saved me from having to invent an excuse for Claudio.
I entered the room and prepared a package worth €100,000. It was an enormous sum, and I wouldn't know where to find the money to replace it if I lost it. I left the rest of the merchandise and left the house with the backpack. Telling them the price sparked laughter. The three replied that it was just a "commission" for not having killed me, thanked me, snatched the backpack with the remaining merchandise from my hands, and left.
I already knew things were going to get very bad. What could I do now? I was trapped, at the mercy of three armed men with names from an eighties film. Whatever I tried, the risk was ending up with a bullet in my body. I thought to myself: sooner or later someone will kill me because of this situation, but at least I've bought myself some time. I'll go have a quiet lunch.
The backpack was gone. I didn't have €100,000, and now what? Well, Tito and I have been friends for a long time; he'll understand. After all, it's not an easy job. He's sending me into the middle of a drug war; he must have considered these risks, right?
I went to the gardens and met Tito. He smiled and asked me, "Welcome back, Ascanio, how's it going? Have you managed to do anything yet?"
"I lost €100,000," I replied crossly.
"Excellent, you're halfway there already! I never thought I'd make so much money in one morning. My god, what a world of perverted junkies there are out there," said Tito, who deals an average of €200,000 a week. His irony is truly deplorable.
It was time to explain the truth: "Tito, there was a problem. Remember those three we often see at the station? Those from the Methadone Gang? Well, they threatened me with a gun and took the €100,000. In short, the first round of business didn't go well at all."
Tito stopped smiling and stared at me.
"Ascanio, I've been doing this job for many years. I'm always here in the gardens, but I've never been caught, and I've always managed somehow. Now, I'm trying to help you, give you a job, and let you earn some money, and you lost €100,000. And I, Tito the Smiling, should show you the true Tito, the one who's been doing this for years. Do you know how many Methadone Gangs I've encountered? Many. Do you know how many people who wanted to cheat me I've found? Very many. And do you know where these people are? At the bottom of ditches.
"Now, Ascanio, I love you like a son, but if I were obligated to bury you, I would do it. Maybe I'd put a nicer cross on yours than on others, but I'd bury you nonetheless. So, I'll give you two options: either you go to those three guys and make a show of courage to get all the money back, or you come up with it yourself. And how can you come up with it yourself? Go to your Marquis daddy: €100,000, how much can that be? He'll sell a small painting, a cushion, I don't care. And because I genuinely care about you, I'll leave you until tomorrow; after that, I guarantee the situation will get complicated."
I said goodbye to Tito and left in silence. He didn't seem to have taken it badly, all things considered. Maybe he was just playing to scare me. But perhaps I should look into that thing he said about burying me a bit more...
Wait a moment, I'm still on the stairs.