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The Day Alla Mia Amata Played Again

THE VILLA WAS BUZZING at five in the morning. The scent of food combined with flowers was lingering in the air. The tables—hundreds of them—were carefully wrapped in meticulous white linens. The maids were like bees running back and forth, carrying plates and silverware. Violinists, called out at the most unholy time of the day, were cramming to learn the best and most beautiful music they would ever play: the Alla Mia Amata.

"You missed the timing; it would mean something different." The Don was in the middle of the crowd, looking down at the poor violinist.

"S-señor?"

"It's for my son. Perfect it," he ordered in a cold voice. His amber eyes were piercing, silently warning the musician to get the proper tempo or else it would be the last piece he would play. "You have to perfect it," he gritted, making the musician's knee shake at once with the terror that engulfed him.

"Y-Yes, señor." The musician barely opened his mouth, reaching for the paper before him to read the complicated n
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