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Along the path, the streetlights cast long, amber shadows over the cobblestones of Palermo. Erik Jørgensen pushed open the heavy oak door of a corner trattoria, letting the ambient noise of clinking wine glasses and loud, cheerful conversation spill out onto the pavement for a brief second before the door swung shut. He let out a long breath, buttoning his wool coat against the autumn chill, thoroughly satisfied by a heavy meal and a good vintage wine. As he turned to walk down the quiet street, his eyes caught a silhouette across the narrow thoroughfare.
It was Dante Scordato, off-duty and dressed in a dark, tailored overcoat. His posture, even in repose, possessed a rigid geometry, though leaned back against the massive blocks of travertine. A small, fierce ember near his face flared orange.
Erik paused, a slow smile breaking across his face. He crossed, his footsteps echoing quietly in the alley.
“So,” Erik said, coming to a halt a few paces away. “Dante Scordato is not perfectly controlled after all.”
Dante did not startle. He did not move his head. He simply lowered his hand, allowing the streetlamp to illuminate the thin white cigarette pinched between his leather-gloved fingers. A ribbon of grey smoke curled upward.
“A vice,” Erik continued, gesturing toward the cigarette with mild amusement. “And a deeply irrational one at that.”
“It is not a loss of control, Jørgensen,” Dante said. His voice was low, possessing the same flat, resonant calm it always held. “A loss of control implies I am a victim of the impulse. I am entirely aware of the damage it causes. I do not smoke under the illusion of harmlessness.”
“Hm. Then why do it?” Erik asked, leaning casually against a wrought-iron post across Dante. “It defies your own logic.”
“It does not.”
Erik laughed. “You inhale poison for pleasure.”
“I inhale poison because the consequences are acceptable.”
“Acceptable to whom?”
“To me.”
“Ah." Erik nodded solemnly. “A rigorous scientific standard.”
Dante exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “You asked a question. I answered it.”
“No, you evaded it.”
“I did not.”
“You did.” Erik pointed at the cigarette. “You spend your days lecturing people about consequences. Yet here you are, voluntarily damaging your lungs because you enjoy it.”
A faint crease appeared between Dante's brows.
Erik immediately brightened.
“It’s different,” Dante mumbled, frustration very evident. “I have evaluated the risk and determined it is acceptable to myself.”
“Of course.”
Dante's eyes narrowed slightly.
“You are being insufferable."
“I am agreeing with you."
“You are mocking me."
“A little.”
Erik folded his hands behind his back, smiling pleasantly. “You know you can just say you enjoy it, right?”
Dante gave no response.
“Frankly, I’m quite disappointed. Your big vice is rather unremarkable. I was hoping to discover that Dante Scordato spends his evenings gambling or participating in underground duels.”
“That’s absolutely ridiculous.”
“Collecting illegal art?”
“No.”
“A mistress?”
Dante glared at him with eyes that could have killed a man where he stood. Erik’s smile only widened.
“Oh? Now that’s interesting.”
“What?”
“That reaction.”
“There was no reaction.”
“There absolutely was.” Erik pointed at him. “You were merely irritated by the gambling accusation. The art theft received complete dismissal. But the mistress…”
“There is no mistress.”
“I didn’t say there was.”
Dante pinched the bridge of his nose. Erik laughed outright.
“You know, I think this may be the most animated I’ve ever seen you.”
“I am not animated.”
“You look one accusation away from strangling me.”
“I am considering it.”
“See? That’s passion.”
Dante took another drag from the cigarette, perhaps because it was preferable to responding. Erik watched the ember glow.
“Maybe that’s why you smoke.”
Dante sighed. “Please enlighten me.”
“It gives you something to do with your hands while resisting the urge to commit murder.”
Dante’s expression did not change. “I would never do that.”
“No?”
“No.”
Erik nodded thoughtfully. “Because it would be illegal?”
“Correct.”
“Not because you’d feel bad.”
Dante frowned, though the difference was almost unnoticeable from his usual expression. “I did not say that.”
“But it was your first reason.”
“It was the relevant reason.”
Erik tilted his head. “So if murder were legal tomorrow, I’d be in danger?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it would still be morally wrong.”
Erik’s eyes lit up. “Ah, so you have a second reason to not commit murder.”
“Of course, minchione.”
“Yes, but you listed the legal one first.”
“Because I am Carabinieri.”
“And because you want to kill me… a little.”
Dante took a final drag, the ember burning perilously close to his leather glove, before dropping the cigarette to the cobblestones. He crushed it beneath the heel of his Oxford shoe with a deliberate, finalized twist.
“I do not want to kill you,” Dante said, adjusting the collar of his overcoat. “I merely wish for you to be somewhere else. Ideally, a different municipality.”
“Palermo is a big city,” Erik said cheerfully. “But somehow, we keep finding each other. It’s fate, Dante. Or entropy. Which one do you hate more?”
Dante began to walk, his strides measured and even. “You knights and your stories of fate… Fate is a romantic excuse for poor planning. Entropy is a physical law. I do not hate either. I manage them.”
Erik fell into step beside him, hands still clasped behind his back. “Right. The Singular Will of Dante Scordato. Managing the chaos of the universe, one crushed cigarette at a time. Tell me, when you take over the Council of State, will you ban smoking?”
“No,” Dante said without missing a beat.
“Why not? It’s a biological inefficiency. It clogs the lungs of the workers.”
“Because a ban requires enforcement. To enforce a ban on something so trivial would require a massive diversion of resources away from actual structural threats. The friction created by policing the habit would cost the State more than the habit itself.”
“You actually thought about it.”
“I think about everything, Jørgensen. It is why I am tired, and it is why you are still breathing.”
Erik’s grin softened. “That’s a rather noble way to describe your workload.”
“It was not intended to be.”
“No, I know.”
Dante continued walking. “The average citizen should not be required to spend every waking moment considering organized crime, infrastructure vulnerabilities, political corruption, emergency response logistics, or resource allocation. That is the responsibility of the State.”
“And your responsibility to the State.”
“My profession, yes.”
Erik glanced sideways at him.
“You really believe that, don't you?”
“Believe what?”
“That if you're doing your job correctly, nobody notices.”
“That is generally how competent administration functions.”
“Huh.”
Dante looked at him suspiciously. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You are smiling.”
"I am always smiling."
“That is not reassuring.”
Erik laughed. “No, it’s just…” He shrugged. “For a man who so thoroughly despises romantic delusions, you have a remarkably chivalric worldview.”
Dante’s pace did not change, but his tone dropped a fraction of a degree. “Do not compare me to your profession, Jørgensen.”
“Why not?”
“Because I enforce the law of a modern State. You ride a horse at other men with a blunt stick for the entertainment of tourists.”
Erik grinned, entirely unoffended. “A lance, Dante. It’s called a lance, and it requires a tremendous amount of core strength. But that’s exactly my point. I play the romantic knight. The shiny armor, the banners, the applause. But you... you’re the actual thing.”
“I am a mechanism of order.”
“You’re a man standing on a wall so the village can sleep,” Erik countered mildly. “It’s the foundational premise of the old martial class. The idea that someone has to wear the heavy armor—or in your case, the heavy psychological burden—so the rest of the world can afford to be soft. You suffer the ugliness of the world so they don't have to.”
Dante stared straight ahead down the dimly lit street, his jaw tight. “There is no romance in it. It is simple logistics. A society functions best when its citizens are unburdened by the friction of defending themselves. I am merely the friction barrier.”
“‘Friction barrier,’” Erik repeated, tasting the words. “Very poetic.”
“It is literal.”
“It’s a shield, Dante.” Erik bumped his shoulder lightly against Dante’s arm—a gesture Dante rigidly tolerated, though he looked at Erik’s shoulder as if it had committed a zoning violation.
“A shield is a tactical tool,” Dante said. They both stopped, having arrived at the apartment building where Dante lived.
“It is,” Erik agreed easily. “And you can dress your worldview up in all the cold, mechanical terminology you want. You can call it ‘logistics’ and ‘administration’ and ‘efficiency.’ But at the end of the day, Dante... you’re just a very grumpy knight in a tailored overcoat.”
Dante stared at him. For a long, quiet moment, the only sound was the distant hum of Roman traffic.
“I am going home, Jørgensen.”
“Goodnight, Sir Dante,” Erik said, offering a flourishing, entirely theatrical bow.
Dante turned on his heel. “Do not call me that.”
“Sleep well, Sir Dante.”
Dante did not look back.
Which, Erik suspected, was because looking back would have required acknowledging that despite all his lectures on logic and control, he still occasionally stood in dark alleys and voluntarily inhaled poison because he liked it.