Chapter 33

  ? Anchor ?

  The hotel gleamed in the late evening, its polished wood and brass fixtures reflecting the moonlight in golden bars.

  Velvet drapes framed tall windows that opened onto the city below, a jumble of rooftops and chimneys.

  The scent of fresh polish mingled with faint cigar smoke, a subtle reminder that luxury and power often went hand in hand.

  Dominick sat with Don Emilio, Don Silvano, and Don Carlo, the four of them arranged around a low table in the hotel’s new lounge, glasses of amber brandy catching the light.

  “Magnificent hotel,” Don Silvano murmured, swirling his glass. “And the view… simply unmatched.”

  “Indeed,” Don Emilio added with a nod. “Rami did well to part with it.”

  “I’d love to show it to my daughters,” Don Carlo said, his voice softening for a moment. “Let’s hold a ceremony here soon — give them a reason to visit.”

  “It’s been ages since they set foot here.” Dominick's eyes didn't leave the view from the windows.

  “That’s how it should be. Better they live far from the shadows we walk in.”

  Silvano leaned back, his eyes tracing the glow of the chandeliers.

  “One day, when our business is clean and the city runs honest… they’ll have the choice to return. By then, they won’t inherit our sins.”

  A silence lingered — not uncomfortable, but heavy with the thought.

  Then Carlo’s lips curved into a dry smile. “Alright. Enough sentiment. We have business to attend to.”

  Emilio's voice lowered. “The Veraccis. Their coffers are filling faster than we can trace. No trades, no storefronts… nothing explains it. Whatever they’ve stumbled into, it’s a game changer.”

  Silvano’s brow furrowed. “Our contacts say they’ve struck some arrangement… with a noble house. Surprising, considering that most of them hate the families."

  Silvano set his glass down with a soft clink. His gaze moved to Dominick. “Dom. What do you think?”

  “They bought firearms from us without haggling. That alone is telling. Same with the cut of this hotel.”

  “If they meant to strike at us, they wouldn’t have come to us for arms—least of all openly.” Silvano said, rolling the glass slowly in his hand, eyes narrowed in thought.

  “Or they want us to believe that,” Dominick replied. “Either way, it’s no guarantee...”

  “If it's true, depending on how high this noble house sits, they could climb fast. Catching up to us is also possible. Political favors, police protection—money buys it all. Maybe not now, but in five or ten years. And when they move… who knows? Perhaps the Marcettis will join them.”

  Silvano’s hand cut the air, sharp and restless. “Bastards won't give up even after Giovanni and Robert fell and half of their henchmen deserted.”

  Dominick tapped ash into a crystal tray, watching the curl of smoke rise toward the ceiling. “I have Vince in motion. He meets me later. If it comes to it, I’ll use my little wild cards to scout.”

  Carlo rubbed his jaw. “No need to overreact—yet. First, let us discover the truth of their dealings.”

  Don Emilio tilted his glass, amber liquid catching the last light. “By the way, when do we get to meet Gilbert's son, Dominick?”

  Dominick let smoke drift from his cigarette before replying, voice even. “I could have brought him days ago, but you gentlemen are always busy.”

  Don Carlo’s lips curved in a dry smile. “We always are. But it’s about time we see him. The family needs young blood. Dominick’s feelings aside about sparing Gilbert, I liked the idea of another boy like Dante joining.”

  Don Silvano’s gaze darkened, a distant sadness creeping in. “The war with the Marcettis… years of it took away all our sons.” His voice softened.

  “When I was younger, I dreamt of this table being full of them—Claude, Matteo, Steve…”

  He let the memory hang. “That’s why I don’t want Dominick and Vince alone when they take over. Muscle is one thing… brains are another. Dante is one hell of a boy. And I’m curious about Gilbert’s son—bet he’s a poor little innocent like his father.”

  Dominick chuckled softly. “You’ve got it wrong, Silvano.”

  Silvano turned toward him, curiosity piqued. Emilio and Carlo leaned in slightly, attentive.

  “One would think Dante is the tough one… and Alex the soft one,”

  “A few days after Alex arrived, I saw Dante cleaning shoes. The boy who once lifted coins now worked without cunning, like an obedient child.”

  “Hm... That is interesting. Was Alex that persuasive?” Carlo asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “Not just that." Dominick exhaled, smoke curling in thin ribbons toward the ceiling, eyes hidden behind mirrored lenses.

  “Dante… he’s clever, crafty. But he has no anchor. Took him in since he was a toddler. He has no goals, no dreams. He shifts, bends, and deceives with ease.”

  “He hides behind his playfulness, but he is a boy adrift—hungry for approval, for loyalty, for someone to believe in him… and ready to give himself wholly to whoever will take him.”

  He let the silence settle, letting the words hang. Then he fixed Carlo with a steady gaze.

  “Alex… he’s innocent, yes. He fears. He cries."

  "And yet—"

  "He stands."

  "Code. Principles. Morals. Stubborn as a rock.”

  Emilio met Dominick’s eyes without wavering.

  “I understand your ruses, Dominick. But I want no harm to come to these children. I’m fond of Dante, and I trust you — but I’ll say it plain : —"

  "Use them wisely. Don’t throw them into gunfire, don’t make them shields. I want them seasoned, not broken. Dante, Gilbert’s boy — they’re still just boys.”

  “I’ll need both." Dominick replied, "Together or apart, I’ll figure it out.”

  The three dons shared a quiet, knowing smile, acknowledging the promising future this man was shaping.

  "To the little ones — to Dante and Alex."

  Glasses were raised—wine for them, water for Dominick—offered in silent tribute.

  Moonlight bathed the rooftops and chimneys below, silver spilling across the city—a quiet reminder that the world outside still turned, no matter the schemes within.

  The rain had stopped, but the streets still glistened with shallow puddles that caught the dim glow of the gas lamps. Midnight weighed heavy on the city, the silence broken only by the echo of boots against wet stone. Alex and Dante walked side by side, both sore and battered from the fight. Patches of bruises marked their cheeks, and Alex’s hand was bound in a strip of white bandage, still damp from the rain.

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  Dante glanced at it. “Your hand’s alright, buddy?”

  Alex gave him a soft reassuring expression. “Yes, the cut is not that deep. It should heal in a few days.”

  Dante lowered his eyes, his voice uneasy. “I’m… sorry I didn’t step in sooner. When that maniac started swinging the knife—I froze.”

  “You did later, and you had my back the entire time. Not just today.” Alex said gently. “And I don't blame you. It was scary to fight someone coming to kill me.” He studied Dante’s face, curiosity in his tone.

  "Though a knife is nothing compared to gunshots. Have you never been in one in a mission?"

  Dante opened his mouth twice, then swallowed hard.

  “What’s wrong?” Alex asked, his tone warm, patient.

  Dante let out a faint laugh. “I thought you were… calling me out. Like I’m not as loyal to you as I am to the boss.”

  Alex shook his head. “No. I didn’t mean it that way." he put a hand on Dante's shoulder.

  "And 'loyal' ? Don’t talk like you’re my soldier. You’re my friend.”

  He scratched the back of his head, a little sheepish.

  “We’ve only known each other for a month or so, but it feels longer to me. I was never close to the boys back in my village… yet with you, I feel like I’ve got a brother now.”

  “Brother?” Dante blinked.

  “Yes.”

  Dante hesitated, then grinned faintly. “I guess… we are.”

  They walked quietly until Alex spoke, his voice thoughtful. “Dante… can we really find a way out?” His gaze stayed fixed on the dark turn of the alley ahead.

  “Out?” Dante raised an eyebrow.

  “You said you’d find one for us.”

  Dante looked away. “It’s… harder than it sounds.”

  Alex’s eyes narrowed. “My father ran for thirteen years before I was even born. They still found him.”

  Dante’s voice was flat. “Not surprised. But why bring it up now?”

  Alex’s steps slowed, his eyes fierce with determination. “Because I want to be like him. Like my father. Like Doctor Kranz. A healer. Someone who saves lives"

  His bandaged fist clenched tight. "Not someone who manipulates, deceives, or gets under people’s skins. And I'm afraid that I'm... learning and absorbing those methods."

  His eyes fell on the ground.

  "I'm afraid the more time I spend here, the more I will become like Dominick instead.”

  Dante smirked faintly. “That how you handled Zack?”

  Alex nodded.

  “Anything goes in a ... a .... ATCHOU!" Dante sneezed. "— street fight. Don't overthink it..."

  He sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve with a grimace. “Aaand… cold incoming.”

  “I don’t want to justify it every time." Alex whispered. "When he tried to harm Noor, I hit him. I don’t regret that. But… I did more than win... I destroyed him the moment I started talking.”

  By the time they reached their building, the words hung between them like smoke. They climbed the narrow stairs, each step heavy.

  “that boy... Leo,” Alex muttered, “he didn’t need cheap tricks to win. I want to be like that.”

  “So you're okay with flipping a boy midair with a punch, but regret being smart?” Dante said, limping and pressing a hand to the wall for support.

  Alex slowed his pace, steady as ever. “Fighting is necessary when defending your loved ones.” His muscles throbbed, familiar from long hikes, but the soreness was manageable—nothing he hadn’t pushed through before.

  He cast a sharp glance at Dante. “But the way Dominick works—manipulation, lies, control—I feel that’s worse than violence.”

  On the stairs, Dante began lagging behind.

  “What did they feed you in the mountains?” he groaned, looking at Alex going up the stairs almost casually.

  Alex blinked. For a second, he didn't get the meaning of that. Then the boy laughed lightly.

  “Here, lean on me.” He let Dante rest on his shoulder.

  The boys resumed going up slowly.

  Dante’s voice broke the silence as they climbed. “I do think what he does is… cool. He’s smart. Plays the long game.”

  Alex shot him a glare.

  Dante grinned faintly. “Come on. The fact you’re learning those methods means you find them useful. And you gotta admit—the boss is clever.”

  Alex’s reply cut low and sharp. “That doesn’t sound like someone who wants out.”

  Dante’s grin slipped.

  Alex’s eyes narrowed. “Or did you only say it that night to shut me up?”

  “No!” Dante burst out, voice breaking. “I meant it. I really did. But…”

  He swallowed, searching for words. “Don’t you think the boss had his own reasons for becoming like this?”

  “That doesn’t excuse what he does,” Alex said, voice steady but heated.

  “The tragedies he causes. The terror. All of it. Am I supposed to accept it because he had a rough life or something?”

  "If you're showing sympathy for the lunatic Zack, why not the boss?"

  "Because Zack is still a kid."

  Dante’s eyes fell to the steps. The boy paused to gather his thoughts.

  “You... don’t have to accept it. Just… maybe understand it.”

  "You know I ..." A breath, almost a whisper as he continued. “I used to tell myself I was blameless. Innocent. All I do is pass signals, fetch scraps of information, play little tricks. I told myself I wasn’t hurting anyone… and the ones I was hurting were criminals too.”

  He stopped. “You mentioned gunshots earlier... One day, I was supposed to scout before an ambush.” Each word dragged heavier.

  Alex steadied him, waiting.

  “It went wrong,” Dante said, his voice low, strangled. “A full shootout erupted and… a little girl, wrong place, wrong time, was...”

  He couldn't finish.

  Alex’s eyes widened. “How ... old?”

  Dante’s mouth twisted. “…Six. Maybe seven.”

  Alex tried to imagine it.

  The small body. The last moments. The pain.

  The more his mind turned, the tighter his chest bound, the deeper his hatred for the mob seared—and the more he ached for Dante, who had lived what Alex’s stomach knotted just to imagine.

  “I mean… it’s my fault but it’s not,” Dante muttered, rubbing the heel of his hand against his temple as if he could press the thought out of his skull.

  “I did carry an order, that’s all. If I wasn’t there… someone else would have done it.”

  Then... Dante braced himself for the scolding, the cold stare, the condemnation.

  Instead — Alex’s grip tightened.

  His hand pressed firmer against Dante’s wrist. His shoulder steadied his weight more fully.

  The boy who had called him a brother pulled him closer—wordlessly telling him he meant it.

  That he was here.

  “Don’t,” Dante rasped. "I asked for understanding... but not like this."

  “I took part in it. If the boss and his men are guilty, then so am I, right?”

  The boy's gaze dropped, voice fraying. “If you hadn’t shown up in my life… maybe I’d still be making excuses. Telling myself I was completely innocent from that too. Just like I did when I was stealing.”

  A heavy silence.

  Alex’s gaze shifted—far away, back toward home, back to the mountains. Whenever he struggled, that was where his mind went.

  But this time, he wasn’t searching for himself. He was searching for Dante.

  “My mother…” Alex began softly. “She used to worry whenever I came back from a fight, even if I’d won. One day, though, she wasn’t worried. She was angry.”

  Dante frowned. “Why?”

  Alex slowed on the stairs, as if the memory itself had weight, as if he feared it might slip away if he didn’t hold it carefully.

  “Because I was celebrating. I’d beaten a boy—Jori. He’d started it, and I thought I’d been in the right. I didn’t even notice he’d lost a tooth. His parents came to complain, but I didn’t care.” He paused, his expression caught between shame and fondness. “My mother stood up for me in front of them. But later, when we were alone, she looked at me and asked, ‘Where is your guilt?’”

  Alex let the words hang in the air before adding, more quietly: “She said guilt is your soul talking to you.”

  He glanced back at Dante, a small, weary smile tugging at his mouth. “You still have yours. Hold on to it.” He gave a faint, self-conscious chuckle.

  "I didn't hit some kid! I was responsible for a death!" Dante snapped, startling Alex.

  "They... are not the same." Trying to say more, his voice broke, as if he wished they was — that his sin was, indeed, smaller.

  Alex’s throat tightened.

  “I didn’t mean to make it sound equal. I just… I don’t want you to think you’re the same as them. You still care. That’s… that’s enough for now.”

  Dante listened.

  Alex continued, as he resumed climbing the stairs, still supporting Dante.

  "If only Dominick, Vince, the Dons and all those criminals... felt like you do now, they would have stopped what they do. But instead, they kept going."

  "They are the adults. You're not."

  The words were simple, but they struck deep.

  Alex hadn't given him a judgment, but something else, entirely different—compassion. A memory. The kind of wisdom a mother would give her child.

  And though the weight on Dante’s shoulders didn’t vanish, it felt lighter. "Thanks... buddy."

  At last, they reached the door to their apartment. Alex let him go, though sadness lingered between them.

  Both patted their pockets, growing grimmer by the second.

  A silence followed.

  “Lost your keys too?” Dante asked.

  “Yes.”

  ...

  They exchanged stone-faced looks.

  “Must’ve dropped them in the brawl,” Alex said, then held up the wooden token with a bright smile. “But my lucky charm is lucky—it didn’t even fall !”

  Dante scoffed. “Yeah, shame it doesn’t open doors. Maybe it’ll conjure a bed to keep us warm tonight? ‘Cause we’re stuck out here.”

  “Not under my watch.”

  Both boys jolted as a hand clapped their shoulders from behind.

  “Wow!” Dante laughed, startled but relieved.

  Alex froze, his blood running cold.

  Vince stood behind them, smiling, a man who seemed to appear from nowhere.

  Alex hadn’t heard a step in the hall or the stairs.

  “You’ve got a key, Vince?” Dante asked.

  “Yes,” Vince said. “Lucky coincidence. I came for Dominick.”

  He unlocked the door with ease and gestured for them to enter first.

  “It’s ladies first, not children first, Vince,” Dante quipped.

  Vince chuckled at Dante, but his sharp gaze settled on Alex. The boy held his stare, uneasy—wondering how much Vince had overheard, and worse, how much Dominick would know.