Chapter 36

  ? First Steps ?

  Dominick walked fast, head down, weaving through the narrow alleys that bled out of the noble sector. The coin in his hand felt heavier than gold had any right to be, edges digging into his palm as if to mock him. He clenched it tighter.

  "Damn him. Damn Don Emilio."

  Those sharp eyes had cut straight through him, like a knife through paper. Dominick thought he had played it well—words measured, back straight, voice calm. But Emilio has seen through the boy like a child's book. Worse. He knew more about himself than Dominick knew about himself.

  His jaw ached from grinding his teeth. He hated it—being read, being dismissed.

  He hated losing.

  He opened his palm and stared at the coin glinting faintly in the fading light. It was enough for a small loaf, maybe more. Enough to give Elena months free of the mills, months where her hands wouldn’t bleed from the ropes and the dust.

  But then what? After a while, she’d be back, worse than before. And he’d have nothing left but an empty hand and the memory of her smile fading the second the coin was gone.

  "Better to keep it. Trade it, stack it, build something out of it. More coins, bigger steps. Someday, enough to get her out forever."

  That was the smart choice. The only choice.

  Yet the thought of her bent over the looms again—her cough, her small frame swallowed by the dust—scratched at him until his chest burned.

  He closed his fist around the coin again, tighter this time, until his knuckles went white.

  "Do I really care? Do I just want to prove him wrong? Or do I just hate feeling weak? Feeling helpless?"

  The question slithered in uninvited, and he couldn’t shake it. He told himself he was doing this for her. But part of him wondered if he was just feeding his own hunger, the hunger to prove he was more than some street rat Emilio could toy with.

  The cobbles glowed amber in the sinking light, the air sharp with coal smoke and damp cloth hung from windows. Gilbert walked a step ahead, clutching his satchel, while Elena skipped lightly to match his pace, her braids catching the sun.

  “Thank you again for today, Gilbert,” she said, her voice brighter than her usual tired calm.

  Gilbert shifted his satchel from one shoulder to the other, eyes darting to the rooftops instead of her. “I’ll try to come by whenever we don’t have school. Might even ditch class.” He let out a small, crooked laugh.

  Elena gasped, tugging his sleeve so he looked at her. “No! Don’t! Keep attending!”

  Gilbert kicked a loose stone, watching it rattle ahead of them. “It’s not like it’ll matter much. No matter how hard I try, I’ll never catch up to your brother.”

  Elena tilted her head, her braid brushing her shoulder in the orange light. “Dominick studies hard. He wants to be the best. He doesn’t just… have it.”

  Gilbert sighed through a grin. “That’s the difference. He’s sharp, and he works for it too. Me? I don’t stand a chance against that.”

  Elena narrowed her eyes in mock sternness. “Then if you bring me more bread, I’ll distract him while he studies. Give you a head start.”

  Gilbert laughed so suddenly it startled a bird off a chimney. “No way. I want to beat him at his best.”

  “In your dreams,” Elena shot back — then, breaking her usual composure, she stuck out her tongue at him. "My brother won't lose."

  Gilbert blinked, then burst into another awkward laugh. For a moment, as the sky burned red and gold over the rooftops, the slums felt less heavy. He bent down, plucked a tiny wildflower poking through a crack in the stone, and handed it to her without a word. Elena accepted it with both hands, smiling so wide her cheeks dimpled.

  Finally at the building where they live, they heard steps descending at the stairwell.

  Dominick.

  He came into view, hair uncombed, eyes briefly catching Elena’s. He didn’t even notice Gilbert who called out. "Oh, Dominick. I need to talk to you—"

  Without warning, the boy darted forward—

  And wrapped his arms around Elena.

  Gilbert’s lips parted, disbelief giving way to warmth. His chest lifted, almost relieved, as though this simple hug washed away weeks of worry. The sight moved him.

  Elena startled at first, then softened, hugging him back. “Domiii.”

  Dominick buried his face in her shoulder, clinging.

  Don Emilio’s words from earlier still echoed in his skull, truths about himself and his real priorities. Ones he wasn't ready to accept, and decided to face and fight.

  When he finally looked up at Gilbert, his smile trembled — warm, but edged with fear. “I paid the rent for the next trimester.”

  Gilbert blinked. “What?!”

  Elena froze in her brother's arms.

  Dominick spoke carefully, almost rehearsed, as if each word had been tested in his head before leaving his mouth. “I got a golden coin. Enough to cover three months of the apartment. I just met the new landlord and paid him. So we’re safe for now.”

  His eyes found Elena’s. “You don’t have to work anymore. Not for a while.”

  Elena blinked up at him. No cheer, no relief — only a searching look. She knew her brother’s tone: not triumph, but strain. The kind of voice that carried more weight than it offered comfort.

  Dominick turned to Gilbert, forcing a smile. “You were right, Gilbert. Let's just keep studying.”

  Gilbert hesitated, clutching his satchel strap. “But… what do we tell our families? How do we explain where the money came from?”

  Dominick’s jaw tightened. “The landlord promised he’ll turn them away if they come to pay. He won’t breathe a word about me. Just—leave it at that.”

  Gilbert gave a slow nod, but doubt lingered. “Dom… that’s unlike you."

  Dominick blinked hearing that.

  "Shouldn’t you have exchanged the golden coin for normal ones?" Gilbert asked, "You could’ve handed them over bit by bit. Or just tested this landlord with one month’s rent first. Even better, given the money to the parents themselves. That’s safer than trusting some Richard we don’t even know.”

  "I mean... that's what you usually do."

  Dominick looked away. “If I give the money to our parents, they’d ask and want to know where it came from. And the more they worry, the more questions they’d press, until I brought down trouble on all of us.” His voice dropped, almost defensive. “Besides… if I paid the new landlord straight, no tricks, he’d see it clean. He’d keep his word, and we’d start off right from the beginning. A good trusting relationship that goes both ways. And if I tried to change the coin myself? I’m just a boy. No shopkeeper would take me seriously. They’d say it’s fake—or worse, pocket it and laugh in my face.”

  Gilbert frowned. “You really trust the landlord instead? Just like that?”

  Dominick’s voice wavered for the first time, almost pleading. “I… chose not to think about it too much. All those schemes almost made me forget about... what really matters.”

  "Today, I choose to trust."

  Silence hung for a beat.

  "No more deceiving."

  Then Dominick’s mouth curved into a grin—sharp, almost wicked. “Now, hand me the notes from this afternoon. You’re not getting ahead of me. You or Vince or anyone.”

  For a beat, Gilbert just stared. Then his shoulders loosened, a smile tugging across his face. "You just wait. I will beat you one day. You'd better watch out!"

  If Dominick wanted the notes, it meant he was still in the race, still chasing the right path. The honest one.

  Elena, still clinging to her brother, squeezed tighter. Her small voice cut through the dusk. “Thank you, Domi. For paying the rent."

  "But… whatever you did to get the money—don’t do it again. Okay?”

  He exhaled, resting his chin briefly against her hair. “It was nothing, Elena. I mean it. Just a rich man took pity on me..."

  "And don't worry. I won’t do anything that will make you, Pa or Ma worry anymore.”

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  However, even as he said it, the words trembled like a vow too fragile to hold.

  A faint scuff echoed on the stairwell. Vince appeared, pulling himself up with a lazy grace that stopped short the instant his eyes caught the scene.

  Dominick still clung to Elena, his smile trembling but soft, almost tender.

  Something in Vince’s chest tightened.

  His gaze widened—

  Not with joy, but with a chill that cut beneath the warmth. To him, it was a glimpse of a path twisting away, toward something he could neither follow nor forgive. If this light failed, if it ever broke, he knew what would be left behind.

  A few days later, the first of the month arrived.

  And there he was — the new landlord.

  Mr. Richard.

  A fat, oversized man, face red and slick with sweat, fine clothes stretched at the seams, gold rings clinking on fingers that had never known honest work. His small, shrewd eyes swept the room with the boredom of a man who owned everything but felt nothing. Not calm. Not fair. Not reasonable, as he had promised the boy.

  Asking for the rent.

  Whispers broke the silence like brittle twigs. Gilbert’s father muttered numbers under his breath, over and over. Vince’s mother whispered about the few coins tucked away for medicine. Dominick’s mother shifted through a tin of sewing needles, as if she might sell her last tools if it came to it.

  The table creaked under the weight of scraps and coppers. Counting faltered, starting again. Every voice was hushed, pleading with the air, as if quiet enough words could keep Richard from hearing how close they all were to breaking.

  Gilbert’s fists clenched the edge of the table. “Didn’t my friend pay you?!” His voice cut through the room like a whip.

  The parents froze, hope flickering in their eyes. But Mr. Richard only laughed — a low, wet chuckle that crawled into the walls.

  “You mean the blonde kid, spreading nonsense in the alleys? No. He didn’t.”

  “How would a boy his age afford the rent? He goes to school and learns crap that won’t earn him a penny until he graduates.”

  He let his bulk linger on the families. “Children lie all the time. Yours… yours are on a different level. Keep them grounded.”

  Then, motioning with a gold-ringed hand: “Now, come on. Keep counting. I need the rest of the building too.”

  Elena lunged, fury burning her small frame. Vince caught her, holding her tight.

  All three — Gilbert, Elena, Vince — turned to the closed door of Dominick’s room.

  The walls were thin. Life leaked through them — cups rattling, snoring, scolding, children giggling. Secrets never stayed secret.

  But from Dominick’s room, there was nothing. No scrape, no breath. Only silence pressing against their ears.

  And they knew he was listening. Every word, every coin counted, every insult Richard spat — it sank into him.

  The silence became unbearable. Would he come out?

  If he did… it would not be the boy they knew. Not even a monster. Something colder. Something inevitable. Something the walls themselves could not contain.

  Something Portenzo City would come to call… The Undertaker.

  One year later,

  Portenzo City

  The apartment smelled of cigars and fresh polish. Evening light slid in through half-drawn curtains, touching the brass frames, the wine glasses, the smoke. Don Emilio sat at the table with Carlo and Silvano, three men in their forties, their laughter carrying a tired edge. Their fathers were gone—Emilio’s a year ago, Carlo’s only a week. Silvano’s was fading, kept alive by stubbornness and breath alone.

  They were the new blood now. The ones meant to hold the reins.

  Luca stood near the window, silent, huge. His presence was a wall—hands like hammers, a face carved in stone, eyes always searching the corners. He spoke little, but nobody forgot he was there.

  In the kitchen, Matteo was on the floor with Carlo’s girls, trying to build a tower out of blocks. He wasn’t really playing. Every few seconds his head turned, listening to the voices in the next room. The words slipped through the doorway like smoke.

  The mood inside was bright, but beneath it sat worry.

  Emilio lifted his glass. “How’s your father, Silvano?”

  Silvano gave a small grin. “He doesn’t have much left. But I didn’t come here to talk about that. I came to feel better.”

  Carlo nodded. “We’re here, brother. Always.”

  Emilio smiled faintly. “Hard to believe, eh? Years ago, we were running around in the slums, trying to sell scraps. Now look at us. Profits going up, our names worth something.”

  Carlo leaned back, satisfied. “All thanks to me. The women I recently found—no one in the city can match them. Even the casinos don’t make as much. Prostitution is really the most beautiful business out there.”

  Silvano snorted. “And the Marcettis won’t leave us alone. You know that. They’ll want their cut.”

  Emilio turned to his son. Steve was sitting by the window, twenty years old, sharp eyes and quiet mouth. “Steve. What do you think?”

  Steve looked over his shoulder. “Give them five percent and be done with it.” His tone was calm, but there was anger under it, thin and real.

  Carlo frowned. “Five won’t hold. Last time we offered that, they pushed it to ten before the ink dried.”

  Silvano slammed his hand on the table. “Then let’s stop playing nice and put them in the ground.”

  Emilio’s voice cut across the room. “No, Silvano. Even together, they outnumber us. They're almost an army. We start a war, we lose more than we can bury. We’ll play it slow. Quiet. Grow, stay steady.”

  Silvano grunted. “Can't believe they have a Captain in the law not only as an ally, but also a family member... Don Enzo's son, Lorenzo Marcetti. With him around, we’ll keep crawling. They send a police badge to every meeting just to remind us we can’t touch them.”

  Steve’s voice stayed level. “Nobody has ever gunned down a Portenzo City police captain. You do that, they’ll flood the streets with soldiers just to make a show...”

  Emilio nodded, eyes narrowing. “Then it’s settled. They’ll call for a meeting soon, and you’ll handle it, Steve. Don’t let them push the share past fifteen percent.”

  Steve nodded once. “Understood.”

  Few days later,

  The restaurant was bright and quiet, sunlight slipping through tall windows and catching the dust above white tablecloths. The smell of sauce and smoke hung in the air.

  Lorenzo Marcetti sat across from Steve, smiling like a man who’d already won. He wore a dark suit, silk tie, hair slicked back just so. His face was sharp, tanned, the kind of face that smiled without warmth. A badge glinted faintly inside his jacket when he moved — a reminder of who he was. He had the same calm, dangerous charm as Sollozzo: polite voice, steady eyes, and a threat hiding under every word.

  “Look how times changed, Steve,” Lorenzo said, twirling his fork lazily through the pasta. “I’m glad we’re building a new age, us, the young blood.”

  Steve’s jaw tightened. He kept his voice calm. “Yes. Your grandfathers spat on mine for years. But now, your majesties — the proud Marcettis — can sit with us at the same table and talk.”

  Lorenzo chuckled, unbothered. “Don’t be like that. Don’t blame me for the stupidity of old men. My father, Don Enzo, he’s fond of doing business with your people now.”

  “Good to hear,” Steve said, chewing slowly, eyes still on his plate.

  Lorenzo set his fork down, leaned forward. “So… let’s cut to business. How much for that house of women you run?”

  Steve froze mid-bite, then swallowed. “You mean your cut?”

  Lorenzo shook his head once. “No. How much for it. We want to buy.”

  Steve’s eyes flicked up. “It’s not for sale, Lorenzo.”

  “Everything’s for sale.” His tone was flat, final — not an offer, an order.

  Steve’s lip twitched. He wanted to throw his plate in the man’s face. But the badge. The law. The trap. He forced himself to breathe.

  He pushed his chair back to leave. Lorenzo’s hand shot out, catching his wrist. “Sit,” he said quietly, the smile still there. “Or I’ll arrest you right here.”

  Steve stared at him. “For what? For eating?”

  “For everything. Pick one — tax evasion, trafficking, extortion. Take your pick.”

  Steve sat back down, slow, silent, every muscle locked tight.

  Lorenzo reached into his briefcase, pulled out a few sheets, and spread them neatly across the table. “Here,” he said, tapping the papers with a ringed finger. “You can put the price yourself. Don’t go crazy. Then sign.”

  Steve’s voice was low. “I don’t own the house. My father does.”

  “Technically,” Lorenzo said, “you do. It’s under your name. A nice little cover story, but we’ve seen through it.”

  Steve’s hands clenched under the table. “You’re bullying me into signing this now?”

  Lorenzo smiled wider. “No, no. Don’t take it the wrong way. Every day is critical in this business. We don’t want tonight’s profits slipping away from us. Your father, I know, will refuse. But you—” He tilted his head. “You’re a smart man, Steve. You understand opportunity when it’s right in front of you.”

  The air between them felt thick. Steve stared at the papers, then at Lorenzo, seeing not a cop but a wolf in uniform. His pulse hammered, but he said nothing. Only the silverware clinked, soft and distant, as the restaurant hummed around them.

  At that moment, two kids—fourteen, scruffy, poorly dressed—stepped into the restaurant, each carrying a small box of sweets.

  It was none other than Vince and Dominick.

  They went straight to the table where Steve and Lorenzo sat.

  Vince grinned. “Captain Lorenzo! We saw you in the paper last week. My father wouldn’t stop talking about you.”

  Lorenzo chuckled, relaxing into his chair.

  Vince lifted the box. “Some sweets from our patisserie down the street. Would you take one?”

  “Sure,” Lorenzo said, taking the box, patting his coat for change.

  Dominick’s eyes, however, were fixed on Steve. Cold. Studying. Steve frowned, unsettled by the boy’s stare. Before he could say anything, Dominick reached for his glass.

  “Hey—kid, that’s wine, not juice!” Steve snapped, reaching over.

  Dominick let go. The glass spilled, the dark red wine soaking Steve’s trousers.

  “God damn it, Dominick!” Vince barked, acting the part. “Clumsy as always!”

  Steve stood up, muttering curses, trying to dab at his pants. “What’s wrong with you, kid?”

  Dominick said nothing, face blank.

  Vince sighed. “Go on. Apologize.”

  Dominick nodded and followed Steve to the bathroom, still holding the box.

  Steve leaned over the sink, wiping the stain, grumbling under his breath. “Just get out of here, kid. Apology accepted.”

  He caught a glimpse in the mirror—Dominick opening the box. The boy lifted the top layer of sweets and pulled out... a small revolver.

  “From Luca,” Dominick said quietly.

  Steve froze. “What?”

  Dominick’s voice was calm, almost bored. “My friend’s box has something that’ll make the policeman sleepy. If he eats more than one piece, he’ll start to feel dizzy. Take him somewhere, finish him, and dump the body where it won’t be found.”

  Steve’s blood went cold. The boy’s voice, his words—they didn’t fit that small frame, that blank face. “What the hell are you talking about? How do you even know Luca?”

  Dominick didn’t blink. “Not the time. I’ll explain at the house. Either that, or keep playing the pushover along with your fathers so they can still walk all over you."

  "Your choice.”