? Gentle Defiance ?
“The news reached me… and I didn’t believe my eyes when I saw him.”
Harris spoke slowly, as if still grasping the memory by its edges.
Across from him, Alex sat motionless, swallowing hard. Processing the horror. Trying to imagine what sort of man—what sort of monster—could do that.
And the boy was living under that same monster's roof and running errands for him.
A man Harris had spoken of with no small amount of reverence.
“I’d rather not know what happened, to be honest…” Harris muttered, rubbing the side of his neck. “And you too, kid.”
Alex lowered his eyes. “That’s horrible.”
“See? Told you you shouldn’t hear stories like this at your age.” Harris leaned back on his stool, exhaling through his nose. “No monster. No fantasy. The scary thing, indeed…”
He tapped the counter with a crooked finger.
“…is that it was real.”
The bell over the door jingled.
A soft, kindly voice broke the tension.
“Hello?”
An old woman stood in the doorway, bundled in a faded shawl and smiling gently.
Alex jumped from his seat.
Startled, Harris blinked—still caught in the fog of memory.
But the boy had already moved. His feet hit the floor with a clap. He ran to the counter like nothing had happened.
“May I help you, ma’am?” he asked brightly, almost too brightly.
Harris stared, dazed. Watching the boy.
Murmured to himself.
“Did that not scare him…?”
The old lady gave a warm laugh. “Hello, Alex. Just came to give you the rest of that payment. I was short last time, remember?”
She dropped a few coppers into his hand.
Alex smiled and bowed his head. “Thank you, madam. I hope the flour served you well.”
“It did,” she said sweetly, turning with a wave. “Take care, both of you.”
When the door shut, Harris looked at Alex again.
“Kid,” he said. “Are you made of stone?”
But then he saw it—the boy’s gaze.
Not hard.
Not proud.
Haunted.
He was afraid.
Harris could see it now in the boy’s hunched shoulders, in the stiffness of his fingers, in the way he looked off into nothing.
The old man frowned.
He wasn’t faking courage.
He was carrying it.
“I’m…” Alex said softly, voice thin. “Scared.”
A long silence.
“But…” The boy looked toward the door where the old woman had gone. “We shouldn’t let that terror reach anyone. Not even her.”
Harris raised a brow. “She didn’t hear us, kid.”
“No.”
Alex turned to face him. “But she may see us. Our faces. The worry. The fear. And even that… that can spread.”
He stepped away from the counter. Crossed the room in a few firm strides.
“Mr. Harris,” he said, planting his feet. “We’re fighting this. Together. Believe it or not.”
Harris scratched his scalp, squinting at him like the boy had gone mad.
“Fighting what? We work in a shop, kid.”
Alex’s voice didn’t falter.
“It doesn’t have to be guns. Or weapons.”
He gestured toward the shelves. The little scales. The jars and sacks of goods.
“We serve customers. We smile at them. We help people who can’t afford things all at once—let them pay the rest later. We give what we can, and treat them with dignity.”
“We’re... helping the neighborhood... and the city in a way.”
Harris stared. Mouth parted. Processing it all.
Alex’s face changed.
His voice dropped.
“I… I have to believe that,” he said softly, like it was meant more for himself than anyone else.
Harris stopped mid-motion.
“I have to,” Alex repeated, his fists curling tight.
He didn’t say more—but it was there, all over his face.
The guilt.
The shame.
Like something poisonous gnawed at the edges of his conscience—eating him alive in places he couldn’t name out loud.
He never said who.
Never spoke a name.
But it haunted his voice like a shadow behind the words.
That maybe—maybe—
He wasn’t as innocent as he thought he was.
That maybe he’d already become part of the very horror Mr. Harris had just described.
So he clung to the counter. To the shelf. To the broom. To anything that made him feel like he still had a choice. Like there was still a way back.
All he’d done—on paper—was one job.
Sweep the floor. Empty the bins. Clean tables and chairs at a small bar tucked in the side streets. Watch. Listen. Report.
That was it.
And yet… days later, the street outside echoed with gunshots.
Two men—Giovanni and Robert—were dead. Lucia, the waitress who used to brighten the room just by existing, had stared blankly at the wall for hours after it happened. She hadn’t cried. She just… stopped talking. Like something had been taken from her, something she didn’t know how to name.
And it wasn’t over.
More jobs would come.
More names he wouldn’t know.
More eyes watching him.
More guilt he wouldn’t be allowed to show.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
The weight of it didn’t belong on the shoulders of a boy who, not long ago, fed chickens and helped stitch cuts on injured farmhands.
A boy who spent his life under mountain skies with a kind father, a caring mother and calloused hands.
Who knew plants, not pistols.
And yet here he was.
Trying to believe he hadn’t become one of them.
Trying to believe that sweeping this floor, helping old ladies, smiling at strangers, meant something.
Trying to fight the horror—in the smallest, most desperate ways he could.
“Maybe this is nothing,” he whispered, almost bitter. “Just a little shop.”
Harris scowled faintly at that.
Alex didn’t stop.
“But it’s... still something. Right?”
He looked up—pleading now.
Not just asking for Harris’s reassurance.
Begging for a verdict.
Begging to be told he wasn’t lost.
Not yet.
And suddenly—
The old man smacked Alex on the head out of nowhere.
Alex flinched. “Ow! Mr. Harris!”
“You little idiot!” Harris barked. “Of course it counts!”
“Then why’d you hit me?!”
“Because you were being dramatic!” He grinned, then grumbled. “And I got excited!”
Alex stared.
Harris shook his head and grabbed the broom like it was a ceremonial sword. Lifted it with exaggerated pride. Looking ridiculous.
“I’ve run this shop since before your voice dropped. Thought it was just a way to keep the boredom away. A place to rot in peace.”
He looked around—at the shelves, the creaky floor, the faint smell of herbs and firewood.
“But I like what you’re saying. This shop isn’t just for rent and routine.”
He straightened, raising the broom like a general’s banner.
“It’s our little front line !”
He jabbed toward the shelves.
“We trust customers. I keep a kid like you away from the streets. We smile back. And we don’t let the ugliness outside cross this threshold.”
Alex stood still, watching. Something warm flickering under the weight of all that shame.
Harris gave a grunt. “Come on then ! On your feet, soldier !”
Alex gave a shaky salute. “Y-Yes, sir.”
And finally—the boy laughed. Just a little. A breath of relief cracking through the guilt.
The two stood awkwardly in the middle of the shop—one holding a broom like a shotgun, the other trying not to cry.
But in that moment, the shop really did feel like something more.
Not a fortress. Just a candle in the dark.
The bell rang.
A flood of uniformed students poured through the school doors, their shoes clacking against stone, their laughter echoing down the street.
Among them, Dante strolled out with a lopsided grin, blazer slung over one shoulder, shirt untucked at the waist, humming like he hadn’t just cheated his way through another morning.
Near the gates, leaning casually beside the stone pillar, stood a man too well-dressed for a schoolyard.
Vince.
No black coat today. No heavy leather gloves. Just a sharp grey waistcoat over a white shirt, sleeves neatly rolled, the top button undone.
Vince gave a warm wave.
Dante approached, high-fived him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The women noticed.
“Oh my—look how sweet he is with his son.”
“He’s got kind eyes, doesn’t he?”
“No ring on his finger, though…”
“Maybe an uncle,” another mused, lips pursed with hope. “Or a very handsome brother-in-law.”
“Mission accomplished,” Dante said, straightening his bag. “Didn’t even go into the classroom—would’ve stood out. Slipped it in his bag while he was in the hallway. Spent the rest of the morning in the washroom stall with my feet up.”
Vince gave a quiet chuckle. “Good. I’ll let Dominick know.”
They turned and walked down the road together.
The mothers kept watching.
So did a few older sisters, pretending not to.
Dante hummed again, casual and cheerful.
And just like that, the charming civilian and his too-friendly “son” disappeared into the streets—leaving behind a trail of sighs, suspicions, and exactly zero answers.
The room was modest, but never plain.
Soft velvet curtains soaked the sunlight into wine-colored folds. A decanter of aged scotch, untouched, rested like a crown at the center of the table. Around it sat three men in heavy suits—none of them spoke loudly. They didn’t need to.
Dominick stood behind them.
Not seated. Not part of the table.
But close enough to command the air.
He said nothing, still as a chapel statue—until a suited man leaned in, whispered into his ear, then disappeared like smoke.
Don Carlo leaned back lazily, silver hair slicked with care, fingers tapping his cane like each click was a sentence passed. His face was unreadable—calm, vaguely amused—but always watching.
Don Silvano, sharper and more rigid, kept his coat on. Thinner than the others, he still carried the air of a soldier who preferred his knives close and his words few. His eyes didn’t blink often.
Don Emilio, oldest among them, ruled through silence. His parchment skin and heavy brow made him seem carved from stone. When he did speak, the room adjusted. Even the walls listened.
Dominick stood behind them. Not seated. Not speaking. The whisper from a henchman passed to his ear and vanished like breath on glass. He remained still.
Only Don Juan Veracci shifted nervously. His eyes flicked toward the empty chair at the head of the table—Don Enzo Marcetti’s.
Still vacant.
Veracci cleared his throat. “Still no sign of him?”
No one answered.
Emilio finally spoke. “So. Rami refused again?”
Carlo gave a slow nod. “Even after the fifth offer. Five times above market value. That hotel must mean something to him.”
Silvano chuckled under his breath. “Family legacy, probably. Or maybe he’s just too proud to sell to men like us.”
Emilio waved his hand. “There’s no such thing as men like us. There’s only business. He’s being emotional.”
Juan Veracci exhaled sharply. “I did speak to him, for the record. Tried to make him see sense. But there’s no getting through. He won’t budge.”
Carlo raised an eyebrow. “You think he’s being brave?”
Veracci hesitated. “No. I think… I think he’s being careful. He hired more guards. Doubled them last week.”
“That’s fear,” said Silvano. “And fear is a good sign.”
“But let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Veracci added quickly, palms open. “We may never be able to buy. We ought to consider alternatives. Other properties in the area—”
“None of them matter,” Emilio said coldly. “That hotel sits at the edge of the promenade. Tourists. City officials. Judges. A good portion of the clergy dine there. It's gold. You don’t give up gold.”
A long breath passed before the silence broke.
“I say,” came a voice at last, quiet and low from behind them, “we give him a week.”
Dominick.
They turned slightly, like men who’d just heard a page turn in an ancient book.
He stepped forward slowly, hands clasped behind his back. “And reduce the offer. Back to the original price.”
Veracci blinked. “No disrespect, Undertaker. But you can’t get close to the guy. His security is insane.”
“True,” said Emilio with a tight nod. “And he sure as hell is paying them a lot already.”
Silvano added, “I don’t want us to get predictable, Domi.”
Carlo leaned in. “And no involving his son, either.”
Dominick smiled faintly. “Don’t worry. We won’t kidnap his son. Not that we could. Mr. Rami lives right next door to the school and walks him himself.”
He let that settle.
“No gunshots. No threats.”
He looked up, eyes like smoke and steel.
“Just a tiny nudge.”
The silence that followed was thick and uneasy. Even the air seemed to shift.
Veracci’s voice came out brittle. “You devil… you’ll terrify the kid.”
Dominick didn’t blink. “Don’t worry, Don Juan. The boy won’t even know—unless his father keeps playing with fire and the boy has very good instincts, which is not my problem.”
The other dons exchanged glances.
Then, slowly, they smiled.
Emilio leaned back, swirling his drink. “And your share is now nine percent, Don Juan. You don’t talk to Dominick like that.”
Veracci’s jaw tightened. He swallowed his protest.
“…Apologies,” he muttered.
Dominick stepped forward at last, adjusting the black gloves at his wrist like he was sealing a coffin.
“I believe the hotel will be sold,” he said. “At the original price.”
He looked at no one in particular. His voice didn’t rise.
“I leave the negotiation to you, gentlemen.”
And with that, he walked out.
The door closed behind him, as quiet as a prayer.
The guest room was quiet, soaked in the golden calm of late afternoon. A kettle steamed gently on the side table, and Rami had just opened the paper when small feet came rushing in.
“Papa!” Arda beamed, gripping a crumpled piece of paper in both hands. “I want to show you something!”
Rami looked up with a tired smile. “What is it, son? Another full mark in mathematics?”
Arda puffed up proudly. “No! Today we did drawings. Here’s mine!”
He unfolded the sheet with the ceremony of an artist unveiling a masterpiece. The drawing was crooked, half-colored, yet utterly joyful—stick figures of him and Rami under a crooked orange sun, their hands oversized, their faces missing ears. A tree leaned sideways. A bird looked suspiciously like a fish. Still, the colors danced.
Rami chuckled. “Good one, son. But maybe next time… maybe color the sun yellow, hmm? This one looks like it’s caught fire.”
Arda laughed. “It is on fire, Papa! It’s hotter that way!”
Their laughter mingled in the quiet room.
Then Arda pulled another paper from his bag. “This one too. Isn’t it nice?”
Rami took it casually. “The other one’s yours too?”
Arda shook his head. “No, I found it in my bag. Maybe I took it by mistake. But it’s so beautiful. Look!”
Rami looked.
And froze.
His smile faded as he stared at the page. His hands stiffened. The drawing was immaculate. Too neat. Too composed.
A swarm of faceless men in black, drawn in tidy rows across the page.
Their suits dark and inked with care, shoulders square, postures still.
Each had no features—just blank ovals for heads. But one stood out: a man in the center, slightly taller, wearing a black fedora.
He, too, was faceless, but sported glasses, long blond hair, and a beard and mustache, all finely penciled. His figure loomed subtly larger, the focal point of the hive.
And in the very center—a boy.
Short brown hair. A red backpack. Bright eyes drawn with a child's joyful attention to color and shadow.
It was unmistakably Arda.
The sun above them was colored perfectly this time—golden and gentle. Shadows fell where they should, even beneath the shoes of the men. The craftsmanship wasn’t childish. It was deliberate.
Rami's eyes widened. His stomach sank.
He whispered, “How…”
His gaze shot to the window. The schoolyard across the street. “I walk him myself. I wait by the gate. No one approached him at all.”
His fingers clenched the paper. “Who the hell slipped this in? A teacher? The director? A parent?”
Then he saw it.
A line of writing—small, almost invisible, scribbled in a corner in faint brown ink. Off-center. Crooked.
Rami squinted, heart pounding.
It wasn’t until he flipped the paper that he understood.
Scrawled on the back in the same neat, odd lettering were three words:
“The hotel, please.”
His hand trembled.
The drawing fluttered to the floor.
He pulled Arda into his arms, holding him tight.
“Papa?” Arda blinked, puzzled, then smiled and hugged back. “Do you like it? Did it remind you of something?”
“Yes…” Rami whispered, voice hollow. “Something very important.”
He closed his eyes. The room spun.
Arda was safe now—but for how long?
“They’re everywhere…” he muttered.
And with that—no more questions, no more offers—Rami made a decision.
At the next negotiation, the hotel would be sold.
Because nothing in this world—not pride, not legacy—was worth the boy still smiling in his arms.
Thank you for reading :)
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