Chapter 63

  ? Stupidity ?

  Faustino Veracci slept with his wife’s arm draped loosely over his chest, her breathing slow and warm against his shoulder.

  The room was quiet—too quiet for his mind.

  Sleep touched him, but never held him. Behind his eyelids, thoughts churned restlessly.

  "Party should be over. I expect news tomorrow morning."

  "Like planned, we sold the guns to the Marcettis through middlemen and officially, we are uninvolved."

  "We hope for a blow to the three Dons and Dominick."

  "But even if it doesn't succeed, I shouldn't fear anything."

  "That's for the disrespect after disrespect... and for them meddling in our business. Surely they had a hand in the Algraves twins disappearance from our grip."

  "Surely."

  He turned under the sheets, trying to bury the thoughts—

  When hand touched his shoulder.

  Faustino jolted awake, snapping upright, breath caught in his throat—

  It was just his six-year-old son, Marco. Hair messy, eyes sleepy.

  “Pa?”

  Faustino exhaled shakily. “Oh… it’s you. Marco, what is it?”

  “A friend of yours wants to see you, Pa.”

  “At this hour?” Faustino said as he got up from the bed.

  Marco nodded. “Yes. His name is Vince.”

  Every fiber in Faustino’s spine turned to ice.

  "What? Did they found out? No way! Not even the Marcettis know of our involvement!"

  He crouched and gripped Marco’s small shoulder.

  “Stay here. With your mother. No matter what. Understand?”

  Marco nodded obediently, confused but trusting.

  Faustino opened the drawer, pulled out a revolver, hid it under his nightshirt, and stepped out of the bedroom.

  Behind him, the little boy whispered to himself.

  "He looked like a very good man. Why is Pa scared?"

  Faustino entered the living room, pointing his pistol at the man sitting on the couch as if he were in his own home.

  “You've got some nerf, coming knocking on my door at this hour;” Faustino said.

  Vince stood with a lazy stretch and jerked his thumb toward the window.

  Faustino’s eyes narrowed.

  “You setting me up? Shot through the glass? Is that it?”

  Vince scoffed lightly.

  “Come on. Have a look. I’m tired. It’s past three and I’d like to sleep. I’ll walk with you to the window so you’re sure no one shoots.”

  As Vince stepped closer, Faustino's hand steadied on the revolver.

  “Don’t come closer.”

  Vince stopped and spread his arms.

  “I’m unarmed,” he said tiredly. “Check.”

  Faustino approached stiffly, one hand frisking Vince while the other held the gun.

  No weapon.

  Vince nodded toward the window.

  “Let’s go.”

  He walked ahead. Faustino followed.

  And froze.

  Something inside him collapsed into fear as he stared at the sight waiting for him at the widow.

  Two figures stood on the rooftop.

  Dominick's black coat stirred in the breeze, bathed in the moonlight.

  In front of him, a man with a sack over his head swayed on unsteady legs, arms bound behind him.

  Old. Frail. Wrong height, wrong build—yet horribly close.

  “Vince!” Faustino’s voice cracked. “What is this!?”

  Vince’s smile eased away, just… gone. His face settled into something plain and unreadable, the way a man looks when he’s finally tired of pretending.

  “Take a guess,”

  Faustino checked the rooftop again. The figure’s posture—the slight bend in the shoulders—his gut twisted.

  “If that’s my father,” Faustino rasped, lifting the revolver, “I swear to God I’ll kill you right here.”

  Vince lifted his brows, almost sympathetic.

  “You could,” he murmured. “But Dominick would walk in and finish the rest of your family inside the bedroom.”

  Faustino ran a hand down his face, calming himself down a little.

  “What do you want from me? And who is that?”

  Vince simply slipped his hands into his suit pockets.

  “Did you help the Marcettis tonight? At the party.”

  Faustino answered. His expression hid well the real answer.

  “We don’t work with the Marcettis. Never have. What happened?”

  “They got into the hotel,” Vince said. “Came close to Don Silvano... But. As usual. They failed.”

  Faustino's jaw tightened, just barely.

  "It didn't work..."

  “So?” he asked, faking being calm very well.

  “So,” Vince repeated, “I’m asking again: did you help them?”

  Faustino’s voice sharpened.

  “I said no.”

  Vince studied him in a way a tired man looks at another tired man, trying to decide what’s true.

  “I'm not as good as Dominick in figuring out if someone is lying or not... but If you are,” he said quietly, “you’re making it hard to tell.”

  He stepped toward the window.

  “What are you doing?” Faustino asked, worry written all over his face.

  “If I lift my left hand,” Vince said, “Dominick throws that man off the roof.”

  Faustino felt the heat drain from his body.

  “I... don't know what your goal is, but are you trying to make me confess doing something I didn't do by scaring me like this?”

  "Why are you scared in the first place?" Vince asked, smiling. "Maybe it's not your father."

  "It's not. And you're bluffing." Faustino shot back. "Why would you have a sack over his face and hide it?"

  "Lots of other reasons. The heartbreaking face might crush you and make you shoot me here on the spot without thinking. Maybe we didn't want him to see who kidnapped him and we are intending to spare him."

  "All lies."

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  "Faiiiiir" Vince said lazily, yawning, as he stood

  "Looks like you're more than ready to take a chance. Even a slim one."

  "Slim."

  "Yet... a chance."

  "You're quite the gambler, Faustino."

  Then, slowly, steadily, Vince started to raise his left hand—

  Faustino's mind screamed.

  "He is bluffing!"

  "Just bluffing!"

  "Don't fall for it!"

  "It's a very slim chance! Otherwise why would he cover the person's face!"

  "IT'S NOT YOUR FATHER!"

  ...

  "Is it?"

  “WAIT!”

  Faustino stumbled forward, gasping.

  “Please—don’t. What do you want me to say? That we did it?! Yes we did! But that's just because you're trying to scare me! If a fake confession will do, then you have it!”

  "Nope. I want detailed explanations as well. The infiltration was very clean. And I want to know what kind of help it was. If I'm not convinced, I will raise my hand."

  A long moment passed.

  Faustino swallowed hard, then the truth clawed its way out.

  “…It was us,” he said hoarsely. “We sold the guns to them... and had a few of our boys in the staff take a sick leave to make room for their assassins.”

  His hand shook around the revolver.

  He pressed a fist to his forehead.

  “But it was my idea. Not my father's. So if someone dies tonight… take me. Not him.”

  Vince walked away from the window. "Don Carlo though is suspecting you. Both you and Don Juan Veracci were invited, but neither showed up...”

  "But here is the thing" Vince took his seat back on the couch. "We don't know what kind of decisions the three Dons will take, but you will definitely be on their list if you don't get cleared up. 'My wife was sick' and 'My son had a stomachache' won't do. You will need something more convincing to explain your absence at the party."

  Faustino stared, in confusion and disbelief.

  Vince carried on, "For example, shoot yourself in a non vital spot. It will make you look like one of the Marcettis targets. A wound on your boy or your wife also sells as well. If you can’t bring yourself to do it, I can help.”

  Faustino's vein snapped in his temple at the words, but he chose to calm himself. He wasn't in control of the room or the discussion.

  “…Why? What kind of play is this? Why would you help clear us up?”

  “Because it's not good for business,” Vince said. “We could have ended you tonight, but maybe you can do something to make up for helping the Dons' sworn enemy. They won't listen to reason, as Silvano took the attempt super personally. But me and Dominick, we will. It's good for our bosses and you as well. But of course, that is only if you have an attractive offer, other than a petty bribe. You know money is our last concern.”

  Vince turned fully to Faustino, waiting for this 'something'.

  Faustino hesitated. After thinking for a while, he slowly walked to the couch and took a seat not far from Vince.

  "Let me ask you this, first... A few weeks ago, we kidnapped someone, and they disappeared without a trace. Two of our men died. Did you have anything to do with it?"

  Vince shook his head casually. "Why would we meddle in your affairs?"

  Then Vince dragged a hand down his face, fingers spread, covering his eyes in one long, exhausted wipe. The gesture said I can’t believe I’m dealing with this level of stupidity.

  He looked at Faustino through the gap between his fingers, absolutely disappointed.

  “Wait… don’t tell me this whole thing—the Marcetti help, the staff rotations, the whole puppet show—is because you suspected we intervened in some kidnap?”

  Faustino bristled. “Who else could have done it?!”

  Vince lifted his hand, pinched fingers together, shaking them at Faustino like he was explaining long division to a toddler.

  “We are not the only damn people in the city.”

  He leaned in, voice rising in exasperated clarity.

  “Faustino, Come ooooon, work with me here. Unless you have proof, actual proof, then I’m going to feel even more offended and disappointed in how stupid the Veraccis do things.”

  Faustino’s jaw flexed, but before he could spit back, Vince’s posture loosened.

  A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—sharp, knowing, borderline amused.

  “But hey,” Vince added, and his expression shifted again—brows lifting, tone brightening with mock enthusiasm, “let’s look at the bright side. This kidnapping business is interesting.”

  A glint in his eye.

  “Who is it?”

  Faustino chewed the inside of his cheek. His gaze dropped. He thought—

  and thought—

  and thought.

  The weight of the night, of his mistake, of the gun still in his hand, pressed down on him. There was no way to wiggle out. No angle left. No cards to hide.

  So he exhaled. Shoulders sinking.

  And he decided to lay it all out.

  The Algraves.

  The twins.

  Who they were.

  Why they mattered.

  Who had helped take them.

  Who had interfered.

  Every brittle detail about the Algraves

  Vince listened with the kind of stillness that made Faustino more nervous than the interrogation itself.

  He knew obviously about the Veracci and the Algraves deal, since him, Alex and Dante were the ones who freed the twins. But what he and Dominick were interested in, were the demands on the deal, how it went down, who helped from the inside...

  But there was a moment—brief, almost invisible—when something Faustino said made Vince’s expression falter.

  A tiny crack in the poker face.

  Not shock… but surprise.

  A detail he hadn’t expected in the deal.

  Then it was gone.

  When the confession ended, Vince rose without a word.

  He strolled to the window, rolled his shoulders once, as if loosening tension that hadn’t been visible until now, and lifted his right arm casually.

  A clean, simple thumbs-up—

  straight toward Dominick still waiting on the rooftop across the street.

  Then Dominick let out a breath, a long one the wind almost carried away.

  “Let’s go, Enzo.”

  The old man pushed himself upright, knees stiff, bag still tied over his head. He hesitated a second—old bones, old fear—then stepped forward, walking just ahead of Dominick as the Undertaker guided him toward the rooftop exit.

  Back inside Faustino's apartment, Vince let out a slow breath, like someone finally ticking off the last task of a long evening.

  “Oh, the old man outside?” he said. "It's not your father."

  Faustino blinked, stunned.

  Vince went on, stepping away from the window for good.

  “That old man outside is Don Enzo. We were just messing around. We wouldn't raise a hand on Don Juan just like that, but instead of running a whole investigation, we took a shorter route to confirm your involvement."

  Faustino gritted his teeth in fury.

  The fury of being played in his home.

  Of being disrespected again. Of being outsmarted and intimidated into confessing.

  Vince reached the door, hand already resting on the handle, then paused and glanced back over his shoulder.

  “Sorry for dropping in at such an hour,” he said with a soft, almost courteous lilt—as if they’d discussed business, not life and death. “Truly. I know it’s a family night.”

  His eyes drifted toward the dark hallway.

  A smile bloomed—warm, bright… way too human.

  “Such a sweet son you have. I almost hugged the life out of him.”

  Faustino felt something crawl under his skin. The image of Vince’s arms around Marco made his jaw clench so hard it hurt.

  And for the first time since Vince arrived, a cold truth settled in Faustino’s mind:

  He should never have played the brave man.

  Never should have pretended he’d stand up to Dominick—

  when he hasn’t even sat at the same table as the man.

  When he can’t even handle Dominick’s smiling shadow—Vince.

  Vince noticed the disgust and gave the faintest tilt of his head, almost… amused.

  Then he opened the door and slipped out into the corridor, soft-footed, leaving the apartment heavy with dread.

  The carriage rolled to a stop in the dead silence outside Portenzo City—far enough that the city lights were only a vague glow behind the trees. Frost clung to the grass. The night air bit like teeth.

  Dominick dropped from the driver’s seat, boots crunching on the gravel. The black horses snorted clouds of white steam. He brushed a hand along one of their necks, pleased.

  “Good boys,” he murmured. “Better than the carriage they came with.”

  He opened the carriage door.

  Enzo stepped down slowly, no bag over his head now—just an old man with ash-colored skin and a spine that still tried to hold dignity. Dominick took him by the arm gently and led the way.

  They walked.

  No words.

  Just the soft thud of boots and the wind crawling through the grass.

  Ahead, in the moonlight: a shovel stabbed in the earth. Beside it, a clean, rectangular hole. Deep. Waiting.

  Enzo stopped at its edge.

  And he... just looked down at his own grave like someone evaluating a piece of carpentry.

  Dominick pulled a cigar from his coat, struck a match with his thumb, lit it. The flame reflected in his glasses for a moment.

  “The Dons wanted Vince to take his time with you,” he said, voice plain. “Hours maybe...”

  He exhaled the smoke.

  “I’m not doing that. Dead is dead. Slow or fast. I don’t waste time. Furthermore, you're no Don to me... Just an old man too proud to give up.”

  He offered the second cigar to Enzo, held it to the old man’s lips, lit it for him.

  Enzo took one long drag, then another. When he finished, he lowered himself—stiff knees, trembling hands—down to the dirt beside the grave and knelt.

  “Dominick,” he rasped. “Give me the courtesy… let me do it myself.”

  Dominick didn’t answer for a moment. His brows lowered, barely.

  “No.”

  “I’m not asking for freedom,” Enzo whispered. “Just a clean ending. A man should choose his last breath.”

  Dominick shook his head. “Can’t trust you with a gun.”

  Enzo stared at the hole again. “I’m not running. I’m tired. Let me go like a man.”

  Something in his voice—not desperation, but resignation—hung there. Thin. Fragile.

  Dominick finally reached inside his coat and pulled out a revolver. He weighed it in his hand, tapping the barrel once with a finger.

  “Fine.”

  He handed it to him.

  Enzo’s fingers curled around the grip. He closed his eyes.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  A long pause.

  Then—he snapped the gun up and fired at Dominick’s chest.

  Click.

  Silence.

  Enzo’s face twisted, then cracked—into laughter. Harsh, broken, lunatic laughter that echoed across the empty field.

  “Always one step ahead,” he cackled. “Always—!”

  Enzo’s laughter died in his throat, tapering off into a wheeze. The empty revolver hung from his fingers, useless as a toy.

  Dominick simply watched the old man... the pride trying to stand upright inside a body already halfway in the ground.

  A long breath left him, white in the frozen air.

  “That,” Dominick said softly, “was stupid.”

  Enzo’s grin twitched, desperate to stay defiant.

  Dominick stepped closer, taking the revolver back with two fingers. “I was going to make it clean. Quick.”

  His voice remained even, almost bored. “A mercy. An act of respect. Because you sat still. Because you came quietly.”

  He flicked open the cylinder—empty, of course—and closed it again.

  “But you didn’t take the chance I gave you.”

  He looked down at Enzo, eyes unreadable in the moonlight.

  “Just like your men.”

  Enzo’s face drained.

  Dominick’s shadow fell across him as he holstered the useless gun and reached for the shovel instead.

  “So now,” he said, almost gently, “your end is slow.”

  He rested the shovel’s blade against the soil, leaning on it like a judge leaning on a bench.

  “Get in the grave, Enzo.”

  Portenzo City slept during the rest of the night in three uneven pieces.

  In the slums, where smoke clung to the brickwork and hunger made its own kind of law, three boys—Alex, Leo, and Dante were choosing their fight. Not glory. Not revenge. Just a stubborn, desperate kind of hope that refused to die.

  In the underworld, the Dons were choosing their answer. No more politics for a while. Terror would be the way to remind everyone who they were before daring to oppose them.

  And in the quiet layer between them, in the shadows where real power breathed, Dominick was choosing something else entirely.

  A game where tonight’s violence was just a move.

  And everyone else in the city, whether they knew it or not, was already on his board.