Chapter 65

  ? Futures Not To Be Ruined ?

  Dante sat cross-legged on the living room table, hunched over like a gargoyle guarding a notebook. The couch behind him loomed like a trap as his back still ached from trying to study there yesterday, so today he’d chosen the absolute worst place a sane person would sit.

  Ink bottle in one corner.

  Crumbs from last night’s dinner in another.

  A battered notebook open in front of him like an enemy.

  The Sunday morning light filtered through the balcony curtains, making the apartment look almost calm… which only made Dante more irritated.

  The boy scowled at the page like it owed him money.

  He gripped the pencil like it had personally offended him.

  “I thought this would be more exciting…” he muttered, dragging the tip across the paper. "I'm street smart. Good with alleys and people. A genius. But this?... This is so annoying."

  He inhaled sharply, mustering the courage of a man about to jump off a cliff.

  “Alright. Let’s do this for real.”

  Alex had written a list of words for him to copy and memorize, with the correct spellings written faintly beneath for self-checking. Dante wasn’t supposed to cheat and he chose not to. At least for now.

  He tapped the pencil like warming up for a duel.

  “D-A-N-T-E.”

  He wrote it proudly.

  “Pretty easy.”

  “A-L-E-X.”

  He grinned.

  “Even easier.”

  “N-O-O-R.”

  He nodded, impressed.

  “God bless your parents, Noor. What an easy name.”

  Then—

  “O-L-I-V-I-A.”

  He checked Alex’s faint correction…

  “YES! I DID IT!”

  His cheer shook dust off the shelves.

  Confidence rising, he sped up:

  “M-I-R-A.”

  "P-I-N-C-H"

  “L-I-N-O.”

  “T-O-N-N-O.”

  “L-E-O.”

  “All right, all right, Dante! You got this!”

  He puffed his chest.

  Then came the monster.

  “W-O-L-F-S…”

  He checked the correction.

  His jaw dropped.

  Then rage.

  He slammed his hand into the wall, betrayed.

  "Why?!"

  "Why?!"

  "WHY?!"

  Dante threw his head back in despair, eyes wide like the letters were personally gaslighting him... then, wiped his face dramatically and flipped the page.

  He stared at the next name—the twins’ family name.

  Algraves.

  A monstrous, elegant, noble string of letters Alex had warned him about.

  Dante squinted.

  “Nah. I’m not even gonna try that. I'll try something else that Alex didn't write down here.”

  Looking for something easier, his eyes landed on the bed.

  The boy smirked.

  “Ah! B-A-D. Got it.”

  He checked the correction.

  His face fell as if the universe had slammed a door in his face.

  “…WHAT?! HOW IS THAT WRONG?!”

  He dragged both hands through his dark hair, making it even messier—tufts sticking up like he’d been struck by lightning—while mumbling half-coherent threats toward the alphabet.

  “Letters go everywhere… nowhere they’re supposed to… who made these rules… why does bed need to look like bed…”

  He lay back on the floor, arms spread wide in defeat, staring at the ceiling.

  “This is gonna kill me before Dominick's missions ever do.”

  Dante stayed sprawled on the floor for several minutes, eyes tracing cracks in the ceiling as if inspiration might crawl out from one of them. He muttered to himself, letting the quiet of the apartment settle around him.

  “Hmm… I need some motivation. I would love to read Olivia's letter... but I need something else to keep going.”

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  ...

  Then, almost reverently, he whispered aloud.

  “D-I-N-A.”

  The word hit him like a spark. He shot upright, hair now a tangled halo of rebellion, and grabbed his pencil again.

  “I need to do good. Like we agreed. Me, Alex, and Leo. Maybe… maybe me learning how to write and read can actually help? To the city? To the innocents?”

  He tapped the pencil against the notebook, thoughts buzzing faster than his hands could scribble.

  “Journals. People read those a lot. Stories, letters... Maybe... maybe I could tell the truth. If not now, when I get old. About the streets. About the mob. About… everything. If I write it down, maybe someone would listen. Maybe someone would know about us. About the truth of those mobsters and criminals.”

  His fingers ached from gripping the pencil, pages bending under the pressure of his frantic writing—but Dante didn’t care. He kept scribbling, furious and determined, angry in a new, purposeful way. His rebellion had a pencil, a cause, and innocents to protect.

  Alex had arrived early, as usual, volunteering to help Doctor Kranz on Sundays. The morning sunlight slanted through the narrow windows, illuminating jars of tinctures, sponges, and neatly stacked bandages. Today, however, Alex had a request that made even the doctor pause.

  “Are you serious, son?” Doctor Kranz asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Alex nodded, determined. “Yes. Not just first aid anymore. I want to learn how to treat wounds. A bullet's if possible.”

  The doctor’s face tightened in disbelief at the audacity of the request.

  Alex thought of Katie when she had been shot in the leg. Her wound was different from Mira’s knife cut: a clean hole in the soft tissue, the blood spurting in a pulsing rhythm, the edges bruised and ragged in a way a knife never caused. A bullet carried unseen energy beneath the skin; the damage often ran far beyond what the eye could see. There were veins nicked, muscles torn, sometimes bone shattered—a silent threat to life itself.

  He thought of Dina. Shot. Alone. Nobody saved her. A sight he never got to witness, but the echoes of that trauma haunted Leo and Dante, in different ways. And from that, Leo's grief and desire for revenge were born.

  Doctor Kranz folded his hands and regarded him quietly. “What made you think of such a thing? Were you near a gunshot?”

  Alex swallowed, preparing to lie. He had been near more than one, seen corpses—but he could not tell the doctor the truth. “I just… want to get better at what I do.”

  Kranz sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Alex… despite the fact that you’re brilliant for your age, thanks to your discipline and hard work, this…” He gestured vaguely at the instruments around them. “…this is something out of what I can teach you.”

  Alex lowered his eyes, lips pressed into a thin line, his chest tight.

  “But… what if I find myself in a situation and I have to act?” he asked softly, voice trembling just a fraction.

  Kranz’s gaze softened. “You don’t. What you did for Mira was the right thing. You didn’t try to treat her fully. You applied first aid to keep her alive, then carried her. That is what you do for a bullet wound too. Stop the bleeding you can see. Keep them still. Keep them warm. And then carry them. That’s all. Anything more, and you risk doing more harm than the bullet itself.”

  He leaned forward, voice low but firm, each word deliberate. “A bullet is merciless. Hit the wrong place—a major artery, a vital organ—and minutes vanish. Paralysis, death… these are very real. And right now, medicine is not advanced enough to prevent those outcomes. Even if you act perfectly, you might fail. But the world is changing. Antiseptics, surgical methods, the invention of X-rays—just in the last decades, things that would have been impossible before are now becoming possible. Someday… maybe someone like you will have more tools. For now, we do what we can.”

  Alex looked down, a shadow of helplessness crossing his face. He wanted to do better, to save more, but the harsh reality was crushing: all he could do was... the same as before.

  Kranz noticed. His voice softened further, the sternness giving way to something almost paternal. “Courage is knowing your limits and doing the thing that matters most.”

  Alex finally lifted his head and spoke. “Understood, doctor. And what should I prioritize if the bleeding is very bad? Care or speed? For example, I thought a stretcher for Mira would be better because if we carry her wrong, the bleeding could worsen. Should I do the same for a bullet?”

  Kranz took a slow breath, thinking, then answered plainly.

  “You prioritize life first. Always.”

  “If the bleeding is so bad they’ll die in minutes, you stop it.

  If it isn’t that bad, you move. That’s the rule.”

  “A stretcher is safe. But it takes time.

  So you ask yourself one question: Do I have the minutes?”

  He turned his hand palm-up, illustrating the concept.

  “If the bleeding is furious—bright blood, pulsing, soaking through everything—you hold pressure and move immediately. Not elegantly. Not comfortably. Quickly.”

  “But if the bleeding slows, or it’s already stopped like Mira’s… then yes, build a stretcher. Stability prevents more damage.”

  “Mira had minutes. A bullet wound may not give you that.”

  “To sum it up—”

  “Bad bleeding? Speed.

  Manageable bleeding? Care.

  Either way, your goal is the same: get them to a doctor alive.”

  Alex’s hand moved quickly across the pages of his small, leather-bound notebook, the corners worn from frequent use. The pencil he held left sharp, precise lines; each word, each rule, each gesture Kranz had demonstrated was recorded meticulously, as if by writing it down he could make himself remember and never fail. The notebook smelled faintly of old paper and graphite, a companion to every lesson he absorbed.

  Kranz couldn’t help but watch the boy. The intensity, the care, the hunger to do more—it was something a father might feel pride, fear, and hope for all at once.

  Alex noticed Kranz staring. “Ah, pardon, doctor. Yes, I understood all that. Sorry I didn’t reply.” he said, embarrassed and shy.

  “Alex…” Kranz began softly, leaning slightly closer. “Do you still work? Yon don't think of attending school?”

  Alex lowered his eyes for a moment. “Yes… I don’t have a choice. That work is my source of income. I’m staying at… a friend of my father’s here, but he isn’t around much. I have to earn money... so I can't attend school.”

  Kranz studied him for a long moment, then shook his head gently. “You haven’t missed out on anything. You’re a smart child. You learn fast. I can teach you what you need to know. Latin, anatomy, chemistry. One day, when you’re ready… I will help you gain admission to a university.”

  Alex blinked. “U-University?”

  “Of course,” Kranz said, his voice steady but warm. “This will be far in the future, of course since you’re only thirteen but it’s never too early to think of your path. Of course, this is just a suggestion. You can stick to being a nurse or an assistant of mine one day. But I wouldn't want the world losing out on a brilliant doctor.”

  Alex’s lips parted, a blush creeping across his cheeks. His eyes glowed with a mixture of surprise and hope. For the first time, he saw a path, a different one from the mob's, a future he could call his own.

  He nodded quickly, voice trembling with emotion. “I’d be honored, Doctor. Thank you… thank you so much.”

  He returned to his notebook, but now he wrote with a new fire, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. Tiny, unsteady tears threatened, but he pressed them back, letting only the joy and determination shine through.

  Alex finally set the pencil down, hands folding over the notebook. His eyes met Kranz’s, steady and sincere.

  “But I understand,” he said softly. “For now… I’ll do what I can.”

  Alex let out a quiet breath, relief and resolve mingling together. He had a path forward, even if it was narrow and treacherous for now. He could learn, he could grow, and one day… maybe he could save someone the way he saved Mira and the way he wished he could have saved Dina or anyone else.

  For now, though, he would do what he could... and he would do it well.