Chapter 70

  ? You-Know-Who ?

  Alex was on his way to work, like every morning. The streets were quieter than usual, as they had been for the past few days—empty except for the occasional grunt of laborers or the soft clatter of boots on cobblestones, making arrests and patrolling. Their presence was as intimidating as the mob’s men, if not more. Maybe it was the badge, maybe the numbers, maybe the fact that Alex didn’t know who was in charge or how things worked there.

  As he turned a corner, a sight he had already seen three or four times that week stopped him cold. A group of constables was dragging a man from a bakery toward the nearest guardhouse.

  Alex recognized him immediately—a street vendor, one of the few who still tried to scrape by in the slums. He sold scraps of bread and stale pastries, enough for a family to survive a day or two when times were good. But these weren’t good times.

  “No! Wait! I… I only took… just one loaf! My little ones—they… they haven’t eaten… I swear!”

  Alex’s stomach twisted. He wanted to rush forward, to speak for the man, to demand the constables show mercy.

  But who was he? A boy in tattered clothes with no authority, no power. No one would listen.

  He murmured a quiet apology under his breath, the same one he whispered every time he saw someone beaten or dragged by police—or by the henchmen of the Dons.

  And deep inside, Alex hoped… maybe Dominick would listen. After the small moment of connection at the party, perhaps his uncle would stop this terror. But for now, Alex could do nothing.

  Still, he memorized every detail—the man’s face, the tattered coat, and the narrow alley that led to his home.

  The afternoon sun’s light, weak behind the clouds of the autumn season, crept into old man Harris’ shop. Alex was the usual—sweeping after he had just finished his lunch, a modest sandwich with mixed vegetables and a sardine. Old man Harris had been quieter than usual throughout the whole morning.

  Alex watched him, a flicker of worry on his face. The boy approached him, still clinging to the broom with both hands, just in case old man Harris kicked him or head-butted him.

  “Boss? Something bothering you?”

  Mr. Harris didn’t look up.

  “Well… just thinking.”

  Alex smiled. “Don’t be scared. Your shop is far from the slums… luckily it’s in the middle-class streets and not far from the Plaza. And it’s not like they’ll attack you, a civilian, for nothing.”

  The old man gestured with his finger for the boy to come closer. Alex obeyed… only for the old man to grab his ear.

  “Who is scared?”

  Alex grunted at the pain but laughed.

  “Ouch! Ouch! I’m sorry.”

  Harris finally let go. “It’s you I’m concerned about, kid. You live there. It might not be safe for a while.”

  Alex scratched his ear, making sure it was still there—though his smile never faded.

  “I keep my head down, and I’m home early. I don’t go anywhere once my shift here is over.”

  The old man didn’t return the smile. His expression grew more serious.

  “Did you see it? The corpse?”

  Alex nodded.

  And the calmness in his face disturbed the old man.

  “So… it’s not as bad as people say? Or…”

  The realization struck Alex deeper than he thought. The fact that he was now used to corpses and blood… but most importantly, that Pablo’s death wasn’t affecting him as much as it would have a few months ago, had he been the same boy from back in the village.

  Was this growing up? Or something more dangerous?

  “It was… bad. Very bad,” Alex managed to say, yet unsure if he truly meant it or not.

  The old man studied the boy, who had now been working here for almost five months.

  Finally, he broke the silence with a gruff—typical Harris gruff.

  “Alright, kid. I got news. From now on, the shop will be closing around four.”

  Alex raised his head, surprised.

  “What? Why?”

  Old man Harris responded, walking to the counter.

  “First—winter is approaching, and the days are getting shorter and shorter.”

  “Second—both mobsters and cops will be busy for a while in the city. I want to stay away from whatever kind of shows they’ll be putting on. I’m too old for this crap.”

  “Third—I want you home early.”

  “Don’t get mad, but I’ll be cutting a little of your pay, since… well, the shop won’t be as busy in those days.”

  Alex lowered his eyes, looking at the broom, his voice quiet and disappointed.

  “I understand.”

  “Don’t make that face. I’m sure you have some savings, yes?” Harris said.

  “Luckily, I do… It’s just that… I enjoy being here.” The boy admitted, smiling at the broom—at the shop—at the groceries. It was one of his escapes from that world. Now, somehow, the news that he would see less of it hurt more than knowing his pay would be reduced.

  Without another word, the old man, as usual, reached into the drawer and poured coins into a pouch, closed it with a string, and tossed it to Alex from across the shop—same way he had done more than once.

  Alex caught it with two hands, letting the broom fall. He opened it and counted…

  “Mister Harris? It’s the same pay. You didn’t cut anything.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The old man left the counter and walked to the basement door, hiding his expression from the boy.

  “You must have miscounted,” he said.

  Alex checked again.

  “I counted again. I’m sure.”

  And the usual bark from the old man came, pretending to be mean, tired of the boy’s honesty.

  “Well, maybe I miscounted! JUST GET BACK TO WORK!”

  The old man was afraid of showing the love and empathy he had for the boy who had changed his life and made the shop feel less soulless—full of caring hands, a sweet smile, and a warm presence. He thought it would make him look weak.

  Alex was used to that shout. One that, ironically, sounded very warm despite its loudness. He knew expressing gratitude to the old man or trying to hug him would make him get a kick in the back of the head, so he just kept sweeping. And so he whispered it as he put the pouch in his pocket and picked up the broom again, resuming his work.

  “Thank you so much, Mister Harris.”

  Alex left the old man’s shop after a shorter day of work, waving him good night. Even though it was early and the sun hadn’t yet set.

  As he made his way out of the middle-class sector toward the plaza, a familiar figure caught his eyes: Daniel, the constable.

  “Mister Daniel! How are you doing?” Alex called.

  Daniel mirrored the smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “The usual, Alex. And I see you still working around here. Bumping into you seems to be a habit now.”

  “Yes, but from now on my shifts will be cut short with everything that’s happening,” Alex replied cautiously. Then, after a pause, he asked, “Are things… getting any better?”

  Daniel’s face tightened. He considered lying, giving Alex some comforting words to ease the boy’s worry. But no—Alex wasn’t like other kids. He deserved the truth.

  “I’m afraid not,” Daniel said, his voice low. “It’s… getting worse. Shops are closing early because they can’t afford to stay open. People lose jobs, can’t buy food… The slums are starving. Desperation spreads fast. Thieves, muggers… they’re not just petty criminals anymore. People attack without thinking, because survival is all they care about. And the brutality—both on the streets and in the alleys—is out of control. It's manageable at daylight, but be careful when it gets dark.”

  Alex frowned.

  “Can’t the police do something about it?”

  Daniel shook his head slightly.

  “We’re doing what we can. Patrolling. Catching thieves. But there’s too much, too fast. And sometimes… by the time we arrive, the damage is already done.”

  “But… all I’ve seen is police brutality back,” Alex said quietly.

  Daniel’s gentle expression vanished. His eyes widened, and his face hardened into a warning.

  “Careful, Alex. You’re talking to a cop. Choose your words carefully.”

  “But—”

  “Mind your tongue, boy,” Daniel said sharply. “My courtesy is not a license for you to speak against the watch. Another man in my coat hears you say that, you’ll be taken in. Do you comprehend me?”

  Alex looked away, disappointment and anger mixing in his chest.

  He started to walk off.

  But something stopped him—a spark of resolve. He turned back.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  Daniel raised an eyebrow.

  “What is it?”

  “Can we… meet every day? So you can tell me the addresses… or at least a few… of anyone who’s been hurt. Injured from… beatings. Whether it’s… those bad people, muggers, or anyone.”

  Daniel’s brow furrowed. Alex chose his words carefully, not daring to mention the mob, and avoiding any hint that police brutality was part of the problem now that Daniel warned him.

  “To… do what?” Daniel asked warily.

  “To try to take care of their injuries. I’m no doctor, but I’m an apprentice at one,” Alex said carefully, his voice steady.

  Daniel looked at him, and something in his chest tightened.

  Something familiar.

  A twist of pride and shame tangled together.

  This kid… half his size, barely grown, was trying to fix things.

  Again.

  While he is taking orders and watching.

  And that made Daniel feel small in a way he hated and wished he'd never experience again.

  A reminder that he wore a badge, carried authority, and still couldn’t change a thing.

  While a boy with nothing is trying.

  He opened his mouth, but no words came.

  Without another glance, he turned and walked away.

  Alex watched him go, a bitter knot forming in his stomach. He had trusted a constable—gone against Dante’s warning—and now, Daniel’s silence felt like betrayal.

  Meanwhile, somewhere in the nobles' sector, Don Emilio was having a guest. The curtains of his mansion were half-drawn, letting in a slice of sunlight across the carpet. A decanter sweated on the table. The fire burned low. And in the middle of it all sat Captain Harry McKlusky—sixty, long coat still on, shoulders hunched as if the weight of the whole precinct was hanging from them.

  He looked like a man carved out of stubborn gristle. A thick walrus-mustache, hard jaw, and a black overcoat that made him look even broader.

  Bone-deep exhaustion.

  Eyes red-rimmed from nights without sleep.

  The kind of stress you can smell in a room.

  Across from him, in his own chair, sat Don Emilio—older, colder, but no less worn. Technically calm… but there was a tremor under the surface. A flicker at the edge of his eye. A hand that tapped once on the table and stopped. A man holding himself together with discipline.

  Harry broke first.

  “Looks like you rotten old men have completely lost your minds.”

  Emilio sighed, disappointed.

  “Way to address me in my own home, Inspector. Or captain. Or whatever.”

  "Where are they?"

  "No need for all three of us to talk to you."

  Harry clapped—slow, bored, mocking.

  “Congratulations. Really. Don Enzo, out. Don Juan, quiet. No one’s in your way. No one.”

  The claps stopped... only for the right hand to slam the table instead.

  “So what’s the bloody point of the theatrics you’re pulling off in the rookeries?!” he shouted.

  Emilio yawned. “Believe me, my heart is melting for what’s going on there and for the poor families. I lived there too as a toddler. But we cannot afford another pain in the neck rising and trying his luck like the Marcettis did. Enough is enough.”

  Harry leaned forward, voice cracking with frustration.

  “What you’re doing is creating ones! You’re giving people reasons to turn on you! And I’m getting squeezed to death by the higher-ups to control this mess. We even had some of your men arrested!”

  Emilio folded his hands under his chin.

  “Truth is, Inspector… there’s no right or wrong approach. We’ve been quiet for years now and you know it. Almost everything we did was handled behind curtains—in silence, and you lazy wastes of space filled your pockets with our money to turn a blind eye to the very little noise we did.”

  He sighed as his voice softened in fatigue.

  “Result? Silvano almost got wasted. If he died, me and Carlo would be cleansing even the women and children of the Marcetti family and anyone who showed them support. He’s our brother since we were five. Now we’re seventy. You lot wouldn’t understand loyalty that old. And the quiet lasted a loooong time... and looks like people might see it as 'weakness'. And that I do not forgive.”

  He lifted his hands slightly, balancing invisible scales.

  “So we balance it out. So people don't forget.”

  Harry’s jaw ticked.

  “I’m warning you, Emilio. You push this too far and we’ll have to act accordingly. You are not the law. We are.”

  Emilio answered instantly.

  “I would love to see you try.”

  Harry held the stare, like the seasoned captain he is.

  Then—

  something changed.

  A flick of hesitation.

  A shift in his brow.

  A small, heavy truth settling across his face.

  “This ain't about being tough, Emilio. There’s pressure,” Harry said quietly. “From above.”

  Emilio scoffed. “You think you’ve got pressure? Try standing in front of a hundred men who only care about their coins and nothing else. Nobles don’t like noise, McKlusky. Or trouble. Or people who notice too much.”

  Harry shook his head, honestly.

  "That's not all."

  "Who else? The king?" Emilio spoke again, interested creeping in slightly.

  Harry didn’t speak.

  He just raised one finger—

  slowly—

  and pointed...

  Up.

  “Someone even above him,” Harry murmured.

  “You-know-who house.”

  The name wasn’t spoken.

  It didn’t need to be.

  For the first time in years, something cracked through Emilio’s mask.

  Fear.

  Real fear.

  Harry stood.

  “Stop, Emilio. For the sake of both of us.”

  Emilio thought for a moment, processing the information, the decisions to make, the options... Finally, he exhaled sharply.

  “Let my men go free. Then I’ll see what I can do. But mark my words—this will go on for a while. Our point must be made. Loud. And clear.”

  "No more Enzo loyalists out there."

  His eyes hardened.

  “So do your part… for once.”