? The Hidden Face ?
Tonno, Lino, and Pinch crowded near Mira, eager to soak up her every word as the second round began.
Advancing with care, Alex slipped past Leo’s left jabs—one grazed his cheek, another brushed by close enough to stir the air. He fired a straight right, only to have it slapped aside, like the dozens that had come before.
Then came the shift: a lunge without full commitment, just enough to sell the feint. His shoulders dipped, his body blurred—and he unleashed the overhand.
The punch sliced through the air toward Leo’s face, whistling as it passed.
Leo’s eyes widened—not at the setup, but at the raw force barreling in on him… in a friendly spar.
For an instant, Alex’s chest surged with triumph. He thought he had him.
The punch thudded against Leo’s forearm and cheek as he twisted his head just so, letting the impact slide harmlessly across. That force would have knocked him out or cost him a few teeth if landed clean.
No damage. Yet his expression shifted—more serious, more cautious. "Again. Second time." he thought, remembering the earlier strike aimed to his ribs.
“Almost landed it!” Tonno breathed.
“But… that could have hurt Leo bad. Not the rules, right?” Lino whispered, wide-eyed.
“Easy, Alex! This is just a friendly spar, remember?!” Mira shouted.
Alex blinked, startled.
"Oh. That's right."
He raised a hand in apology.
Leo only nodded.
They reset and circled. Alex moved in, expecting the familiar left—except Leo didn’t throw it. He simply kept his guard high.
Mira’s eyes went narrow.
“He’s in his range… why isn’t he throwing anything?”
“Is he baiting me?” Alex murmured, frowning. "I'll take it. I'm not here to defend. I need to learn more... and I have to land one tap. Just one. I can't walk out looking all pathetic after Mira and him taught me so much."
He started with light taps, measuring force and weight. Each jab was a test, not an attack—watching Leo’s guard, adjusting his own rhythm. Frustration coiled under the surface, and before he noticed the strikes began to carry more weight. Not hard enough, not a blow meant to hurt—but heavier, more determined. Leo absorbed them without a flinch, arms tightening, the guard opening just enough to study him.
“Something’s wrong here…” Lino muttered.
“What is it?” Tonno asked.
Lino’s mouth thinned. “It’s unlike Leo to give up the pace… Now he is just guarding? After he fully figured out Alex?”
"Maybe he is teaching something?" Tonno asked, shrugging his shoulders.
"Alex almost hurt him earlier, right?” Pinch said. "Maybe he is worried he will do it again?"
Mira’s arms, crossed for most of the spar, had dropped loose at her sides, eyes narrowing in full focus.
Alex pushed at Leo’s guard and feinted low with his right. Leo’s left twitched, faking the body cover—exactly the bait Alex had been waiting for. His heart jumped; a chance opened.
He loaded a left hook, everything narrowing into the motion. Thoughts detonated all at once.
"This is the one I haven't tried. Mira said a hook can break a guard. It's risky and I don't want to hurt him—but I need to do more than slip past his jabs and hitting his guard."
Hands tightened; breath lowered. He moved.
Then—
Pinch, Tonno, and Lino saw Mira already running toward them, her face serious, firm, as if she were rushing to prevent something inevitable.
“Mira?!” they shouted, but she didn’t answer.
Alex, fist loaded, froze.
He didn’t launch it.
He stopped short, noticing the change in Leo's face.
His guard, that should be protecting his temple, had dropped slightly.
He is not blocking this one.
His right hand—held back all this second round, unused... moved slightly. Loaded.
The fist twisted, ready to fire.
And then Alex saw it. Leo’s eyes.
Staring through his soul.
Almost talking.
"No, Alex."
"You’ve stopped sparring."
"Let’s end it here."
"Before I end it for you."
Everything in Alex’s body screamed to back off.
The fist.
The glare.
The posture.
It pinned him in place.
Finally… he jumped back, heart hammering, realizing just how far this friendly spar could have gone wrong.
Mira stopped short, sighing in relief.
Leo’s face returned to its calm mask. He loosened his arms and fists and walked casually toward Alex, who was still frozen. The boy tried to speak, “I’m—”
But Leo playfully patted his shoulder, grinning.
“You’re good, Alex! I'm impressed.”
Alex’s lips parted as Leo continued,
“The way you set traps—how you tried boxing—even your body isn’t just for show. You’re strong. Keep working on your basics with Mira. My three pieces of advice:"
"One— avoid tackles or grappling if your opponent has a knife or some pointed weapon. Plenty of cowards roam this city.”
"Two— keep a stone face when fighting. Don't let your opponent see through your frustration or even your confidence."
“Three— Fight only when you must. If you can run, run — it’s smarter. You don’t know how far your enemy will go... Though I don’t think I need to worry about you; you don’t seem like the sort to pick fights.”
“Y-Yeah,” Alex finally managed. "Understood."
Leo smiled gently, removed the rag from his fists, and called, “Tonno, Lino, Pinch, let’s go.” He set the rag next to Mira’s coat under the tree’s shadow and grabbed his jacket.
“It’s over already?” Tonno asked, eyes wide. "No surprises after all."
“Yes!” Pinch said, grinning. “And Mira will bring us her lunch—she’s the only one who bet on Alex.”
Lino smirked, elbowing Tonno lightly. “Alright, let’s go then—for now, we’ll leave the lovebirds alone.”
“I’ll bring you poisonous food for that last line, Lino!” Mira shouted, vein at her temple about to pop.
Alex’s voice cut after the retreating figures. “Leo!”
Leo paused, one arm sliding into his jacket sleeve. He didn’t turn fully, just glanced back.
“I… I apologize for the earlier full power hits. Didn’t mean anything by it,” Alex blurted, words stumbling out. "And thank you! I learned a lot!" his eyes finally brightened with genuine gratitude.
Leo blinked, expression softening into that calm, unreadable half-smile. “Don't worry. The spar was my idea. And no one got harmed.”
He tugged the jacket fully into place, then nodded once. “Be safe, Alex.”
With that, Leo walked on, adjusting his collar as if the spar hadn’t even happened, joining the three ahead, Lino, Tonno, and Pinch, who were talking and joking in the distance. Their voices couldn’t carry to where Alex and Mira stood.
“I told you to hold back! Keep it light!” she scolded, but there was relief in her tone.
Alex stayed quiet, gaze fixed on the gang winding down the path.
Finally he murmured, “That… was some amazing restraint.”
Mira tilted her head, "Yeah?"
Alex didn’t look at her. “My father once explained… when adrenaline hits, your body moves faster, sharper. That’s what happened to me… though I think my frustration—being pushed around, dominated—added to it too. I didn’t even realize I was putting more weight into my punches until it happened.”
He glanced toward where Leo had disappeared among the gang, admiration flickering into something darker, curious. “Yet he stayed in control the entire time... even when I was coming at him with everything I have.”
Mira looked at him for a moment, studying the words. Then, she followed his gaze to the distant figure, jacket fluttering in the wind.
"You didn’t scratch the surface. Not even close."
"That restraint is admirable...but terrifying."
"Unlike Zack, who explodes... Leo goes cold. And he won't need any weapon."
"As if something else is waiting behind his calm, patient for a reason to move."
Mira’s fingers flexed lightly against her own arm, a small, unconscious anchor.
“God help whoever says the wrong thing to him.”
With Leo finally out of sight, the park felt… lighter, but the memory of him lingered, heavy and electric.
Mira shook off the intensity and suddenly snapped,
“So… um… you want to hang around or something?!”
Alex turned to her, studying her for a beat before smiling.
“I took enough of your time already.”
“I don’t mind,” she muttered, averting her eyes, cheeks pink. "I can keep training you or you can watch me train..."
“That reminds me… I truly appreciated it, Mira. That you bet on me,” Alex said sincerely.
“Yes,” she said, smiling faintly, “and I lost my lunch, so you better buy me one.”
Alex chuckled.
“Also the coaching… I'm sorry I couldn't land that one tap. But your advice was solid. I felt like I wasn’t fighting alone.”
Mira listened quietly.
“We… kind of fought him together, right?” Alex asked, scratching his cheek shyly, wanting to show his gratitude.
Mira’s cheeks flared instantly.
“Y-You… you ARE the flirty type after all!” she snapped, voice sharp and defensive.
“I—” Alex started.
“What is this ‘together’ stuff, Alexander the Flirt?!” she barked, bouncing lightly on her toes, arms crossed, trying to hide her embarrassment.
“That's my name now? Not the punch-pulling moron anymore?” Alex muttered, half-joking.
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“And clinic-bailing! Don’t you ever forget that!”
Alex laughed softly, a little embarrassed for missing her at the clinic, but he couldn’t help enjoying her reactions.
“Now sit there and watch how you box! Bury those techniques into your mind! Next time I see you throwing those obvious haymakers, I’m giving you a fourth and fifth nickname!” Mira ordered, fists on her hips, stance firm, trying to look composed but clearly flustered inside.
Alex smiled shyly, taking a seat under the tree, next to her flat cap and jacket.
Mira felt a quiet, small thrill—not joy in the teasing sense, but the satisfaction of being observed seriously. Someone was watching—not whispering, not mocking, but learning, seeing. She had a student, a friend, someone who respected her for who she was.
The small Pinch was no fan of boxing. Tonno preferred wrestling more than boxing due to his huge size. Lino cracked a joke every two punches.
She moved into stance and resumed shadowboxing without a word. The sharp flare of embarrassment, the tension that had colored her just moments before, vanished the instant she began to move. Alex’s eyes followed her every motion—her focus, her face, her precision, her dedication to fighting an imaginary opponent, and yet making it look effortless… so cool…
So beautiful.
Few days later,
They worked in the hollowed-out bones of the old industrial quarter, where brick and iron still smelled faintly of oil and coal. The Marcettis—mostly boys barely old enough to grow real beards, shepherded by a couple of hardened veterans—stacked crates into a narrow, battered wagon. Inside each crate the metal lay cold and snug: rifles, pistols, spare magazines. The younger men checked every weapon as if it were a promise, racked bolts, thumbed triggers, verified sights. It was a ritual: a slow, careful choreography of preparation.
At last the wagon rolled away into the fog of the loading yard. The men clambered up, the driver cracked the reins, and the carriage lurched forward.
Inside, Don Enzo looked at his gathered men with the steady, burned-out fierceness of a man who’d already buried too many names. His voice was low but absolute. “Listen. This is do or die. Tomorrow, we put the three Dons in the ground—along with their loyal dog, Dominick.”
A younger hand trembled when he raised it. “Don Enzo—are you sure you’re coming with us?”
Enzo’s jaw hardened. “Yes. This is personal. All of my family is gone.” He clenched a fist so hard a knuckle went white. “Giovanni… Robert… my son Lorenzo years ago... and tons of others...”
“As discussed, some will be our inside men at the hotel,” he continued, eyes sweeping theirs like a blade. “The rest of us will storm in when the time comes.”
The boys nodded, the dangerous mix of fear and pride settling into their chests. They respected him for that—an old man willing to walk into the fire himself.
“Viva i Marcetti!” someone shouted, a ragged cheer that felt almost like prayer.
They all answered in one voice — a raw, ragged shout that rolled off the brick and into the night.
“Viva i Marcetti!”
“Viva i Marcetti!”
“VIVA I MARCETTI!”
Fog pressed against the windows, soft and silver under the moon. The mansion stood still — a house too large for one man, too quiet for comfort.
Dominick moved through the rooms in a white shirt and vest, sleeves rolled to the elbow. No coat, no hat, no guise of the Undertaker.
Just a man in his house.
“Silence,” he murmurs. “The only thing that doesn’t lie.”
His footsteps were the only sound. He passed polished banisters, pausing to tilt a vase slightly, smooth the corner of a rug, straighten a book that had been nudged out of place. Everything had to be exactly as it should be — untouched, neat, unremarkable. The maids had gone home hours ago, leaving only the faint scent of waxed wood and lavender in their absence. Hired by an agency in the city, they didn’t know who really lived here— and were advised not to ask.
He stopped in the study doorway. The air smelled faintly of paper and dust. A single lamp burned on the desk, its light cutting a neat circle across the room.
He crossed to it and paused over a photograph — four faces frozen in sepia. A girl at ten, Elena, standing stiff before her parents. Beside her, a blonde boy of thirteen, who still had something in his eyes other than ruthlessness and cold calculation.
He looked at the photo for a moment, then turned it face-down.
From the drawer came a leather-bound notebook, its pages uneven where some had been torn away. He sat, dipped the pen into ink, and held it over the page — still, hesitant — as if waiting for something he could never quite confess aloud.
At the top of the page, he wrote carefully:
May 28th, 1910.
He set the nib to paper and listened to the small scratch as it found the page. For a long breath he wrote nothing, only watched the ink bead at the tip and fall.
“Nothing much on this day,” he said softly, not as if announcing a fact but as if testing the silence. “It has been too peaceful for a while.”
He pushed the words across the page.
I planned to drop by Alex and Dante, but called it off because of business.
Vince is out on a run delivering shipments.
My one and only friend.
It’s too lonely without him.
He smiled—an unkind little thing—and the corner of the sentence curled under his pen.
I wish I can do more for him. The man doesn't care about anything. He is even emptier than I am.
“The Dons? No.” He tapped the pen against the blotter.
The Dons are not friends. They are my bosses. My fathers. My mentors.
I’m grateful for everything they did to me.
They taught me much, though I was already brilliant before I joined their ranks.
They were the foundation of the organization, but just like any one in the city, they were so classic. Guns, muscle, threatening out loud.
They were good at politics. Yes.
But they lacked creativity. Lacked the concept of thinking outside the box.
And that's why since I joined them, they started winning easily.
He looked down at the page, reading back the letters, letting the confession linger between himself and the paper.
“I will never forget their recognition, the gifts, the golden token they gave me when I turned eighteen,”
A shadow crossed his face. “And I still—”
He hesitated, the pen hovering. For a breath he didn’t speak.
Then, as if the paper could hold what his throat could not, he wrote the line that never left his mouth:
And I still
14 years ago
The apartment was a humble, middle–class place, crooked picture frames, a faded rug, the faint smell of stew still clinging to the air. The sign beside the door read Mr & Miss Gilbert, carved by an amateur hand.
Now it looked like a battleground.
Two men lay dead near the kitchen. One slumped over a chair, blood soaking into the seat cushion; the other half across the hallway, a neat hole through his coat. The window was shattered, the curtains trembling in the night breeze. Holes dotted the plaster walls—poorly aimed shots fired in panic.
Dominick in his thirties, blonde hair mussed, black coat on—stood at that broken window with a shotgun braced against his shoulder. He scanned the street below, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths, making sure no one else was coming.
Behind him, Matteo Marviano—thirty-five but still wearing that same reckless grin he’d had as a boy—sat propped against a toppled chair. Blood seeped from a shot through his right shoulder, but he laughed like it were nothing more than a bad scrape.
“Miss Elena!” Matteo called toward the bedroom, voice rough but trying to sound cheerful. “Don’t step out just yet, eh? Ain’t a good sight. Lots of mess. Terrible for the nerves and your health.”
Dominick turned. “You heard him, Elena,” he barked, his voice too sharp, too tight. “Stay put.”
There was a small noise from the room—fearful, contained.
Dominick finally moved from the window and crossed the apartment floor with the heavy, deliberate steps of a man whose adrenaline had not yet settled. He crouched beside Matteo. His eyes traced the wound—too long, too slow, too searching.
“You’re one tough bastard, Matteo,” Dominick muttered, rolling the torn cloth back to get a better look.
Matteo hissed, but grinned through it.
“Lucky bastard, you mean.”
Dominick exhaled through his nose.
“You shouldn’t have come.”
Matteo snorted.
“Don’t start that. You needed help. That’s your family in there. So that’s my problem too, Dom.”
For the first time since the gunfire ended, something warm flickered across Dominick’s face.
Matteo leaned his head back against the wall.
“Remember how we met?”
Dominick’s mouth twitched.
“When you kicked me in the gut in your father’s house. Hard.”
Matteo laughed, wincing. “Ah, don’t tell me you’re still sore.”
"Or mad..."
Silence.
Then—
Dominick shook his head.
“Of course not. That would be petty of me. I meant… look at us now. How far we’ve come.”
Matteo breathed out a small, sincere laugh.
“You came far. I was born with silver spoons in every room. But they never saw me as more than the baby. The cute one. The college pet.” His eyes softened, glowing with earnest loyalty. “You were the one who put steel in my spine. Who taught me how to stand up, not just stand around."
"You made me, Dom.”
He reached out with his good arm, grabbing Dominick’s sleeve.
“One day, we’re gonna run this city. Together.”
Dominick smiled. Thin. Fragile. Breaking.
He pulled Matteo into an embrace. Matteo’s head rested on his shoulder—awkward with the pain, but affectionate.
“Alright, alright,” Matteo muttered into Dom’s coat, half-laughing. “Easy now. This hurts. And we still gotta drag ourselves to Gilbert’s cabinet.”
Dominick didn’t loosen the hug.
“I’ll go,” he said softly. Too softly.
“First let me make sure you’re not hurting anymore.”
Matteo chuckled.
“Well, I’m hurting a lot, genius.”
He didn’t see Dominick’s hand slide behind him... with a glove on so no fingerprints get left.
Didn’t notice the pistol—one of the fallen hitmen’s—eased from the floor.
Didn’t feel the barrel stop an inch from his temple, hovering, not touching.
Dominick couldn’t bear the thought of him feeling it.
A single, muffled shot cracked through the small room.
Matteo slumped instantly, breath leaving his body in a single quiet sigh.
Dominick held him a moment longer.
Then a moment longer still.
As if hugging the ghost.
A soft gasp came from the bedroom door.
Elena had cracked it open just enough to see.
She froze.
Her brother—her guardian, her blood—was kneeling beside Matteo’s corpse, pistol still trembling in his hand, his face carved into something cold and monstrous.
Her mind screamed.
"I thought you were lost. Just lost. In all of this."
"I was ashamed for not being able to help you. Ashamed from taking from you."
"I pitied you. I wanted to be your side. In all of this."
Her knees wobbled.
Her stomach lurched.
The air turned sour in her throat.
That was not Dominick.
That thing was a stranger wearing his skin.
A stranger she despised.
A stranger she feared.
A stranger who made her want to retch where she stood.
Dominick slowly turned his head toward her.
Their eyes met.
And Elena knew, without question, that she would never look at him the same way again.
After finishing playing the worst memory of his life, Dominick wrote.
And I still
Had their sons killed.
—The part that Vince left out when he spoke to Alex the other day.
He breathed in, slow, taking his face between his hands for a second, then set the pen down and spoke again, reading his own ink.
“Matteo — a boy I grew up with who wanted to prove himself to his father. Steve — loyal, fierce, older brother. Claude — a lawyer who wanted out of the family business but was dragged back in during the war against the Marcettis.” He named them as if cataloguing specimens, steady and clinical.
He paused like a man tasting a bitter truth.
Then—
Claude. Don Silvano's only son.
A man I respected. Was born in the filth and the wealth, and yet he chose good.
And his death opened doors to me.
Doors I never knew they existed.
He wrote the next line slowly, the nib dragging.
Steve. Don Emilio's oldest son.
I thought he resented the little adopted son being loved too much.
Hothead. Sharp. Dangerous.
Had to go.
Dominick ran a hand through his medium-blond hair and adjusted his glasses. Then, he wrote slowly, almost reverently:
Matteo. Don Emilio's youngest son
I was afraid he might betray me one day.
And so I chose not to find out.
And Elena, the only witness to that scene, never saw me as a human again.
Only as a devil.
The lamp hummed. His voice was steady now, the kind of steadiness that made other men flinch.
And it was necessary.
Because those sons would inherit their fathers’ ways.
Because I needed more influence on their decisions.
Three Dons. Three minds. Three crowns.
That’s not how business works.
One man says attack.
Another says wait.
The third says talk.
In the pause between their words the city bleeds.
Business bleeds.
A single man could act in hours.
They take days.
The waiting alone costs time, money, lives.
Deals expire.
Opportunities vanish.
He smiled without amusement.
Democracy in the underworld is a fool’s theatre.
I thought the three old men might understand.
Thought they’d fracture.
One would fall. Another would take the seat.
Only one.
But they are well raised.
They are closer to each other than to the wives they gave up or the daughters who left them.
They prioritize family, bonds, friendship.
I prioritize time, business and efficiency.
Dominick rested for a moment, breathing in and out, re-reading the thoughts he wished he had someone to share with other than Vince.
Then—
he continued, out loud to himself.
Assassinating them or even trying is stupid.
The words came softer, almost private.
It will be an all out war, and I'm not sure if I will come out victorious.
Carlo’s cold politics.
Silvano, who tortures for pleasure when it's personal.
Emilio, the balanced mind.
No one sits on the table with them and walks away as the winner.
I know better than anyone.
Not worth the risk.
Elena could pay.
____ could pay.
Nothing happens to her.
She is out there.
She is the margin that keeps my ledger from collapsing.
Wound her and I’ll write the rest off.
Even winning is a defeat.
I wanted the top.
Not the spotlight.
I have it
And yet,
it's not enough.
I want more.
He set the pen down, fingers hovering over the page.
The sentence trembled.
The words barely stirred the air. For a moment his face softened, something unguarded flickering through the stillness, then he exhaled, slow and steady.
Like every other time, he read the page once through, eyes tracing his own handwriting without emotion. Then he tore it free, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
Dominick stood, slow and deliberate, and crossed to the fireplace. He held the page over the faint glow and let it fall.
That was how the Undertaker dealt with loneliness — when there was no one left to talk to, when Vince, the only one who could stand beside him, wasn’t around.
The flame caught the edge of the paper, curling it inward.
Dominick watched it burn, unmoving, the firelight reflected in his glasses — two small suns flickering where his eyes should have been.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter.
“She is out there. She is the margin that keeps my ledger from collapsing. Wound her and I’ll write the rest off.”
Any guesses on who Dominick is talking about here? I teased this mysterious person, who is very important to him in chapter 17 - the Undertaker. Any thoughts?
Thank you for reading! :)
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