? Allow Me To Decide ?
Portenzo City - Night
The street outside still belonged to another age. Horse-drawn carriages rolled past on iron rims, hooves striking stone in a steady rhythm, while gas lamps flickered against damp fa?ades. Men in dark coats and stiff hats walked shoulder to shoulder with women wrapped in long dresses and shawls, hems lifted just enough to clear the mud. Somewhere down the block, a lone automobile sat parked at the curb—an ungainly, sputtering curiosity that drew glances as people passed, some slowing, others staring outright, as if unsure whether it was marvel or menace.
At the corner, light spilled from a low doorway, warm and restless, pulling the street’s murmurs inward.
The bar was alive with noise. Laughter, clinking glasses, and the haze of cigarette smoke curling under dim yellow lights. Drunk men shouted over each other, women chatted quietly in corners, and dice clattered against a back table. Behind the bar, Frank wiped glasses with a practiced smile, his bald head gleaming under the low light as he kept an eye on the chaos.
Then the door swung open, and a cold gust rushed inside.
Whispers cut through the crowd.
“Let’s leave...”
“That’s him...”
"Saints preserve us. Look how tall he is..."
Dominick Marviano stepped in first, tall and imposing. His black hat cast a shadow over his cold, unreadable eyes behind tinted glasses. A neat blond beard framed his expressionless face. Beside him was Vince. Equally tall, dark-haired, pale face and eyes sharp as broken glass.
The laughter faltered. The music seemed to stutter, as if the bar itself held its breath. Everyone knew who they were.
Frank’s voice rang out, loud and commanding.
“Everyone out. We're closing.”
There was a beat of hesitation, then chairs scraped and bottles were abandoned. Men grabbed their coats, and a few women hurried out without finishing their drinks.
One drunk man, built like a sack of potatoes and barely able to stand, stumbled toward them.
“Hey! Who the hell do you think you—”
Before he could finish, Dominick’s hand shot out, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming his face down onto a table. The wood cracked beneath the impact. The man groaned as Vince kicked from behind towards the door, driving him out of the bar. The kind of kick a man would use to chase off a stray dog. Not too violent, but humiliating.
Frank, the bartender, remained composed.
“Good evening, gentlemen. I wish you would have told me beforehand you're coming. I got good customers tonight.”
Vince ignored the cool and calm voice.
“Frank, we need to talk.”
Dominick lit a thick cigar and moved slowly, like a shadow wrapped in skin. The two men took seats at the bar counter, facing Frank.
Frank poured them each a glass of water, his hands steady but his eyes calculating every move.
Vince’s voice was low, almost casual.
“You know that cargo shipment down by the canal? The crew got ambushed.”
Frank blinked, surprised...or at least, trying to sound like it.
"That's horrible... How did that happen?"
“Eh..." Vince tilted his head lazily, "People talk. These things happen."
Frank exhaled with relief... until Vince's voice came back.
"But this one? Nobody knew.”
“Except us three.” Dominick exhaled a slow plume of smoke.
Frank’s smile twitched, trying to stay unbothered.
“Come on, Dom. I pour drinks, not rumors.”
“Right,” Dominick said, leaning in. “Except this time we were testing a theory.”
He paused, eyes locked on Frank’s.
“We gave out false drops. Each version to someone different. And wouldn’t you know it... yours ended up with the Marcettis.”
Frank’s face tightened.
Dominick’s voice grew colder.
“Once, maybe coincidence. Twice, maybe very bad luck. But a third? That’s not luck, Frank.”
He let the silence hang.
"That’s you."
Frank’s calm started to slip. His mouth opened but no words came out.
Dominick took off his glasses, and started cleaning them with a handkerchief he drew out of his pocket.
“You remember that notebook you keep under the bar? Didn’t you notice it was different?”
Frank's eyes widened as Dominick put back his glasses on.
“After yours ran out of pages, Dante, the kid that picked shifts here, got you a new one. One we could recognize. Tiny stamp on each page, random traces of ink.”
Vince leaned forward.
“We found a torn page folded, used, tossed to one of the Marcettis. It matches.”
Frank’s breath came faster now, his confident mask cracking.
Tears crept into his eyes.
Vince didn’t say a word. Dominick stayed still, finishing his cigar and flicking ashes into a tray.
“I’ve... got a kid on the way,” Frank finally whispered, barely audible. “Mary’s six months pregnant."
He turned to Dominick, desperate.
“Can you... let me off the hook?”
Dominick’s eyes flicked up, steady.
“Who approached you from the Marcettis?”
“It's... Giovanni.”
“One more thing. The Dons ordered a search to resume, on a runaway doctor. You know anything?”
“Yes." the words came in faster, feeling some hope and clinging to it. "Two will be boarding a ship tomorrow morning, in the eastern docks... That's all I know. I swear.”
Dominick finally looked at him. His gaze was heavy, final.
Frank’s breath caught, his shoulders jerking at the words.
The pistol came up, steady, black and unblinking in Dominick’s hand.
“Thanks... It was nice knowing you.”
For a heartbeat the world held still—air thick, silence pressing in.
Frank’s mind screamed no but his mouth stayed frozen. He thought of Mary, of the child he’d never hold.
Then the shot tore it apart.
Sound split the room like the sky breaking open. The force slammed into his chest, stealing his breath before he even realized he was falling.
The bar spun, his hands searching for something that wasn’t there. His vision tunneled, darkness flooding the edges.
He staggered once, eyes wide—then crumpled behind the bar, the world gone.
Silence followed, broken only by the faint patter of rain outside.
Dominick straightened his coat and headed toward the exit.
“See you tomorrow morning.”
Vince nodded, pouring himself a glass of water.
Next Morning
The damp cobblestones gleamed under a slate-gray sky as two men hurried toward the dock. The salty breeze tugged at their coats, carrying the distant cries of seagulls and the faint creak of a waiting boat rocking gently on the water.
The younger man glanced around, shadows stretching long as dusk settled. “Thirteen years gone, and they’re still chasing this ghost?”
The older man’s eyes narrowed. “Family don’t forgive such things. Not ever. It will take a while though...”
Heavy footsteps interrupted them. A third figure emerged from the shadows—Vince. Sharp-eyed and calm, with an air that made even the dock’s chill seem colder.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“You two. Halt,” Vince ordered, his voice slicing through the fog.
The grizzled henchman straightened. “Vince. We got orders—the Dons are restarting the search for Gilbert. ”
Vince sighed, a long breath that seemed to carry the weight of the world. He motioned them to follow down a narrow side path, away from the noise of the harbor.
Dominick stepped out of the fog, black coat brushing the cobblestones. Vince waited with two of his men, who stiffened the moment they saw the tall figure closing in.
The older henchman muttered under his breath, voice thick with unease. “The Undertaker… Dominick Marviano.”
The younger swallowed hard. “Boss.”
The grizzled one added, barely above a whisper:
“He’s the best man in the rackets. Gets things done with almost nothing.”
Dominick stopped before them, his voice low, measured. “You two—go home. There’s no search.”
“But—” the younger began.
The older seized his arm, cutting him off with a sharp shake of the head.
“Understood.” Then, leaning close, his whisper carried the weight of an oath:
“Everything goes through him… he answers straight to the Dons. Don’t argue.”
The men retreated into the mist, pale as ghosts. Vince’s eyes followed until they vanished, then slid back to Dominick.
“So,” he said quietly, “what now?”
“I’ll speak with the old men.”
“To talk them down? That won’t work.” Vince shrugged.
“They want punishment, yes?”
“They won’t stop till they get one.”
“Then they’ll have it. Doesn’t need to be a bullet in the ground.”
He watched the shadows stretch across the empty streets, knowing the next day would bring new moves. But elsewhere, where the air was thin and the earth still smelled of spring, another family prepared for a quiet morning.
Montivara Mountains - Morning
A soft breeze drifted through the tall pines, stirring the fresh scent of pine needles and wildflowers. In the distance, rugged cliffs towered over the valley like silent guardians.
The village lay quiet, nestled among patchwork fields where sheep grazed lazily beneath the warming spring sun. A small farmhouse, worn but sturdy, stood surrounded by tilled earth and blossoming apple trees. The scent of damp soil mixed with the faint aroma of fresh bread baking inside.
Gilbert stepped out onto the porch, stretching as he took in the peaceful morning.
“Morning, Elena,” he called softly.
Elena appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron, her face serene under the pale sunlight. “Morning, dear.”
Gilbert smiled, eyes scanning the blue sky. “Beautiful weather today.”
She nodded. “Indeed. Perfect for a hike, or something with Alex.”
He glanced around, brow furrowed. “Where’s that boy? Haven’t seen him yet.”
“He’s already out. Probably fetching water from the spring.”
Gilbert shook his head with a soft chuckle. “Tch... That boy needs to stop acting like an adult. Let me handle some of the chores for once.”
Elena’s smile was gentle but firm. “He’s helping. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Gilbert sighed. “I told him we’d take turns, but he always wakes before me and does it anyway. I want him to sleep in, or play — just be a kid for once.”
Elena’s eyes softened. “He’s a good boy. Just like you were, when you were his age.”
Gilbert paused, a distant look crossing his face. “Yeah. He is.”
At that moment, the farmhouse door creaked open, and Alex stepped in, swinging a small wooden bucket. The boy had short, messy brown hair and warm brown eyes that shone with quiet innocence. Though his face carried a sweet, open expression, his broad shoulders and sturdy frame hinted at the strength he’d earned from long hours of farm work. His cheeks were flushed from the early morning chill.
“Good mo—”
“ALEX!" Gilbert shouted, "How many times do I have to say! Let. ME. do it!”
Alex grinned, undeterred, already bracing for the familiar reprimand. “I beat you again, Father. Perhaps you ought to rise earlier next time.”
“Lecturing me now ?” Gilbert shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.
Elena laughed softly and raised her hand to high-five Alex, who eagerly returned the gesture.
“And what about the laundry I asked you to bring in yesterday?” she asked lightly.
Alex’s grin faltered for the briefest second before he puffed out his chest. “Um... Done, of course. All folded neatly in the basket.”
Elena narrowed her eyes, then reached out and tugged his cheek between her fingers. “Liar. You left it hanging all night, and now it’s damp again.”
Alex winced, half laughing, squirming out of her grasp. “Ow—!”
She let go, smiling with mock sternness. “I can read you like a book.” Then she glanced at Gilbert with a sly sparkle. “As punishment, your father will be the one to do it.”
Gilbert clenched his fist and pumped it in the air, his voice booming with mock triumph. “YES! Finally, I get to do something!” He leaned back smugly. “Though… bringing in laundry is not exactly glorious work.”
Elena smirked, arms crossing. “All the same—it’s yours now.”
Alex grinned at his father, shoulders bouncing with laughter. “Careful what you celebrate, Father.”
Gilbert smiled, then looked to the horizon. “Alright. The weather’s nice. Let’s do something before the day grows too hot — just the two of us, son. Elena is quite busy today.”
Alex nodded, but the spark in his eyes dimmed slightly. “Good idea.”
Gilbert noticed the hesitation. “What’s wrong? You’re not smiling.”
Alex shifted his weight, looking toward the fields. “It’s just... the usual, right? Another hike, another picnic. We’ve done it all before.”
Elena asked gently, “Don’t you still play with the other kids?”
Alex’s smile was small, almost wistful. “Some don’t want to play with me anymore. I win too easily. Tag. Tug of war. All games.”
Elena chuckled, teasing lightly. “I don’t blame them. Not only you’re smart but you’re built like a bear, even if you don’t look like it."
“The girls like you though.” she added while patting him
Alex nodded slowly. “I know. I’m not complaining. I understand.”
He sighed again, a deeper sound this time, and adjusted the bucket in his hand. “I’ll go check the fields. Uncle Ruth’s kids might be causing trouble again.”
With that, Alex turned and strode out the door, the bucket swinging in rhythm with his steps.
Gilbert let out a long, heavy breath, watching the boy disappear between rows of wildflowers.
Elena’s voice was quiet, almost breaking. “What breaks my heart is how he never rebels. Always helps. Always... a good boy.”
Gilbert’s gaze was distant, fixed on the fields beyond the porch.
“I wish I could get him to visit the city or other places, but you know we can’t go back. Safest places are these nearby towns in the mountains too. Any big city can get us into trouble.”
Elena nodded slowly, then spoke softly, almost a whisper. “You know... one week from now, it’s his thirteenth birthday.”
Gilbert’s eyes met hers. “Of course I remember.”
“We should make it special. Something simple, something that will make him smile.”
Gilbert said nothing. He only watched the sun creep higher, the light touching the earth like a warning.
Portenzo City - Noon
“Gentlemen.” Dominick stepped inside, removing his hat with a practiced, respectful motion as he approached the table.
Don Carlo, leaned back with one arm slung lazily over the chair’s edge. His silver hair was slicked with meticulous care. His expression rarely changed—half-amused, and unreadable—but his fingers tapped slowly against his cane, as though each motion weighed a life.
Beside him, Don Silvano sat like a coiled spring dressed in expensive wool. Slightly more rigid than Carlo, his eyes still carried a soldier’s vigilance. Thinner than the others but just as dangerous, he kept his coat on, as if always ready to leave—or draw. The grey in his beard was neatly trimmed, but the old war in his shoulders hadn’t dulled. He was the type who’d rather slit your throat himself than sign the order.
At the far end, Don Emilio, the eldest, held court in silence. His skin was like parchment, his voice used sparingly, but when he did speak, the room listened. Deep-set eyes under a heavy brow gave him the look of a man who had not blinked in decades. A gold signet ring—unchanged since the sixties—clung to his wrinkled knuckle like an heirloom of judgment. Emilio was old power, unshaken, unfriendly, and perhaps already halfway into legend.
“Dominick,” Don Carlo greeted him with a nod.
“Have a seat.” Don Silvano gestured toward the chairs.
White linen napkins were neatly folded beside gleaming silverware, and crystal glasses caught the light just so—the kind of place where deals were made quietly, amid muted conversation and the subtle clink of fine china.
Silvano smirked, breaking the silence. “Hey, hear this one—taxes got jacked again.”
Dominick raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the fifth time in three years?”
Don Emilio shook his head. “Yep. And then they wonder why the city’s drowning in poverty.”
Carlo scoffed. “Strays everywhere. Orphans. Suicides. You name it. The lower class can’t breathe, the middle class is bleeding out.”
Emilio spat quietly. “And the same fools cheer the king during festival season—from the back alleys—while the nobles polish their palaces and sprinkle gold flakes on their desserts.”
“Sad city,” Silvano muttered. “And somehow we’re the bad guys.” He waved his hand, mocking the usual headlines.
Then he chuckled, “What do they call you again? The ‘Undertaker’?”
Laughter bubbled around the table—rich, sharp, the kind of laugh that could slice through steel.
“I don’t call myself that,” Dominick replied evenly. “I’m a man.”
Carlo grinned. “One crazy man. Give yourself credit. You get things done with what? A couple of men? Sometimes alone. And that kid, Dante? No bullets, no noise. You’re something supernatural.”
“Careful." Dominick said. "Say ‘supernatural’ again and Silvano’ll start sprinkling holy water.”
Silvano just cut through the last bite on his plate, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Stop talking. Fill your mouth with something.”
For a moment, the table felt almost human as the most feared enforcer in Portenzo City and his three bosses laughed. The scrape of cutlery, the low hum of conversation from the other diners, the faint jazz spilling from the bar. It could’ve been any dinner among old friends.
Carlo leaned back, lifting his glass with a firm expression. Silvano drew his cigar from his mouth, the ember dimming. Emilio’s usual calm softened, his elbows settling on the table, fingers laced.
Nothing moved but the faint swirl of smoke above the table.
Then—
The air shifted.
“Dominick,” Carlo said, voice softer, more serious. “I don't need to ask why you're here, right?”
Calm, collected. He knew the weight behind those words.
Silvano leaned forward. “Did you stop them from boarding?”
“Yes.” Dominick’s answer was flat and certain.
Silence pooled. The table’s earlier laughter seemed to belong to another room.
Silvano’s stare cut through the smoke, predatory and patient. Carlo’s hand brushed his chin, the faintest motion of calculation: cold, deliberate. Emilio’s eyes, softer but steady, moved between them, gauging the storm without a word.
A silent understanding passed. One glance, then another. Three men, one decision forming in the quiet.
Emilio exhaled once, slow enough that the room breathed again. “We left you out of this because she is your sister.” He met Dominick’s eyes. “We promised her safety. That still stands.”
“You have earned this much, earned our honesty,” Carlo said low and heavy, “If anyone else helped them disappear, we would’ve buried them. But you grew into our houses. We raised you since you were fourteen or fifteen.”
Silvano’s gaze hardened. “Gilbert patched men up—kept them breathing. Then he ran away. Forgive that, and every man with a soft heart will think he can walk.”
The table held its breath. Dominick’s face didn’t betray a flicker of emotion, but a cold fire burned behind his eyes.
“Since the betrayal hurt me more than anyone, coming from a childhood friend and my sister,” he said quietly. “Allow me to decide what they deserve.”
“Something that ensures Gilbert suffers… and that he speaks no word.”
The room fell quiet, all eyes on him.
Finally, a slow nod from Don Emilio, “Let’s hear it.”
all the names.
Alex, Dominick and Vince.
Thank you for reading :)
?? Join the Community!
chat about the story, share theories, or help build a friendly, no-pressure community, you’re welcome to join my Discord:
-
Free to join, no profit or ads — just a place for fans and curious minds.
-
don’t have a RoyalRoad account, you can join and participate.
-