Chapter 38

  ? Brothers ?

  Alex’s lips barely moved, the words rasping out as if scraped from the bottom of his throat.

  “Why… why are you telling me all this?”

  Vince responded, “Because you deserve to know the truth. Dom told me everything was kept a secret from you.”

  A faint smirk tugged his mouth. “Besides… you pissed me off earlier.”

  The words slid like ice into Alex’s skin. Vince’s tone wasn’t the lazy, detached one he’d worn all evening. It had sharpened, something uncoiling beneath it, a weight that raised goosebumps up Alex’s arms.

  Vince leaned back, stroking Dante’s hair absently as the boy dozed against him, oblivious to the charged air. His voice came soft, almost fond.

  “A rough life or something? That’s what you said. Like it was nothing.”

  His eyes flicked up, meeting Alex’s. “Don’t you dare disrespect our lives, our childhoods, our hardships again.”

  The gentleness of his hands in Dante’s hair clashed with the chill in his words. He smiled, closing his eyes as if in peace, but his voice laced the silence like a blade.

  “Dominick won’t lay a hand on you. You’re his nephew and Elena’s son. But me?” The smile lingered.

  “I don’t care.”

  And with his face fully turned toward Alex, the warmth of his expression froze against the coldness of his tone. “Who knows what I might do if I’m not in the mood.”

  Alex jolted, yanking Dante back from Vince as if the man’s words had left a stain in the air. Vince only tilted his head at the gesture, faintly puzzled, like he hadn’t said a thing worth fearing.

  Dante blinked, half-asleep. “Hey… what’s wrong?”

  Alex wrapped his arms tighter around him, glaring at Vince through clenched teeth, eyes burning with rage and confusion. He didn’t have words for it—only the sharp wish that none of this had ever reached his ears.

  The door suddenly creaked open.

  Dominick stepped inside, hanging his hat and coat on the rack before crossing into the living room. His eyes moved over the scene, steady but faintly puzzled.

  “Dante. Alex. Still awake?”

  Alex’s gaze flickered, caught between the shadow of a frown and the almost imperceptible lift of his eyebrows. His eyes darted from Dominick’s composed face to the floor, back up, lingering a fraction too long—searching, questioning, hesitating. A pulse throbbed at his temple, and his lips parted as if to speak, then snapped shut. The anger and suspicion warred with something quieter, something reluctant and uneasy, like a lock turning inside him he didn’t know he had.

  Dante straightened at once, daze slipping away under habit. “Evening, boss.”

  "And what's this state?" Dominick studied the bandages, bruises and patches on their faces from the plaza brawl.

  Vince leaned back in, casual. “They had a little disagreement. And Alex injured his hand at work.”

  "Oh, and we had a little chat." he added.

  Dominick’s gaze lingered, catching Alex’s trembling, the heat still in his eyes. His voice hardened. “Chat? It’s unlike you, Vince.”

  Vince shrugged. “You were late. I had to kill time.”

  The words made Alex’s stomach twist. After everything Vince had said—after ripping open his world—it had been nothing more than a way to pass the time. Rage boiled in his chest, near choking.

  Dominick cut through the silence, tone clipped. “So? Anything worth hearing?”

  Vince’s easy grin returned. “Veracci warehouses. Something’s off. More movement than usual. Could be just shipments, maybe guns. But I don't know... looked like they are moving crates in an endless loop, back and forth.” his tone turned curious.

  Dominick’s brow arched. “Which warehouses?”

  “All of them.”

  Dominick narrowed his eyes. “Too much.” He paused, thinking, then gave a short nod. “I’ll write them down. All their addresses. You two—scout starting from tomorrow. My men would raise suspicion. Find out what they’re moving around and what they are hiding. Dante knows the drill.”

  He turned, heading towards his office.

  Vince rose, stretching like the room hadn’t just been charged with static. “Good night, boys.”

  "Vince, come in for a moment." Dominick called, "Before you leave."

  "Alright." Vince turned around and followed.

  Alex said nothing, jaw locked, supporting Dante as they moved down the hall.

  Once inside the room, Dante collapsed on his bed without a word, face-first into the mattress, muscles throbbing, gone the second he hit.

  Alex closed the door to his room and fell in his bed, face sinking into the pillow.

  Everything pressed down at once. Elena as a girl in the mills. Later, her voice calling in the streets, flowers wilting in her basket, men passing her as if she were made of dust. Gilbert, sleeves rolled up, working himself to bone and nerve just to scrape together dignity, only to take mob coin with trembling hands.

  And now Vince’s words. The massacre. His parents nearly swallowed whole by this life before Alex even drew breath.

  Dominick—Dominick the shadow at every turn—saving them, sheltering them, but binding them to him forever.

  And finally, the truth about his father...

  His chest heaved. He bit into the cushion to keep the sobs quiet, but they ripped out anyway, sharp and broken. His whole body shook, wrung dry by a grief too big for him to name. It wasn’t the cry of a child demanding comfort. It was raw, silent thunder — the kind of weeping that belonged to a boy who had seen too much, felt too much, and still had no way out.

  Dominick set his glasses on the desk, fingers pressing at the bridge of his nose.

  “What’s happened there, Vince? Alex looked different.”

  Vince didn’t look up. “You already know.”

  Dominick’s eyes flicked sharply. “Did you have to run your mouth like that?”

  Vince shrugged, voice casual but tight. “I admit… it’s strange coming from me. But I was exhausted. And… surprisingly emotional.”

  Dominick picked up his glasses, polishing them slowly, deliberately. His gaze locked on Vince, cold and piercing, daring him to deny.

  “I believe you left some parts out, right?”

  Vince met the stare evenly.

  “Like what—what really happened to the Dons’ sons? Matteo, Steve, the rest of them?”

  Dominick said nothing. He just waited, still, like a storm coiling in the room.

  Vince exhaled. “Of course I didn't tell… though I do believe you went too far on that one.”

  Dominick finally let a small sigh escape, a mix of relief and restraint. “I trust you, for a reason. You’re my friend, yes. But you’re efficient. Don’t turn stupid on me now.”

  Vince tilted his head, half-smile, half-respectful nod. “Don’t worry. Won’t happen again.” He turned and left, the door clicking softly behind him. "Sleep well."

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  When the tears finally bled out, hours had passed. The boy's throat was raw, eyes burning. But sleep wouldn’t come.

  Alex pushed himself up, legs heavy, and slipped out. He climbed, step after step, until the night air struck him. The rooftop spread wide, the city beneath it restless, and above, the moon hung pale and heavy.

  He drew his knees up, arms tight around himself. His breath fogged in the cold air.

  “Mother… Father…” His whisper cracked in the wind.

  He saw them in the moonlight, faces framed in silver, like the last time they had stood together at the village. His mother’s sobs, his father’s grief. For a moment, he was home again—fields stretching wide, dawn breaking soft, the schoolhouse bell carrying over the hills. His father’s laugh as they walked the ridges. His mother calling him in for supper.

  The ache hollowed him out. He pressed his forehead against his knees, clutching himself tighter as if he could hold onto the warmth of those memories.

  Here, on the rooftop, it hit him with crushing weight: no matter how he fought, no matter how stubborn he was—he was still only a boy. A boy ripped from his home, thrust into a world of ghosts and shadows, staring at a moon that couldn’t carry him back.

  His chest hurt with it, with the homesickness that gnawed like hunger. At this hour, back in the village, he would be asleep, safe in his bed. Tomorrow, he would rise to tend the fields, laugh on the trail with his father, scribble through his lessons in the schoolroom.

  But that life was gone. Gone the moment he stepped into the city.

  The boy buried his face in his arms, letting the moonlight watch him tremble.

  "Why… didn’t you tell me… Why did I have to hear that from… that… that thing?"

  The words hung in the air, jagged and raw. Another wave hit him, heavier.

  "How much did you have to endure… for me? How much did you go through? How much…"

  He buried his face in his arms, shivering, the wind tugging at his hair, and let out a choked sob.

  "I miss you… I want to see you… just for once."

  Each sentence cut through his heart like ice. He tried to hold it in, pressing a trembling hand against his mouth, but the feelings wouldn’t stay buried. The city lights below blurred with tears; the boy’s mind swirled with everything he couldn’t understand, everything he hadn’t lived yet, and all the sacrifice he suddenly saw in his parents’ lives.

  For a moment, he just let himself curl tighter, letting the pain wash over him, the silent rooftop the only witness to a child who had carried too much for his years.

  Then a voice broke through the night.

  “Buddy.”

  Alex turned his head slowly, recognizing Dante's tone.

  “I was worried… woke up for a glass of water, but didn’t find you.”

  Alex said nothing, curling tighter.

  Dante’s breath hitched, as he got closer. “It’s cold out here.”

  “Leave me alone,” Alex muttered, still hiding his face.

  Dante froze. “Hey! I’m just worried about you!”

  “Just… go,” Alex said, voice muffled against his arms.

  Dante softened, but his voice trembled. “Alex… I didn’t entirely catch what Vince said later… I'm so tired of the brawl and I was half asleep.”

  “That’s how much you cared to listen,” Alex muttered, bitter.

  Dante hesitated. “It doesn’t… it doesn’t mean that. I was just… tired.”

  Alex remained silent.

  “Tell me… what did he say that makes you come up here? Or is it… about your parents’ poor life?”

  Alex’s hands tightened, his voice barely audible. “I… I can’t even… know what to think of all of this. Especially my father. Studying, living off… their money… blood money.”

  Dante’s eyes widened, heart sinking. He knew how Alex had cherished honesty and fair earnings.

  “I’m… sorry to hear that, buddy,” Dante said softly. “But hey… It looked like he had his reasons.”

  He edged closer, the crunch of his boots faint against the rooftop stone. For a moment, he lingered, unsure—then lowered himself down beside Alex. His hand hovered awkwardly, almost touching Alex’s shoulder, then retreating. Finally, with a crooked grin he tried to summon his old tone, “C’mon, let’s go back inside. You should rest. Before we both freeze and they find us tomorrow looking like two ice statues.”

  Alex’s voice cracked. “I feel… so hollow.”

  Dante blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Acting high… mighty… like a saint in front of you when we first met…"

  He buried his face in his arms even more, "Rejecting your apple, your bread, just because they were stolen… when my own father…”

  The boy shuddered, shoulders trembling. “I feel …so hypocritical… so fake…”

  The words struck Dante like a whip. He felt it deep in his bones, a jarring disbelief. He couldn’t… couldn’t let the boy speak like that. It didn’t fit—not the Alex he knew, not the courage, the heart, the stubborn light he carried. Dante realized, with a chill that ran deeper than any night air, that losing Alex’s goodness—was more frightening than he had ever imagined. If the boy ever slipped into the darkness, into his old ways… Dante didn’t think he could forgive himself.

  “NO! Don’t you dare say that about yourself!” He snapped, voice fierce.

  Alex gasped, face still buried in his arms.

  “You are not hollow! Nor hypocritical! Nor fake! You—” Dante’s voice softened, yet carried an edge of steel, “You are the one who stays true, keeps his heart when the world wants to break it!”

  Alex blinked, lips parting, trying to process the words.

  Dante’s eyes trembled as he searched Alex’s face.

  "You changed me! The day I saw your eyes… your resolve… your determination, even while hungry and thirsty for three days! And I—dared to blame the world because I was too proud to try twice for a proper job!"

  "I swore I’d live differently! Never steal again! Don’t you dare make me look foolish now!”

  Alex stared, mouth open, eyes wide.

  “I... never thought honest work could feel this good,” Dante admitted, eyes briefly cast down. “I lived off theft, money from missions…” He met Alex’s gaze, locking it firmly, “But now I shine shoes. And suddenly..."

  "I couldn't feel any prouder! My conscience is more clear! I sleep better! I feel better!”

  Alex breathed a faint, “Dante…”

  “That’s how much you mean to me! You said it yourself—that I'm like your brother!”

  "You're not fake! Not you, buddy! They are!"

  "You're real, Alex! Anyone who thinks otherwise… doesn’t deserve a glance from you!"

  Dante’s face was etched with worry, trembling slightly as he searched for the bright, warm Alex he knew. The boy he had grown to care for in such short time, tougher than most, but still human. Seeing him like this broke Dante’s heart in a way he hadn’t expected. He let the tears come unbidden, unnoticed, and quietly wiped them away.

  "I’m done… done with… admiring them. The boss—no, Dominick’s childhood… I understand it now, but that doesn’t mean I have to worship him, or think of him as someone to look up to. He is still doing what he is doing. He got me involved in the death of an innocent poor little girl. Even if it was an accident, I will never forget that."

  Alex looked up, awe-struck at the sight.

  “I don’t know your father, or your mother,” Dante said softly, breathing steadying, “but I’m grateful they raised… someone like you. I want to thank them so much. For bringing you into my life."

  "I wonder… what they are like.”

  Alex couldn’t hold back. The boy threw himself into Dante’s arms, startling him. Trembling, he felt what he’d been missing all along—a scent of family, of safety, of belonging. Dante held him tightly, strong and unwavering. The boy fit perfectly in the crook of his arm, and Dante could feel Alex’s warmth seeping through the cold, the weight of all that suffering and love. The hug was not soft or sentimental, but powerful, grounding them both—a silent promise that neither would face the world alone.

  “Thank you… Dan…te,” Alex whispered. "...for saying that."

  The words sank into Dante like a strike against a hollow shell, and something inside him shivered, fragile and long-starved. His mouth opened, but no sound came at first—the silence stretched, thick with all the years he had gone without saying what burned in him now. When his voice finally slipped free, it wavered, raw and unsteady, yet carrying the force of a truth he had been chasing without knowing it.

  “Brother,” he breathed.

  They held each other a long time — long enough for the night to settle around them, long enough for the cold to seem like a thing that belonged to the city below and not to the narrow circle of two boys on the roof. Dante’s arms were solid around Alex; Alex clung back as if he could press the heat of another human into his bones and keep it there. Their breaths fogged and mingled in the air; fingers found shoulders and sleeves, searching for warmth, for proof that this was real. The wind clawed at Dante’s coat, at Alex’s hair, but inside that tight embrace the chill could not find them.

  And in that silence, Dante made a decision. From now on, Alex would be his anchor. He would do anything — anything — to see the boy safe, to lead him home, to repay him with his own strength. The vow burned inside him, unspoken but binding, as fierce as blood. Alex, drawing his knees closer against the cold stone, made his own promise. He would never let Dante fall back into that dark path. He would watch over him, protect him, and save him from the shadow of a mobster’s life. Together, they would guard each other, their silent oaths echoing stronger than words, carried by the night wind above the sleeping city.

  Time thinned until minutes felt like hours. The moon kept watch while they stayed like that, two small shapes pressed together against a vast, uncaring city.

  Slowly Alex relaxed his grip and pulled back, fingertips lingering on Dante’s sleeve. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, a weak, weary smile breaking through the red-rimmed eyes. It was a small thing — fragile and honest — but it was enough for Dante.

  “What should we do?” Dante asked after a breath, the question heavy and simple.

  Alex looked at him, steadying himself on the rooftop stones. For the first time since Vince’s words, something like resolve threaded through the grief.

  “We can't know this early,” he said. “We’ll think of something. We’ll figure it out.”

  “Together?” Dante pressed.

  Alex nodded. “Together.”

  Dante’s face softened into something that was almost frightened hope. “But… are you really all right?” he asked, the concern plain.

  Alex let out a soft, tired laugh. “Of course,” he said, and the smile that touched his eyes was a promise he didn’t quite believe but intended to keep. “It won’t make what I learned go away."

  "But at least I’m not alone.”

  Dante extended his hand then — not a clumsy show of bravado, but an earnest reach across the space between them. “Let’s make a promise, buddy."

  "Never apart. Not ever.”

  Alex looked from the offered hand up to Dante’s face. Moonlight framed them both. He slid his palm into Dante’s; the grip was firm, deliberate — a small, sacred pact. They squeezed once, twice, as if to seal what words could not: loyalty, defiance, the kind of brotherhood that might yet bend fate. Above them the stars kept watch, and underneath the cold sky the two boys stood, hands clasped, a quiet oath made in the dark.

  Back in their room, the rooftop’s warmth still lingered. Alex lay on his narrow bed, eyes tracing the ceiling above, the darkness pressing in. Across the room, Dante was already asleep, stretched out in his own bed, breathing steady and calm.

  Alex's mind, still heavy, was finally starting to think again.

  "Something is not right…"

  Vince’s words returned like a thorn he couldn’t pull free. "According to him… Mother still loved Dominick."

  Alex’s chest tightened. That wasn’t the mother he remembered. The last time he had seen her, she’d gripped his shoulders, voice sharp with fear.

  "She told me he was a devil. That I shouldn’t trust him... That part doesn't add up with what Vince said..."

  His gaze drifted upward, to the cracked plaster of the roof above. The silence pressed heavy around him.

  "Is… something missing?"

  At dawn, Dominick walked the empty streets, all in black. The city slept, unaware of the choices he carried—the lives ended, the secrets kept. He moved silently, a man alone with what no one else could ever know.

  What do you think really happened to the Dons sons?