? Bad Move ?
The shutters creaked open to a sleepy street bathed in pale morning gold.
Old man Harris wiped his hands on a faded rag, watching Alex from the corner of his eye as the boy arranged a crate of lemons with careful, almost reverent hands.
The bruises from his last fight against Mira hadn’t fully faded—small bandages still clung to his cheek and brow.
“You do that like you’re handling royal jewels,” Harris muttered.
Alex smiled without looking up. “They're just easier to bruise than people think.”
Harris snorted. “You’re a strange one, boy.”
Alex kept stacking. “You say that every morning, Mr Harris.”
“I ought to.” Harris leaned back against the counter, arms folded. “Been waitin’ for you to snap. I figured you’d change after two weeks here. Bit of the city sinkin’ in. You know… stealing sugar, shoving a kid, lying about inventory. Something.”
Alex paused a moment, then said softly, “Maybe I would have. If you hadn’t hired me.”
Harris squinted at him, unsure if he’d heard right. “What?”
“I mean it.” Alex stood upright, brushing lemon dust off his sleeves. “You didn’t just give me a job. You gave me something to hold on to. It’s not a favor, I know—I’m working for it—but still.”
He paused.
Then looked at Mr. Harris with a warmth that felt almost too big for the moment—like a boy looking at a father he never thought he’d find.
“I’m grateful.”
And with it, came a smile—quiet, steady, the kind that said thank you without needing anything else.
That honesty hit Harris harder than he expected. He grumbled, tugging at his suspenders. “If only every scumbag thought like you, the world’d be better.”
Alex blinked. “What do you mean, Mr. Harris?”
“The city works like that,” Harris said, eyes drifting to the cobbled street outside.
“Everything’s a deal. You don’t get something unless you give something. Everyone’s playin’ everyone. Everyone’s greedy, untrustful, and unkind.”
He glanced back at Alex with a small grunt. “Like me.”
“Don’t say that. You're not.” Alex said quickly.
But Harris waved him off. “I didn’t even want you here. Only trusted you after you went and snatched those crates on your own, remember? You forced your way in. I didn’t give you a chance. You took it.”
Alex smiled faintly. “But you gave me a heavy pouch that day. And you kept me.”
Harris gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Angelic of me.”
“Compared to them, I’m a saint.”
Alex tilted his head. “Them?”
“The damn mob,” Harris muttered
Alex's hands paused halfway through adjusting a burlap sack, fingers curling into the fabric. His eyes stayed on his work, but he wasn’t seeing it.
The mob.
His uncle and real boss, Dominick.
He swallowed.
Quietly.
Carefully.
As if even the act of reacting too quickly might give him away.
A quiet voice escaped his lips. “Did they... harm you?”
Harris glanced over, raising an eyebrow. “Not me, kid. I’m just a small shop owner. Not important enough.”
He leaned on the counter, voice rough but not bitter. “But I believe they would’ve reached me. If I owned a bigger place, or if I were a bit closer to the wrong people. Sometimes it’s just bad luck.”
He let out a slow breath. “But I did lose a friend to them.”
Alex’s lips parted. The sack slipped from his fingers, forgotten. “Did they... kill him?”
Harris shook his head slowly. “He wishes they had.”
That made the boy go still.
Harris rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Name was Julian. Best damn inspector this city had. Too sharp, too clean, too stubborn for his own good. He got too close to something. Something he shouldn’t’ve.”
Alex stared. There was a pressure behind his eyes—like something pushing from within, not yet tears, but close to it.
His voice came out soft. “T-Tell me more. Please.”
Harris raised a brow, amused at first. “Aren’t those stories a little too mature for you?”
Alex opened his mouth to argue—but faltered.
He hesitated, looking down, jaw tight.
There was a part of him that didn’t want to hear it. That wanted to believe he could draw a line between what he was doing and what Dominick might be doing behind closed doors. That he could carry crates and obey orders without blood on his hands.
But that was a lie.
And Alex was too honest to lie to himself.
He lifted his head. “I want to know.”
Harris gave him a long look—long enough to see the stubbornness behind the eyes, and the curiosity buried beneath it.
“Fine,” he said at last. “But don’t go fainting on me.”
Alex nodded, bracing himself. Whatever this story was, he had to hear it. Had to understand the kind of man he was working for.
He just didn’t know that the name Undertaker would stay with him long after the story ended.
The blazer itched. The tie choked. And the polished shoes clicked in a way that grated against every inch of Dante's personality.
He glanced at himself in the reflection of a windowpane—clean, proper, like some overgrown honors student—and muttered under his breath, “Stupid uniform makes me look like a choirboy.”
He adjusted the stiff collar with a grimace, then tugged his satchel higher onto one shoulder. “Dang. I wanted to pair up with Alex.” His voice lowered to a grumble. “But this is a one-man job. He doesn’t even know about it.”
The school bell rang with a shrill clang, metal and final.
Doors opened. Feet thundered. Dozens—hundreds—of students poured into the courtyard like water through broken gates. Laughter, chatter, rustling fabric and scraped shoes. Yet Dante blended in. Head low, pace steady. One hand buried in his pocket, the other gripping the strap of his bag.
He moved with the crowd, but his eyes scanned with intent. Every face was a question. Every cluster of kids, a noise he filtered through.
He was looking for someone.
And he would know the boy when he saw him.
“Inspector Julian, kid… was an arrogant man,” Harris began, voice low as he wiped down the wooden counter without really needing to. “But smart. Lived right next door. Used to drop by this very shop before I took it over from my mother. Bought tobacco, newspapers, even sweets sometimes—always with this smug grin, like he knew things the rest of us didn’t.”
Alex nodded, quietly attentive.
“He was good at what he did. Real good. Caught kidnappers, serial killers, fugitives. One after the other. He rose fast in the ranks. And for a while, I thought… maybe things might change. Maybe cops corruption had finally met its match.”
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Harris chuckled darkly. “But once he reached the final stage… greed took over.”
Alex’s stomach tightened. His throat felt dry.
“He was one man. One man against an empire. And he knew it. He couldn’t take on the dons. Not really. Not when there was one guy pulling more strings than the rest combined.”
Alex swallowed hard. A name lingered on his tongue but refused to come out.
Harris didn’t need prompting.
“The Undertaker.”
Alex’s head lowered slightly, as if the words carried weight.
“Rumor is, he’s been at it since school. Him and a fellow named Vince. They say the two of them were terrifying—brilliant, from the beginning.”
Alex stayed silent, but his fingers curled slightly at his sides.
After a pause, he asked, “What did he do? Julian?”
Harris exhaled, as if the truth tasted bitter. “He took bribes.”
He let the words hang, letting their meaning sink in.
“Used his badge to clean the streets, yeah—but he chose what filth to leave untouched. Thieves were still being thrown in jail, criminals caught. But the streets never stayed clean for long. Crime came back, over and over… like rot under painted walls. Like maybe the evil wasn’t about who, but what—an idea that kept finding new hosts.”
Alex’s eyes flickered. That line hit deep.
“Sadly, he became part of the corruption.” Harris leaned back, folding his arms. “But he didn’t stop there. Got even more greedy. Started asking the Undertaker for double. Said he was worth more.”
Alex’s spine stiffened. His breath slowed.
He looked down, shame creeping up his neck like a rash.
Harris noticed the shift in his posture but didn’t question it. He kept speaking.
“That’s when I stopped having drinks with him. My gut told me it’d go south.”
Alex looked up, voice quiet. “Didn't you say he was smart ? Didn't he fight back ?”
“Oh, he did,” Harris nodded. “No family. No wife. No child they could threaten. And always surrounded by bodyguards. Slippery as hell. For a while, he was untouchable.”
He paused. Then looked out the dusty window.
“But that didn’t last forever.”
The room was low-lit, the old chandelier above barely holding its flicker. Heavy curtains muffled the daylight outside, as if to keep the world from overhearing what passed here. Oak-paneled walls, smoke curling lazily in the air, and the scent of aged brandy and cigar ash—all markers of a table where empires bartered.
At the grand oval table sat the surviving heads of the families.
Don Silvano: dignified, white-haired.
Don Emilio: sharp-eyed, all false charm and coiled tension.
Don Carlo: silver-haired, always watching more than speaking.
And now, Don Juan Veracci: the outsider. The quiet one. The family that kept its head down during the Marcetti bloodbath.
Juan chuckled nervously at a remark from Don Emilio, though it was clear his eyes flicked every so often to the empty chair on the end. The absence was loud—Don Enzo Marcetti’s seat. It had not been removed. It had been left there as a warning.
Dominick wasn’t seated with them.
He never was.
He sat several feet behind the trio—their shadow, their dagger, their weapon of last resort.
He didn’t look up once.
He didn’t need to.
Everyone in the room knew he was listening. Everyone in the room knew the negotiations hadn’t really started until Dominick closed his book.
Juan Veracci knew it too. That’s why his fingers trembled slightly as he lit another cigarette.
From his chair in the back, Dominick could see it all. The shifts in tone. The laughter. The missing alliances. The ghost at the table. And yet, for now, it was quiet. So he read.
He let his mind wander.
Back to ten years ago.
They called him the Undertaker.
And in this room full of kings—only he could afford to sit behind the throne.
And read.
Year 1900 - Ten Years Ago
The apartment smelled of smoke and fresh varnish—an upper-floor flat in the heart of the city, newly furnished with expensive taste and no soul. Velvet drapes, ornate rugs, and oil paintings framed in gold leaf crowded the high walls, as if money itself had tried to make the place feel lived-in. It hadn’t succeeded.
Inspector Julian entered with his usual sharp gait, a long coat over his uniform and two towering men behind him—Diaz and Michael, loyal and stone-faced. They spread out behind him with the practiced ease of seasoned muscle. Julian clicked his tongue, glancing around at the fine craftsmanship of his own living room, until his gaze caught on the tall figure standing at its center.
Dominick stood still, back to the room, fedora slouched low over his head, shoulders cloaked in black wool. He was gazing at a painting on the wall—some pastoral piece of a countryside estate and its noble horses, mock-elegant and sentimental. His gloved hands remained folded behind his back, unthreatening, unreadable.
“Well, this is dramatic,” Julian muttered with a smirk. “Good evening, Dominick.”
No answer.
Julian sauntered in a few steps closer. “I’m not a fan of these little power shows. I get it—you can break into homes, make key copies, appear like smoke in any locked room. Congratulations.”
Dominick still didn’t turn. The silence in the room shifted—thicker now, as if the furniture itself were listening.
“If you’re not here to negotiate,” Julian continued, “then I suggest you walk out of my house. Now.”
Dominick’s voice finally came, soft yet cut from ice. “The furniture. The apartment. That painting. All bought with the money you took from me… in exchange for silence.”
Julian gave a dry chuckle. “Then it’s my money. I’m allowed to do whatever I like with it.”
Dominick nodded once. “I agree. Not my business.”
A beat.
“But this ends here.”
Julian tilted his head, amused. “What, you think you can kill me? You’re a little too confident with your back turned like that.”
Dominick’s voice, somehow colder now: “The pay you were asking for—I gave it up.”
“Finally understood who’s in charge, huh?”
Dominick’s gloved hand twitched.
“For your bodyguards over there.”
Julian’s smile died. His head snapped to the side.
“Diaz? Michael?”
The two men behind him didn’t move at first. Then Michael gave a half-shrug, not meeting his gaze. “Sorry, Inspector.”
Diaz added flatly, “The offer was… hard to reject. I need the money.”
Julian’s lips tightened. His body stilled—but only for a breath.
Then he laughed, dry and short. “So what now, Dominick? Torture? You think I haven’t been through worse? I still have the scars from that crazy psychopath I tracked down six years ago. If that freak couldn’t break me, you won’t.”
Dominick remained quiet.
“You’ll kill me?” Julian went on, defiant now. “Fine. I’ll die a hero, a martyr. They’ll build a statue in the plaza. They’ll say I stood up to the filth, to your scumbag dons, to you.”
Dominick finally turned.
No rage. No satisfaction.
Just that slow, deliberate pivot—the brim of his hat catching the lamplight. His face was younger, beardless, pale. But his eyes… the same. Icy and inhuman. Lips still, gaze hollow. The kind of look that made men forget they were men.
“You looked up something you shouldn’t have,” he said.
Julian raised an eyebrow, his smile flickering. “Oh?”
“You searched hospitals. Birth records. Clinics. Nurses.” Dominick’s words came like falling coins, one by one. “You thought everyone came at me with bullets. So you played differently. You went digging.”
“I did,” Julian said, not denying it.
Dominick’s voice fell quiet.
“Bad move.”
He stepped away from the painting, lifting one hand—fingers lazily open, as if dismissing a thought.
Michael moved first.
Fast.
An arm around Julian’s chest—tight, practiced. Not a struggle. A maneuver.
Julian’s breath caught in his throat.
“Mike—?”
He didn’t get the rest out.
Diaz came next. Larger. Slower, but stronger. His forearm snapped around Julian’s throat like a bar of iron.
The inspector thrashed. Kicked.
“Diaz—! What are you—!?”
No answer.
Michael locked Julian’s arms to his sides. Tight. Too tight.
Diaz leaned in close behind, his chokehold exact. Controlled. They’d rehearsed this. Maybe not today, not here—but somewhere. In some hallway. Some dim alley after payday. They had prepared for this moment.
No insults.
No threats.
Only silence.
Professional silence.
Julian’s boots scraped the ground. He kicked backward, once—twice—uselessly. They knew his weight. His reach. His tells. They’d watched his back for years.
Now they pinned him like a beast.
His mind raced.
"Why ?"
"For money?"
"Like... me ?"
Michael. Young, sharp, obsessed with his sister’s tuition.
Diaz. Dreamed of retiring early. Said he wanted to open a bakery one day. Said it in jest, but Julian knew he meant it.
He knew them.
He trusted them.
They laughed together. Shared meals. Michael once took a bullet for him.
Julian gritted his teeth, rage rising, heartbreak rising faster.
"You sons of—" His voice died in the choke.
His knees buckled. His vision darkened at the edges. Veins roared in his skull.
He clawed at Diaz’s arm. Michael squeezed harder.
Still—he fought.
The inspector, even in betrayal, fought.
Not like a hero.
Like a man who refused to go out at the hands of his own.
But his body betrayed him. Limbs growing sluggish. Thoughts slipping like blood through cracks.
He saw it, just before the dark swallowed him:
Dominick.
Standing still, just feet away. Hands folded. Eyes unreadable.
Not cruel. Not pleased. Not even satisfied.
Just… inevitable.
A man watching consequence unfold. Watching gravity do its work. Watching a candle go out.
He tilted his head slightly. Not pity. Not mercy.
Just recognition.
The light behind Julian’s eyes flickered, guttered—
—and was gone.
"But that didn’t last forever," Harris continued, his voice quieter now, like the memory itself weighed on him.
“Julian went missing. And his bodyguards..."
A pause.
"They were found dead in his apartment."
Alex flinched.
"Stab wounds, clean ones. Nothing stolen. Nothing messy. Just... quiet.”
The boy sat frozen. His hands clasped tightly in his lap. He didn’t move, didn’t blink—afraid that doing so might shatter the fragile wall holding his emotions back.
“I figured he’d bit the dust too. That whoever got the guards got him. I even lit a candle for him one night. Felt like the right thing to do.”
Harris scratched his cheek, eyes distant. “But then... a week later... they found him.”
Alex leaned forward, unconsciously. “Found... him?”
“Yep. In the middle of the marketplace,” Harris said grimly. “Half-naked. Screaming. Muttering nonsense. Cursing the wind. He’d pissed himself. His nails were torn like he’d been clawing at something for hours.”
Alex swallowed.
Harris continued. “And his eyes... something in them was gone. Not just fear. That man had stared down real killers, kid. But what came out of that marketplace that day...”
He shook his head. “Wasn’t Julian anymore. Not the smug, clever bastard who bought his apples from me. Not the man who once laughed when a gun was pointed at him. No... whatever he saw, or felt, or endured... it broke him. Shattered him like glass under a boot.”
Darkness.
Then a breath—ragged, startled, like a man surfacing from a deep, endless ocean.
Julian's eyes snapped open.
Nothing. No light. No ceiling. Just blackness—pure, choking blackness pressing against his face. His heart thudded in confusion. His arms instinctively pushed upward—
Wood.
A wall.
Right above him.
His breath caught. He reached to the sides—wood. Below him—wood. The scent was sharp and earthy. The air, stale and warm, pressed close against his skin like a fevered blanket.
Five faint holes.
Scattered like forgotten stars near the edge of his vision—just wide enough for a coin to slip through. From them came a slow, reluctant draft, each breath of air like a secret offered too late. One of them brushed his cheek.
His lungs seized on it.
He turned toward the faint current like a dying man.
Breathed.
Once.
Twice.
And then the realization clawed its way in.
He was in a box.
A casket.
Thank you for reading :)
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