Chapter 34

  ? Crushed Dreams ?

  Vince, Alex and Dante stepped into the living room. The lamps burned low, throwing long shadows on the walls.

  Vince glanced toward the hall, his eyes falling on the empty coat hanger. No fedora, no long black coat.

  “Looks like he ain’t here yet,” he murmured. "Must be on his way."

  Alex was already turning for his room when Vince’s voice caught him. “Gonna turn in, Alex?”

  “I’m tired,” Alex said, flat and dry. “Unless you need me.”

  “Aw, come on, buddy.” Dante gave him a nudge. “Sit a while. Maybe the boss’ll want us when he gets in.”

  Alex hesitated but followed them in anyway, taking a chair a little apart from the couch.

  Vince dropped into the cushions, Dante flopping beside him.

  Alex sat stiff, hands folded, watching.

  Vince looked them over with a crooked grin. “What’s with all the patches? You two tangle with a tomcat or each other?”

  “A fight,” Alex said simply.

  “Dominick don’t want eyes on you boys. He won’t like this.” Vince responded, still smiling.

  Dante spread his hands. “Couldn’t be helped. Saved a beautiful girl. Worth the trouble... Though the attackers were pretty dangerous, one in specific.”

  Vince rested his elbows on his knees. “If someone’s looking to make trouble for you, we oughta know.”

  Dante smirked. “Then do the city a favor and put a bullet in this rat named Z—”

  Alex leapt from his chair and clapped both hands over Dante’s mouth, forcing a stiff smirk toward Vince. “It's nothing. Dante is being overdramatic.”

  “MMMMMphh!” Dante protested, thrashing under the grip until Vince broke into laughter, a low rumble in his chest.

  “Don’t worry, Alex,” Vince chuckled. “I ain’t in the business of burying children. But we want you safe, both of you.”

  “Pwah!” Dante wriggled free, gulping air.

  Alex sat back down, wary eyes still on Vince. “What brings you here?”

  “Business.” Vince’s tone shifted, heavier now. “Got news for Domidick. Might be sending you boys out scouting before long.”

  Dante’s shoulders shook, then he stifled a laugh, whispering, “Domidick.”

  Vince clapped his hands together, the sound sharp in the heavy air. “But hey, before he comes, let us kill some time.”

  Dante raised a brow, his tone half-playful. “Got an idea? A game or something?”

  A crooked smile unfurled across Vince’s lips, slow and deliberate, as though he savored the thought before he spoke. “How about a little story for you children—before bedtime? For example...”

  The smile darkened as his eyes fixed on Alex. Something in that gaze rooted the boy to the spot, a chill creeping through his chest.

  Vince’s words came softly, yet with the weight of a knife drawn against the dark:

  "A story about — a rough life or something?"

  The very phrase Alex had uttered in the stairwell earlier.

  The boy froze. "He did hear us."

  Dante, with theatrical innocence, pressed his palms together and widened his eyes in mock-plea. “You wouldn’t rat us out… right?”

  Vince ruffled Dante’s hair lightly, casual as if messing with a friend.

  “Of course I wouldn’t. Not that it would change much. Dominick has surely accounted for such scenarios. Just… keep your heads clear. And if you want help with anything and are afraid of him, talk to me.”

  Alex’s eyes narrowed slightly, unsettled by the ease in Vince’s tone, who spoke as though the words he heard in the stairs were nothing more than background noise, a faint echo in the halls. Dante, meanwhile, grinned, leaning into the ruffle like a cat that knew exactly how to get what it wanted.

  Vince yawned. "So… do you want to hear our story? And the story about your father, Alex?"

  Alex stiffened at the word father, as if it had brushed past his skin.

  For a heartbeat, the word cracked something open. Alex found himself wondering—really wondering—how his father had ever gotten tangled in all of this.

  How he had run, for thirteen long years, and what it had cost him.

  There had never been time to ask. All his parents had left him with were warnings: That man is the devil.

  But what had the devil looked like when he was still a boy? How had his father slipped free from men like this, when Alex himself was already caught in their net?

  Then he nodded, slow and careful, like testing whether the air itself would betray him.

  “Back when Dominick, Gilbert, and I were around your age,” Vince began, eyes glinting.

  32 years ago

  Portenzo City - Morning

  The classroom was small and square, its wooden desks worn smooth by the restless hands of children. Coats hung in neat disarray behind each chair, and long panes of grimy glass allowed the afternoon sun to filter through in golden bars. Dust motes hung suspended in the light like slow-falling snow. The chalkboard bore the marks of lessons past—half-erased figures and ghosts of diagrams.

  At the front of the room stood the physics master, a young man of barely twenty-two, with a brow perpetually open and a smile that spoke of hope in education. He tapped the board lightly with a piece of chalk.

  “Well then, lads,” he said, voice carrying a lilt of optimism, “let us see who among you dares to attempt this.”

  On the board, the teacher had drawn a simple contraption: a lever with two unequal weights. Beneath it, a question:

  "Which side will lift first, or will they balance? Explain why."

  A hand shot up at once. It belonged to a boy of thirteen who might have passed for sixteen.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Sharp-eyed, unnaturally calm, his boots polished and shirt buttoned with rigid care.

  His blonde hair was neatly combed, catching the sunlight that filtered through the grimy windows and framing his pale, calculating face.

  The master’s brow lifted. “Ah… Dominick, again?”

  “There is no sport in watching others flounder,” Dominick replied evenly.

  Whispers rustled through the classroom. Some children chuckled nervously; most avoided his gaze.

  The master gave a small smile. “I had meant to let the others try first.”

  “If they knew the answer,” Dominick said smoothly, “they would have spoken already.”

  A voice rang from the left-hand row—hopeful, warm, and eager.

  “Sir! I wish to try!”

  The master looked surprised. All wild curls and wide eyes, a rumpled uniform, ink-stained fingers, eager.

  “Very well, Gilbert,” the master said. With a brisk sweep of chalk, he replaced the first equation with a second, equally formidable.

  Gilbert squinted, lips moving silently as he worked it out. “The heavier side… goes down?”

  The teacher nodded slightly, encouraging him. “And why do you think so?”

  Gilbert shrugged. “Because it’s heavier?”

  “Close, but not complete," The teacher replied. "Think about where the weights sit in relation to the pivot.”

  Dominick raised a hand, calm and precise. “Even if one side is heavier, if the lighter weight is farther from the center, it can lift the heavier one. It’s not just mass—it’s leverage.”

  The teacher paused, impressed despite himself. “Exactly. The distance from the fulcrum matters as much as the weight.”

  He glanced at Gilbert, who shifted nervously in his seat. “And you, Gilbert, at least you tried, even if the answer wasn’t quite there.”

  Gilbert nodded, cheeks warm, grateful for the acknowledgment, but a little embarrassed from his earlier guess.

  “Unlike some other silent boy always sitting in the corner,” the teacher added with a grin, eyes fixed on a certain kid.

  At the rear of the room, slouched in the shadows, was Vince. Legs stretched, back against the paneling, eyes distant. The master’s gaze found him.

  Vince’s glance flicked up slowly. “Aye, sir. What of it?”

  “Do you take an interest in our studies, son?”

  “Indeed. Why else would I sit here?”

  “Then show it, lad. Your grades are only second to Dominick, but I reckon you could strive for more—if you so choose.”

  Vince shrugged. “All of this is naught but exercise, sir. I merely do what is required.”

  Dominick watched quietly, admiring. Gilbert frowned.

  “He is right, teacher,” Dominick interjected lightly, a smirk in his tone. “One cannot purchase victuals with these... exercises, after all.”

  A ripple of laughter passed through the room.

  “It is but marks on a slate,” Dominick continued. “Nothing more.”

  The physics master inclined his head. “An unusual perspective, young sir. Yet knowledge need not always lead to coin.”

  For a moment, the room held its breath.

  Then Vince and Dominick exchanged a glance and, in a shared moment of absurdity —

  "HAHAHAHAH!"

  They fell into exaggerated laughter—collapsing slightly in their seats.

  “That is a classic,” Vince gasped.

  “Indeed,” Dominick added. “It is about notions of looove~, dreaaaams~… and the sun above us all.”

  Dominick inhaled slowly and regained his composure, sliding back into his chair.

  His eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room.

  “Sir… Since you are maybe the only teacher who treats us with dignity and respect, let me say this. Me, Gilbert, and Vince—we live in a shared apartment. All three families, each in a different room. And the best part…” His lips twisted in a faint, bitter smile.

  “…it’s in the worst area of the slums.”

  A hush fell over the classroom. Even the teacher’s hand froze mid-gesture.

  “They throw in immigrants like our parents, the poor, thieves, second-class folk—expect us to figure things out in those alleys. That or rot.”

  A flicker of mischief touched the boy’s eyes.

  “I once tried to escape a mugger using… well, a mathematical principle. Pythagoras theorem. Didn’t work. Lost my coat, my boots… even my pants, once.”

  "Your clothes and coins are not a case to us, boy. That's what the police told me. Mathematics, Physics... whatever things gets taught here didn't get me my pants back."

  The class struggled to hold back laughter, a few whispers skittering across the desks.

  Only Gilbert and Vince kept still, remembering the incident vividly—their friend’s tears and the furious cursing.

  Dominick paid no heed to the laughter. If anything, the memory and the sound seemed to nourish some strange resolve within him.

  “QUIET!” the teacher barked, voice cracking through the murmurs.

  “Anyone who laughs at such stories will write ‘I must respect others’ hardships’ a hundred times,” the master added, pointing to the blackboard with authority.

  He softened slightly, turning to Dominick. “I’m sorry it happened to you, son.”

  Vince dropped his face onto the desk, already half-asleep.

  Dominick’s eyes flicked to him—

  But the one truly catching the teacher’s tone was Gilbert.

  The teacher continued, voice gentler, quieter. “It is difficult out there. I don’t do as well as I’d like, either. But trust in time. Work hard. Believe… you will be rewarded if you stay patient.”

  Gilbert’s eyes widened, absorbing the phrase like a moral compass, a light in the gloom.

  Dominick’s lips curved ever so slightly. “I will save my patience for something else,”

  The words lingered, cold and precise, heavier than any lecture could ever be.

  On their way home, Vince, Dominick, and Gilbert passed a narrow street where six boys — newsboys and shoe cleaners, no older than fifteen — were scrambling and shoving, elbows flying, pride thinner than their worn coats.

  “Move! This’s my corner!” one spat, jabbing at another.

  “Your corner? Who says? I just got as much right!” another shot back, tripping over a cobblestone.

  "Guys! Stop this!" Gilbert approached the kids, raising his hands, pretending to try to break the fight.

  "Stay out of this!" They all shouted.

  Vince slipped through unnoticed from the opposite angle of Gilbert, walking with casual ease, scooping up fallen coins and scattered pouches without anyone but Dominick and Gilbert noticing.

  Gilbert returned to Dominick's side, who is watching the scene. “I think this is enough, Domi. We've been running these schemes for a while now. We will get into trouble.”

  Dominick shrugged, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “Don't worry. Plus, It’s amusing.”

  “The poor fools bought my little tale — a rich noble, they think, wandering this same street, tossing paper bills for journals and shoe shines. Ever since, chaos rules this alley.”

  After the boy enjoyed the sight, he resumed walking.

  “We should check out the other street—the boys should be brawling over some secret job with the butcher tonight, paying double… courtesy of me. We will split the money later.”

  Finally, an hour later, the three boys arrived to the building where they live. From a distance, a small figure showed up.

  Elena, blonde and wiry at ten, walked with careful, measured steps. Her hair was tied back with a fraying ribbon, and her clothes, though patched and worn, had been neatly pressed.

  There was a quiet determination in her eyes, a mix of resilience and curiosity that seemed older than her years—someone who had learned early that the world demanded both patience and action.

  She was trudging home. But not from school.

  From work.

  She perked up the moment she spotted them. “Hello, boys!”

  “Hey, Elena!” Dominick replied, his voice quiet but unusually warm.

  Gilbert waved, smiling. Vince simply nodded.

  “How was school?” Elena asked, brushing dust from her worn coat.

  Gilbert rolled his eyes. “The usual. Your brother doesn’t leave us a chance to answer right.”

  Vince smirked. “One chance, and you blew it, Gilbert.”

  “Just—almost!” Gilbert said, cheeks warming in embarrassment.

  “I wish you could… attend school with us,” Gilbert muttered, turning to Elena.

  Elena shrugged. “It can’t be helped. Our parents are betting on Dominick in school. I have to help in some way.”

  Vince frowned. “Textile mills, though? I hear kids die there. The spinning gears, the looms, the belts… one wrong move and it’s over.”

  Elena’s gaze dropped. “The pay isn’t bad. And we’re behind on rent. Parents are already stretched too thin.” She nudged Dominick lightly. “It’s all up to the smart one.”

  Dominick said nothing, just nodded slightly.

  “And don’t worry, Vince, Gilbert,” Elena added softly, “you should study too. Help your families. One day… we’ll live better lives.”

  Her words lingered in the chill evening air, settling on each of the boys like a small, unexpected warmth.

  For a moment, the weight of the streets, the school, and the slums seemed to lift.

  Gilbert’s eyes softened as he imagined himself years from now, dressed in a crisp coat, tending to patients in a tidy clinic, children laughing around him, parents grateful for his care.

  Dominick, for a fleeting second, set aside his calculated schemes, and pictured a quieter life—sitting on a wooden bench with a stack of books nearby, raising a family of two daughters and two sons, honest and calm, laughter filling the house.

  Vince, always bored, allowed himself a wry, fleeting smile. He imagined a small shop of his own, lanterns swinging outside at night, grandchildren tumbling through the doorway, sticky fingers and bright eyes, and himself sitting back, counting coins, at peace with a life quietly well-lived.

  The four of them entered the building together.

  Their steps faltered when they saw a new sign posted by the staircase.

  Only Elena didn’t grasp its meaning—she couldn’t read—but the boys’ faces drained of color.

  “Rent has been raised by a third to all apartments. Signed: Your new landlord, Mr. Richard.”

  Whatever hope Elena’s encouragement had sparked in them faltered, leaving a bitter taste of reality.