Chapter 35

  ? Ambition, Care, and Nothing ?

  The morning air bit sharp against their cheeks, the streets a patchwork of frost and slush. Breath puffed in pale clouds as Dominick, Vince, and Gilbert trudged along the cobbles, collars pulled high. The city seemed slower in winter—wagons groaned, horses snorted steam, and the narrow alleys echoed with the scrape of boots and the low murmur of market women already out to barter.

  “Guys… what do we do now?” Gilbert asked, hugging his satchel tight against him.

  “More schemes, I guess.” Vince yawned, his tone careless, though his eyes were ringed with tired shadows. “The rent increase will sting. I hear this Mr. Richard bought a lot of other properties in our neighborhood.”

  “What we get from the schemes ain’t worth crap.” Dominick muttered, his words clipped with cold breath. “We need something else.”

  Gilbert frowned. “Dom, Vince… Maybe that’s not the way.”

  “You have something better?” Dominick shot back.

  “Let’s… focus on our studies. Remember teacher’s words yesterday?”

  Dominick’s lips curled faintly. “Even the damn teacher isn’t doing well for himself. I can’t take such advice seriously.”

  Suddenly, a shadow fell across the cobbles.

  A broad-shouldered man stepped into their path, massive as a wall, shoulders like oak beams, head low and square. His eyes were sharp beneath a heavy brow, and the faint scar trailing from temple to jaw gave him a permanent, silent menace. He moved with slow certainty, cutting the boys’ path like a gate closing.

  “You. Blonde kid. Come with me for a moment.”

  Dominick’s heart skipped, but his face stayed steady, only the faintest flicker betraying worry. “Who are you?”

  Beside him, Gilbert froze, his body going rigid, throat dry as he glanced up at the towering figure. His fists clenched at his sides, as if bracing for something he couldn’t fight. On the other side, Vince flinched at the man’s sheer bulk, instinctively taking half a step back.

  “Don’t worry. Just need a few words.” The man gestured toward a wagon parked close by.

  Gilbert’s voice cracked slightly. “Wait—where are you taking him?”

  The man’s tone eased, calm and measured. “Relax, kid. Nothing’s wrong. Head to school. He’ll catch up with you in the afternoon.”

  Dominick lingered, jaw tight, then forced himself forward, hoping whatever danger he is stepping in might still open a door worth walking through.

  The wagon wheels groaned when the man guided him away, their rumble fading into the morning bustle.

  Gilbert stood frozen, knuckles white on his satchel strap, breath caught somewhere between protest and fear. Beside him, Vince’s eyes simply narrowed in observation, silent, taking in the scene without a word.

  From the wagon’s narrow window, Dominick watched the slums slide past, the city’s misery unfolding in crooked timber and soot-stained brick. The streets he knew—mud, beggars, children darting through alleys—faded as the horses pulled uphill. Slowly, the roads widened, the air shifted, the cobbles were cleaner, steadier under the wheels.

  They passed the plaza, where merchants kept their carts drawn close and statues loomed, half-shrouded in frost. Beyond that, a higher road opened, leading toward the upper ring—the nobles’ sector. Gas lamps gleamed in tidy rows, and the stench of poverty gave way to the sharp scent of pine burning in iron stoves.

  Dominick said nothing, his gaze tracing the archways, the stone facades, the symmetry of the roads.

  The wagon slowed. Before them rose a mansion of pale stone, its facade towering with pillars and carved balconies, frost glittering along the wrought-iron gates. Windows gleamed with golden lamplight, curtains drawn back to reveal chandeliers like stars inside. The sheer size of the doors alone dwarfed anything the boys had ever known.

  The young boy’s stare lingered on the mansion’s sharp edges, the richness pressed into every stone. His breath clouded faintly against the glass, but his mind was already elsewhere.

  "Nothing like this comes without someone paying the price."

  The front doors yawned open, groaning on their hinges, and the boy stepped across the threshold. The cold of the street melted instantly into warmth, scented with polished wood and faint tobacco. The floor was marble, veined and gleaming, his boots squeaking faintly with each uncertain step. Painted ceilings loomed overhead—angels and saints stretching his arms across plaster skies. Gilded frames lined the walls, portraits of stern-faced ancestors watching with permanent judgment.

  A grand staircase swept upward in a gentle curve, its banister carved in dark oak, polished smooth as glass. Heavy carpets muffled the sound of their steps. Every corner of the place breathed money, stability, power.

  The massive man, followed behind.

  From the far side of the hall, another figure emerged—a boy of about fifteen, two years older, dressed sharply in a vest and tailored trousers that fit as if stitched for him alone. His hair, in contrast, was messy. his bearing already too composed for a child. He stopped in front of them, his eyes cool and appraising.

  “Luca, that the one?” he asked.

  The brute inclined his head. “Yes, Matteo.”

  Matteo’s gaze fell on Dominick. He pointed with a lazy flick of his hand. “You the one pulling these scams and spreading tales in the slums?”

  Dominick lifted his chin, brow arched, voice flat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yesterday,” Matteo went on, “I was leaving a friend’s house in that district, when I got dragged into one of the brawls you caused.”

  “But… you don’t look hurt.”

  Matteo’s lip curled, amused. “Like those bastards will ever lay a hand on me. But I did lose a pouch of coins during the brawl… and it magically disappeared after you and your friends passed by the street. I want it now.”

  Dominick’s voice stayed calm. “Again, I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  He didn’t get to finish. Matteo’s boot lashed out, driving hard into his stomach. Dominick collapsed with a grunt, clutching his middle, breath stolen from his lungs.

  Matteo’s tone never wavered, his words smooth as silk. “Don't be disrespecting me in my own home. Pay up, or we’ll have trouble.”

  Dominick coughed, spat a breath, then growled. “Screw you…”

  “Don’t let the fancy walls fool you,” Matteo shot back, eyes narrowing. “I’m no pampered brat. Two weeks—that’s all you’ve got.”

  “...Two weeks, huh?” Dominick finally breathed, the pain fading as he raised his head slowly.

  The look on his face froze the room. His eyes burned with something raw, dangerous—a sudden clarity that shook even Matteo and the massive henchman Luca. For the first time, he wasn’t just another boy from the slums.

  It was as if the kick had stripped away doubt and left only resolve. He had seen it: a thread dangling from the fabric of this mansion, a way into the world that had always kept him out. All it would take was tugging—pulling until the whole tapestry unraveled.

  Dominick had found his first rung on the ladder. And he would climb, no matter whose shoulders he had to use.

  His eyes blazed, "I will get you the money. In one week."

  Matteo's eyes widened.

  "Two weeks is for the novice," Dominick added, voice sharp, daring.

  The bell had barely rung when the children shuffled back to their seats, the air still heavy with the smell of bread and broth from lunch pails.

  At the front stood Mrs. Harrow, a narrow-shouldered old woman with a lined face and a stick of chalk clenched like a weapon. Her gray hair was pinned tight, her voice sharper than the squeak on slate.

  “So when Dominick doesn’t attend,” she snapped, eyes darting from row to row, “no one here can answer these questions? Only Gilbert has the sense to try?”

  Vince leaned against the back wall, lids half shut, a picture of laziness. But his thoughts weren’t on arithmetic. "That big man said he should be back by now."

  Gilbert, shoulders tense, shifted under her glare. He always wilted when she grew sour. Still, he turned to the others, averting their eyes from the old lady in hopes she doesn't ask for 'volunteers', voice uneven but trying for calm. “Hey, it’s alright. We can try solving the problems together. Don’t be afraid of trying.”

  At that, Vince’s eyes flicked open. Across the room, Gilbert caught his look. A quick wink from Vince; a nervous nod from Gilbert. Silent agreement.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Gilbert rose and took the chalk, stepping to the board. But halfway there, his foot caught—whether truly or not was anyone’s guess—and down he went, chalk scattering.

  “Can’t stand on your own two feet now, Gilbert?” Mrs. Harrow barked, sweeping forward, skirts brushing the floor. “You’re not a child anymore. Boys your size are working the docks by now.”

  Gilbert groaned loudly, clutching his shin. A few classmates exchanged puzzled glances. “That fall didn’t look that bad,” someone muttered. Another leaned in close, whispering, “Wait—watch Vince.”

  Sure enough, while the teacher fussed over Gilbert, Vince sauntered to the ledger on her desk, as casual as a cat. He lowered the pen, and with a flick, marked a neat P beside Dominick’s name. Present. Not absent.

  A couple of children stifled laughter, biting their sleeves. It was an old trick between them: Vince covering with quiet mischief, Gilbert playing the fool, Dominick often shielding them both in turn.

  It wasn’t the first time. More than once, Dominick—and even the lazy Vince—had stepped in when Gilbert was mocked for trying, though books came harder to him than to the others. Just as often, Dominick and Gilbert had covered for Vince’s dozing in class, knowing the sleepless nights he endured in his noisy family room. Between them, they’d run the same tricks before: slipping his name from absent to present when he overslept through winter mornings, or filling in answers to keep him from punishment.

  The door banged open. Dominick staggered in, cheeks flushed, breath ragged.

  “Teacher!” His voice cracked, breaking the room’s rhythm.

  Mrs. Harrow turned, surprise softening her usual iron. “Oh, Dominick! And late, no less? That’s unlike you.” She almost smiled. He was her bright star, the one who made lessons bearable, and working days easier.

  “I—I need your help. You and the other teachers!” His face was pale, eyes wide, pleading.

  The class froze.

  Vince, sliding back into his seat, tilted his head, lips curling. "That’s unusual."

  Gilbert rose halfway, worry painted plain on him. “What happened, Dominick?”

  One week later, Dominick was in the mansion again. Luca, the hulking henchman, sat stiffly in the vast living room, the chandelier above glinting off the polished floor.

  “Where is he? Matteo?” Dominick asked, lounging back in the chair like he owned it.

  Luca said nothing.

  From a side doorway, a man in his late thirties entered.

  He moved with unhurried grace, his presence drawing the air inward, quieting the room without a word. His dark suit was simple yet flawless, his tie pinned with understated elegance. His hair, black streaked faintly with early gray, was slicked neatly back, and his eyes—heavy-lidded but sharp—carried the weight of a man used to command.

  Even Luca, towering brute of a man, sprang to his feet, head bowed deep.

  “Don Emilio.”

  “Hello, Luca.” Emilio’s voice was smooth, unhurried. His gaze flicked to Dominick, studying him the way a hunter studies tracks in the dirt. “You’re Matteo’s friend from last week?”

  Dominick smirked. “Where is your son? I thought he’d be here, shocked out of his mind to see me pay up like I said. What—too scared to face me?”

  Emilio’s eyes didn’t move. “My son has nothing to prove to you.” The words fell quiet, steady, but carried the weight of dismissal. “He is at his mother's. Don’t mistake a boy’s pride for a man’s power. That’s your first lesson, whether you want it or not.”

  The smirk slipped from Dominick’s lips for just a breath.

  But then he tossed a pouch onto the table. It landed with a heavy thud, brimming with coin.

  “Oh?” Emilio raised a brow, weighing the pouch with one hand, then carefully counting a handful of silver. His face betrayed nothing, though his tone carried a quiet intrigue. “Impressive. For a boy. Tell me—how?”

  Dominick leaned back, savoring the moment.

  “I played my school. Told them I was collecting for a sick kid. Volunteering. Charity work.”

  “And your classmates believed that?” Emilio asked.

  “The dumb innocent ones gave me a few coins.” Dominick’s grin sharpened. “But the teachers—they’re the easy marks. They look up to me. I’m top of the class. They gave more.”

  “They bought your lie so easily?”

  “No.” The boy’s grin twisted, a shadow passing over his face. “I made them believe. I even brought them ‘proof.’ "

  "A broken toy I found in the street. Said it was from the sick kid—to say thank you.”

  His shoulders shook. At first, it might have been nerves.

  Then the sound spilled out: a sharp, breathless laugh, too quick, too loud, cutting through the silence.

  His eyes went wide, glittering with a cruel delight.

  “You should’ve seen their faces,” he rasped between snickers.

  “The tears, the way they clutched that worthless toy like it was holy..."

  "Ooooh—it was beautiful.”

  The room stayed still, save for the flicker of the chandelier. Emilio’s gaze rested heavy on the boy, weighing him, dissecting him.

  “You’re one sick kid, you know that?” he said evenly.

  “I’m not sick.” Dominick’s voice was calm. “And the teachers? Aside from a handful, may their names rot in the dirt.”

  The words hung in the air. Even Luca shifted uneasily, as if the room itself had gone colder. Emilio’s gaze narrowed—not in anger, but with the faintest flicker of recognition. His lips pressed together, silent, measuring the boy before him.

  Dominick leaned forward, voice low. “They hit us for mistakes. Made us copy lines till our hands cramped.. Closed the gates if we came late—even if we lived miles away. And me? I get a pass because I’m the one with the high marks. But I see what they are.”

  His tone softened, almost reverent. “Don Emilio, I ask to be mentored. To be guided in this city. You made your way here—I want the same. I want my family out of misery. My sister too.”

  Emilio stilled. “You have a sister?”

  “She works the textile mills. She’s ten years old. Every day I pray she makes it home safe.”

  A heavy silence reined as Emilio studied the boy as though he were staring decades into the future.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Dominick.”

  Emilio leaned back. His verdict came cool, unflinching. “Go back to school. That’s my wisdom to you.”

  Dominick gasped, stung.

  “Cut the crap! I'm serious! This mansion wasn’t built on diplomas and day wages!”

  Luca stirred, muscles shifting like a beast ready to pounce, but Emilio raised a hand. The brute froze, lowering himself again, though his burning eyes never left Dominick.

  “You don’t need a mansion to save your sister,” Emilio said quietly. “I know it’s strange hearing this from me. You're a smart boy, so you already have an idea of how this was really built."

  "But this business—it’s not a game. While you’re still an outsider, let me do you a favor.”

  He drew a golden coin from his pocket and tossed it onto the table. Its weight was undeniable—worth months of rent, months of survival.

  “That one coin should cover your sister’s wages at the mill for half a year or so.”

  Dominick’s eyes widened at the shine.

  But Emilio cut him off before he could speak.

  “I knew it.”

  Dominick blinked. “What?”

  “That look.” Emilio’s tone was slow, deliberate. “The laugh earlier. The way you cursed your teachers. You do care for your sister, I see that. But even now—holding a coin that could ease her day—you’re not as happy as one would expect.”

  "Power. Control. Being number one. Those come first for you, right ?"

  A cold jolt ran through the boy.

  Emilio stood. “See him out, Luca. Silvano and Carlo should be here at any moment.”

  Luca nodded and stood, waiting.

  Dominick hesitated, then rose slowly, but his body betrayed him—his mouth parted as if to speak, then closed again, useless. His eyes flicked to the golden coin, gleaming on the table. For a heartbeat, he imagined what it could buy him… invest, turn into a scheme, leverage to climb faster—not his sister.

  Then, almost reluctantly, he reached out. Fingers brushed the coin, lifting it from the polished surface. The metal was warm in his hand, heavy with possibility. He stared at it a moment longer, tasting both guilt and exhilaration, before letting the thought of schemes fade and tucking it carefully into his pocket.

  Above all, though, Dominick felt the sting of shock—how effortlessly Emilio had seen him. Every flicker of ambition, every temptation, every lie he thought he hid… laid bare. The realization cut deeper than any punishment, leaving him hollow, yet electrified.

  The late afternoon sunlight slanted through the high windows, dust motes drifting like tiny sparks in the golden shafts. The textile mill was alive with a constant roar: looms clacking, belts whirring, the hiss of steam pipes, and the rhythmic squeal of spindles. The smell of cotton and oil hung heavy in the air, and the floor vibrated faintly under the endless march of machinery.

  Supervisors paced the aisles, eyes sharp, whistles ready. One barked, “Keep up, girls! Mind those threads, or it’ll be your head in trouble!” Another, a woman with a strap in her hand, leaned over a worker, warning, “Do it right, or I’ll have you scrub the floors before you leave!” The voices were harsh, clipped, almost blending into the metallic chorus of the machines.

  Elena sat at her loom by the window, hands moving mechanically over the threads. Her eyelids drooped, fatigue weighing them down like lead. One slow blink, and her head tipped dangerously close to the spinning mechanism. She jolted awake just in time — or would have, if not for the knock.

  “Psst, Elena!”

  Startled, she gasped, her face inches from the machine.

  Her eyelids snapped open. She turned toward the window, heart still racing, and froze. Standing there in the pale morning light, Gilbert’s figure framed by the frost-laced glass, she barely breathed.

  “Gilbert? What are you doing here?” she whispered, voice barely audible over the machinery.

  “The last class is off—teacher didn’t show. Can you open the window?” he asked, ducking his head cautiously, eyes flicking toward the supervisor, who was momentarily busy inspecting another row.

  Elena eased the window open, leaning just enough to avoid being seen. Gilbert crouched by her, fumbling with a small brown paper bag.

  “This… is for you and the other girls,” he said, hesitating, and carefully pulled out several pieces of bread, wrapped in paper, followed by a small potted violet. “I… I don’t even know if I got scammed or not, but the florist said these can help someone stay awake. Keep alert from falling asleep and ... endangering yourself.”

  Elena blinked at him. “How… did you buy this?”

  Gilbert bit his lip, cheeks coloring. He didn’t want to admit it came from the coins he’d saved from the scams Dominick and Vince had roped him into. Not here, not for this little girl helping her family. “I… saved up,” he said, twisting the edge of his sleeve. “But I’ll try to earn this in a better way, if I ever can.”

  Elena’s tired eyes brightened as she took the bag, a small smile lighting her face. “Thank you!” she whispered. Then, calling louder, she beckoned, “Girls! Look what we have!”

  A few girls, ragged and grimy, scrambled over, hungry since their skipped lunch.

  One dove for a piece of bread. Elena’s hand shot out, stopping her. “No. Each one takes half. We need to save some for the rest of us in the other rows.”

  The girl swallowed her disappointment, nodded, and carefully split her portion.

  Gilbert watched that small, obedient gesture, and his chest tightened in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. Surrounded by the cold games of Dominick and Vince, he thought he is too normal, too simple, too na?ve. Yet here, in the mill’s oppressive heat and clamor, he saw someone else like him, smaller and younger, surviving the world without the luxury of school, yet holding compassion in her hands. Those pieces of bread, given without complaint, felt like small miracles.

  He felt a foolish pride swell—the kind that made him almost laugh at himself for being selfless, for caring in a place that chewed up hearts and spat them out. And as he glanced at the little violet, clumsily perched next to the bread, he hoped with all his heart that its faint scent might help her and those girls stay alert. But the warmth didn’t last—his mind drifted back to the worry that had been gnawing at him all week.

  "Dominick… Who are these people he is involving himself with? And scamming teachers now? What would Elena and his parents think, betting on him for school? "

  "Should Vince and I talk to him? To stop?"

  "What does Vince even think of all of this?"

  Vince wandered through the alleyways. He passed ragged men huddled over bits of fire, ignored the muttering curses of a scuffle down a side street, and even glanced at his own boots, scuffed and wet with slush. He didn’t care. Hunger, cold, danger—none of it touched him.

  He couldn’t understand it. Gilbert’s sudden worry for Elena, Dominick’s endless planning and drive—why did they feel so strongly? To him, it was as if they were acting on some language he had never learned.

  A small voice drew his attention.

  “Vince?”

  He looked down. A boy stood there, eyes wide and hollow with fatigue, cheeks streaked with dirt, lips trembling. His whole body shook as he held out a hand—every movement steeped in fear and longing. Anyone else might have wept at the sight.

  “Vince… I live one block away from your building… I didn’t eat for a full day."

  "Can you help me? Anything, please?”

  Vince tilted his head, rubbed his jaw, considered the boy with the same clinical interest he might give a puzzle. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and dumped every coin he had into the boy’s hand.

  All of them.

  The child’s sniffle broke into a sob, and he hugged Vince’s leg before darting away, clutching the coins like treasure.

  Vince's smile stayed, calm, unreadable. Not warmth, not cruelty—just… a choice made because he felt like it.

  He watched the boy disappear down the alley, and his mind was already elsewhere. “Is he that stupid? Hugging me like those coins will turn his world around?”

  "Rent increase. School. Jobs. Hunger. Family."

  “Nothing matters. Not even the dreams people die for."

  "Nothing at all, little one.”

  "Nothing."