Chapter 56

  ? Just A Child ?

  The conga-line train kept moving, led by Olivia and Dante in the front, guests laughing as they followed in line. Music and cheer filled the lobby—except for one boy, crouched low beneath a banquet table, living what felt like the longest moment of his life.

  The revolver taped beneath the wood gleamed faintly in the shadows. Alex’s mind raced, every nerve straining to find a way out. Across from him, the waiter knelt—eyes sharp and calm.

  "What should I do?"

  If he shouted, the man might start shooting. The Dons—his targets were here. Innocents could die.

  If he handed the gun over, the killer would have what he needed.

  If he fought—he’d be exposed. Maybe dead.

  Alex swallowed hard, forcing a polite smile. “Hello, sir.”

  The waiter blinked, gaze unwavering. “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d steal some sweets while no one’s looking,” Alex said, trying for lightness.

  The man tilted his head. “From under the table?”

  Alex bit his lip as he was buying time. His fingers brushed the cold steel taped to the wood. Every second stretched. “No… I tripped, then saw this thing... What is it?” He nodded toward the weapon.

  The waiter hesitated, uneasy. A child seeing him handle a gun beneath a table was… not ideal. Finally, his stony face eased. “I saw it too. Looks dangerous. Maybe one of the guests planned a prank. I’ll take it to the reception.”

  As his fingers reached for the tape, Alex’s hand shot forward, catching his wrist.

  “I can do it, sir,” he said.

  “Hm?” The man blinked.

  Alex’s breath hitched. He couldn’t let him take it—

  —or could he?

  A thought crept in.

  "If the Dons die… I can go home."

  "They can’t see what’s happening behind the tablecloth. I could just lie and say that he got the gun before me..."

  "Why would I risk my life for them in the first place? They’re the ones who wanted Father gone. Not Dominick."

  "If they’re gone… I can go home."

  For a moment, his hand slackened while the waiter worked at the tape. The realization hung there—poisonous but tempting.

  Then, beyond the man’s shoulder—all the way across the lobby, he caught sight of Katie by the window, dabbing at her eyes as her daughter laughed, playing the conductor of the “train.”

  The picture reached him—small but piercing. The thought withered, and his face tightened—not from anger, but from shame.

  "So what?" whispered that inner voice again. "Katie herself doesn’t have empathy for the Dons! She’d be pleased to see them gone! I’ve done more than enough for her and her daughter today. Let go!"

  But Alex gritted his teeth, as if to cage that voice. For the boy, it was simpler.

  The laughter still carried through the hall — children spinning, women clapping, Olivia and Dante laughing together, finally getting along. Katie’s face—kind, tired, but happy, so much like his mother’s—glowed in the light.

  Then, for a moment, he saw it differently. The same hall, filled not with laughter but with screams. The polished floor slick with spilled wine—or blood. Chairs overturned. A hand reaching for a child.

  Even if the Dons died, others might too. And even if gunshots erupt and everyone makes it... the trauma that follows, the terror that will creep in— all of it will make that laughter never come back the same again for the people in here.

  His stomach turned.

  No—he couldn’t let that happen.

  “Do you remember your own birthday?”

  The voice wavered, splitting from his thoughts— sharper now, accusing... and somehow detached, addressing the boy as 'you' now.

  “Olivia gets to celebrate her birthday. Do you remember what happened during yours? Thanks to those Dons?”

  Alex’s expression broke. His grip tightened again, enough to make the man wince. His chest heaved—not from exhaustion, but from fighting everything inside him. His fingers dug into the waiter’s wrist hard enough to leave marks. His breath came shallow, his eyes soft but pleading—pleading both the assassin, and the voice inside him, to stop.

  And in that locked stare, the waiter understood.

  The boy knew.

  Don Emilio—the only one of the Dons who hadn’t joined the conga-line train—kept a discreet eye on Alex. He drifted through the crowd with practiced ease, fingertips brushing chair backs and edges of cloth as if admiring the décor, all the while checking the undersides of a few chairs too.

  Then he noticed it.

  The boy had been crouched beneath the same table far too long.

  When Emilio drew closer, he froze. Beneath the linen, he could make out not one figure, but two: the waiter—and the pale face of a child.

  He gestured sharply to a nearby bodyguard, pointing at the table. The man moved without a sound, a shadow folding into the lobby. His hand slipped beneath his coat; he waited like a predator, patient and still, the promise of a draw held like a blade.

  Under the cloth, Alex’s face had gone white.

  The waiter inhaled slowly. “Boy… you don’t understand.” He kept his voice steady, attempting to anchor himself. “This is a dangerous thing to leave with a child,”

  “Don’t,” Alex breathed. His voice was raw, not a calm whisper but a ragged plea. He was shaking—palms slick, ribs tight—but he forced the words out, trying to sound steady.

  "Alright, this is ridiculous. Just let—" the waiter started, but the boy caught him off. “There’s a man coming. If they see you with the gun, you’ll die.”

  The waiter’s eyes flicked up, and through the drape of the tablecloth he saw the silhouette too: a broad-shouldered figure moving closer, a hand half-hidden beneath a coat. The threat was real. The waiter’s expression tightened; for a heartbeat he seemed frozen between duty and fear.

  Alex swallowed. “Act normal,” he said, voice trembling. “Say you were wondering what I was doing here. And let me take the gun.” He opened his palm, fingers stiff.

  Silence stretched.

  Alex felt the blood pounding in his ears. Each breath a battle. He could not be calm, only contained. His hands trembled as the waiter’s fingers brushed the tape.

  The waiter stepped back a fraction, then deliberately peeled the tape away, slow and cautious, keeping his back half-turned so the bodyguard could not claim the moment as cause to draw. He drew the weapon out on the flat of his palm, close to his chest, never fully exposing it to the hall.

  His face was set, knuckles white. For a fleeting moment, the thought flickered through him — he could achieve something. Don Emilio was not far. The bodyguard closer. If he aimed fast, he might take one of them down before they took him. Maybe that would count for something tonight. Maybe that would make it mean something.

  But then—

  “Sir, please.” Alex’s voice, quiet but steady.

  Then, the waiter eased the revolver into Alex’s trembling hand—an answer to something in the boy’s tone. The transfer was careful, reluctant, like passing something hot. The metal pressed cold into Alex’s palm. He gripped it as if it might burn him before tucking it under his tuxedo along with the others he extracted earlier. All was happening under the table's cloth, invisible to Emilio watching from a distance and the bodyguard, who was now close enough to make the cloth tremble now.

  Alex crawled out from beneath the table, more breath than step, voice fraying. “Sir—” he began, voice cracking, “I— I’m just looking for sweets!” The words tumbled out, jagged and urgent rather than practiced.

  The bodyguard watched the waiter, who, with his back still partly turned to the room, took a moment longer to collect himself—to reset the expression of a man merely managing a mischievous child. He straightened slowly, smoothed his collar, then faced the room with an almost casual, measured annoyance.

  “But there aren’t any here!” the waiter said, voice finding the expected cadence as if nothing in the last minute had threatened to unravel him. “You shouldn’t be under tables in a hotel. You should be learning some manners. Want sweets? The cake will be served in a second right after dinner.”

  Alex frowned, feigning frustration. “Can I go now? I missed the... fun.”

  The guard halted, eyes narrowing between the two.

  "Go,” the waiter answered. “Be a good boy.”

  Alex nodded, forcing a smile before slipping away into the crowd. He didn’t look back—until he did.

  The guard advanced a step and held the waiter at arm’s length. “Arms out, please.” he said, low and businesslike.

  The waiter obeyed, hands trembling just enough for the guard to notice. The search was brisk—collar to boot. Nothing. No gun, no trick. The guard’s gaze flicked to Emilio, who gave a small nod; relief eased across the older man’s face. Around them, the other Dons relaxed as the tension dissolved into the hum of the party again.

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  Alex stood frozen a beat longer, chest tight with the weight of cold metal beneath his tuxedo. The revolvers' presence against his ribs felt sudden and obscene—the echo of a choice he’d almost made.

  The music swelled; the guests resumed their laughter and footsteps. Alex scanned the room—Dante, Olivia, Katie—seeking anything that would drag him back into the bright warmth around him. But instead—

  “Alex?”

  Don Silvano’s voice cut through. He stood behind the boy, face closed. “Carlo filled me in. Did you find anything?”

  Alex nodded, fingers still curled as if around the gun. He tapped at his tuxedo. Silvano’s eyes dropped to the bulge. “Come with me.”

  Silvano took his hand and guided him toward the men’s room.

  The laughter finally came to a stop. Guests were catching their breath, chattering excitedly about how much fun it had been. A few children ran to Olivia, giggling as they tugged at her hands, eager to mimic the motions of the ride.

  “That was sooo fun!” she shouted, cheeks glowing.

  Katie came up behind her. “It’s been forever since I’ve seen you like that.”

  “I mean—” Olivia grinned, catching her breath, “I don’t get to play or anything… so this is the first time I’ve done something like that!”

  Katie tilted her head, smiling. “What now? I drive you like that back home every morning.”

  “Ma! It’s different when there’s a whole crowd behind you!”

  She turned to the boy who had been “driving” her.

  But Dante was nowhere near the charming prince he might have looked like earlier when he carried her. The boy was a mess—panting, tongue out, hair in total disarray.

  “Yes… that… was… fun…” he managed between breaths.

  Katie laughed, knelt down, and hugged him. “Thank you, Dante.” Then she glanced around, noticing Alex’s absence through the crowd. "But where is Alex? I wish I had seen him in the front with you. I hope he didn't miss it."

  Olivia followed her gaze but didn’t answer. Her eyes lingered on Dante—on that tired grin, the spark of warmth behind it. The thought struck her quietly: this face, this moment, she would remember forever. Not the face she used to get sick of seeing every year when they’d fight. This one was different. Softer. His idea—the conga-line train—had brought her a kind of joy she’d forgotten existed. More than any gift Silvano had ever given.

  “Lady... Katie,” Dante barely managed to say, hands still on the wheelchair’s handles, “if you... don’t mind…”

  Katie nodded, smiling. “Go rest, Dante. Let's do something else with Alex, later. Maybe after the cake.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, straightening up. “Actually, I was going to look for him.”

  As he turned to leave, he hesitated—waiting for Olivia’s inevitable, arrogant “permission.”

  When he looked back, she wasn’t smirking or rolling her eyes.

  She was smiling—softly, openly. Her hair still a little disheveled, her eyes glowing with the kind of laughter that lingers even when it’s over. For a second, the chatter and music around them blurred.

  Dante froze, caught in that look—the warmth, the light, the unfamiliar stillness between them.

  Then Olivia blinked, breaking the spell with a playful tilt of her head, as if daring him to say something.

  He only smirked, something light stirring inside him. Maybe he really had reached her. He gave a small wink before disappearing into the crowd, searching for his friend.

  Finally arrived in the empty men's room, Alex immediately unloaded the revolvers from under his tuxedo and handed them to Silvano, as if passing him a bundle of snakes or a bomb that is about to go off.

  Silvano took one look at the pile in his hands. His jaw set. The muscle near his temple flicked once, hard. For a moment, he didn’t breathe. Then—slowly, deliberately—he wrapped the weapons in a white towel, as though touching filth that had been too close to something sacred.

  “Good job, Alex,” he said quietly, voice too even to be calm. “Are those all of them?”

  Alex nodded, voice low. “Yes. I… I should’ve checked all the tables in the lobby.”

  Silvano said nothing. He only glanced once toward the hall—and then left the bathroom, every step clipped and trembling with a fury he refused to show.

  The moment the door shut behind him, Alex exhaled and leaned against the wall, one hand splayed for balance.

  For a few seconds, he just stared at the white of the tiles, the world blurring at the edges. His shirt clung damp to his back. He pressed a hand against his chest where the guns had been, feeling the ghost of their weight. The muscles in his arm twitched as if to hand them over again.

  He drew his knees in, curling smaller against the wall, breath shaking through his teeth. Every so often, his hand drifted to his ribs, as if to make sure the weight was gone. It was. But the relief came tangled with something colder: the memory of almost letting go.

  In the lobby, Don Carlo and Don Emilio drifted through the crowd, trading barbed jokes and easy laughter. Guests clustered around Emilio, teasing that he’d missed the fun. He waved it off with a sheepish grin, “a little embarrassing for a man my age,” he said and Carlo laughed, promising he’d make sure to make him join the next one.

  Then the air shifted. Across the room, Don Silvano was coming toward them, his approach quiet but unavoidable; something under his composure hummed wrong, like a wire pulled taut.

  Carlo and Emilio excused themselves with practiced politeness and moved to meet him.

  “You got them?” Carlo asked flatly.

  Silvano nodded. “I handed them to one of the henchmen. Told him to trace where the hell they came from and who sold them.”

  Emilio folded his hands, frowning. “Carlo says the Veraccis could be involved. But before you blow a fuse, Silvano— calm. We’ve already told Dominick to handle Don Enzo. That’s noise enough. Besides, no proof that indeed it's the Veraccis yet.”

  Carlo added, “It’s not wise to open another front anyway. The Veraccis have been placid—doing business with us fine... So I'm really confused. It would be odd for them to ally with the losing Marcettis now... it's just too stupid from Don Juan and his son, Faustino.”

  Silvano’s face changed. It wasn’t the quick flare of anger; it was a hollow, cold thing—quiet, contained, and vast. His jaw tightened like a trap closing. If fury had a shadow, it lived in the hollows beneath his eyes. For a heartbeat he looked as if someone had reached inside and pressed the life out of him, then put him back together in a colder shape. It had the same cut as the look Don Corleone wore in that old story, the calm before the storm — a look that meant violence could come as gently as a closed hand.

  “Those revolvers were a few inches away from Olivia,” he said, voice low enough that only the three of them could hear. “One could have been in the same table where she sat..."

  "Those... Marcettis." Silvano flexed his hands, joints snapping. "They really crossed the line."

  “We will terminate them,” Emilio said, blade-sharp now. “As for the Veraccis, we will sit and talk about it later.”

  Carlo gave a small, measured nod in agreement.

  Silvano inhaled, a long, slow intake, then let it out. “In the meantime: clean up the fake waiters. Anyone seen crouching under a table— our men grab him. We make examples if we must.”

  Emilio barked a single order to a nearby bodyguard; the man stepped forward to marshal men. Around them, the party kept spinning, unaware of the cold calculus beneath the laughter.

  Alex gathered himself in the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face until his breathing steadied. The sink was a little high for him; he had to rise on his toes, water dripping down his sleeves as he tried to reach the faucet. In the mirror, he caught only the top half of his face — the rest cut off by the marble edge — a reminder that he was still too small for the world he’d been thrown into.

  He straightened, water trailing down his chin, and turned toward the door—

  when it opened.

  A man stepped in.

  Alex’s eyes were still low, still hazed, so he didn’t see who it was — until a hand clamped over his mouth.

  It was the same waiter from before.

  Before Alex could shout, the man drove him backward, the world flipping in a blur of force and panic. Alex’s shoulder hit the wall as the waiter shoved him inside one of the toilet stalls and swung the door shut behind them with a muted click.

  “Shhhh.” The man’s breath was hot against his ear. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Alex froze. The man’s grip was solid but he knew better than to thrash blindly. After a long, tight second, the pressure on his mouth eased, then disappeared.

  The waiter crouched a little to meet his eyes. His voice dropped low, nearly gentle.

  “Who are you?”

  Alex said nothing. His chest heaved with small, controlled breaths.

  “You knew who I was,” the man said. “And what I was doing. You even knew about the Dons’ bodyguard. And to think they’d have a kid to run errands for them,” he muttered. “How far can those filthy monsters go…”

  “Kid,” the man continued, “My name is Pablo. What is yours? And why are you doing this for them?”

  The question lingered in the narrow stall.

  The bathroom door opened; someone entered, washed his hands, and left. The sound of running water masked their silence. Pablo waited, watching Alex’s trembling hands and making sure he doesn't talk with a small reminder by putting on finger on his lips. When the door shut again, he spoke, lower than before.

  “You saved me earlier,” he said quietly. “I owe you my life, boy. And I want to help you too.”

  Alex whispered back, “I don’t want any help… just leave. Leave this place. I won’t say anything about you.”

  Pablo studied him. “I know you won’t. Clearly, you’re not loyal to them. Did they kidnap you? Force you to work for them or something?”

  Alex shook his head, eyes fixed on the floor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he murmured. His voice was low, steady in sound but thin around the edges — the kind that holds its breath between fear and defiance. “I don’t work for anyone.”

  The bathroom door burst open, letting in the noise of the hall. Two boys stumbled inside.

  “Too—too!” they cried, arms out like engines, shoes slapping against tile. The stall walls trembled with their passing.

  Alex didn’t move, just listened — the quick patter of feet, the splash of a faucet, the delighted chaos of children still high on play. For a fleeting moment, something eased in his chest. Pride, maybe. Relief that they’d enjoyed themselves. Then came the small, familiar ache — the one that came from missing out — and he tucked it away before it could reach his face.

  Beside him, Pablo stayed silent, his gaze fixed on the door. The boys laughed their way out, the hinges creaking, the sound dimming until the bathroom was empty again.

  Only then did Pablo breathe out, low and steady. The running water lingered a second longer before fading to silence.

  “If you're a peacekeeper, then you shouldn't be siding with those criminals, boy. If… they were gone, this city would be better off.”

  “Without all of you, you mean.” Alex bit his lip. His eyes were flat, hard enough to meet Pablo’s without flinching.

  Pablo did not flinch.

  “The Marcettis are much more honorable than the Marviano filth, kid.”

  He exhaled through his nose. “See, I’m not that old — twenty-nine. But I heard about who they really are… the Dons’ grandfathers came into the city as outsiders. Immigrants. The Marcetti family took them in, gave them work. And those same men betrayed them. Stole their trades, their homes, their dignity. That’s where it all began. I'm one of the many that suffered because of them... and therefore, I'm here to deliver justice.”

  Alex blinked, his throat tightening. That wasn’t what he’d been told.

  He remembered Emilio’s version— how the Marcettis had used those same immigrants, underpaid them, mocked their accents, treated them like vermin.

  Both stories couldn’t be true…

  Pablo went on, his voice low, as if confessing. “It never really ends. It just goes quiet for a few years, they act like everything is alright while they pretend they do business as civilized men... then comes roaring back. Every decade or so, the same blood, the same revenge. I’ve seen what they do — the Dons, their Undertaker. I once saw what he left of an inspector on the street. Naked. Screaming nonsense. I was about your age.”

  He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Take Silvano — that old man who gets to toast his granddaughter’s birthday like he’s the city’s saint. When he was young, he split a man open with an axe. Carlo? Four daughters, and has shares in the places that ruin girls for life... places where women lose their souls, boy. And Emilio…”

  Pablo paused. His tone hardened. “The worst of them all. Burned a bakery once. Owner refused to pay. Whole family still inside. That was his first year as Don. I still remember the newspaper headline from school... Compare them to Enzo? The head of the Marcettis? He took in boys living in the streets—offered them food, knives, homes. Without him asking, they all dedicated their lives to put down the Marvianos.”

  Alex’s stomach twisted.

  “I… I didn’t know this about the Dons.”

  Pablo smiled faintly, opening his mouth, but Alex cut him off, voice tight.

  “But I know who they are. I know what they do.”

  Then the dam broke. His shoulders shook as tears slid down his cheeks, hot and sharp. The weight of the missions, the tension from earlier, the impossible responsibility—it all came crashing down at once. Not the rush of danger, not the split-second heroics of saving the Algraves twins… this was different. Here, in the quiet of the toilet stall, there was no one to shield, no one to maintain a fa?ade for. Just the burden of all the innocents he had tried to protect tonight, the echo of his own birthday, the memory of saying goodbye to his parents—perhaps forever—flashing behind his eyes. The impossible choice of whether to protect the Dons, the whispering voice urging him to let go, whose version of the war is right—Pablo or Don Emilio, the crushing weight of decisions far too big for a thirteen-year-old’s shoulders—all of it pressed in, making his chest ache, making him feel every ounce of his smallness in the world.

  “What do you find so inspiring in this?” His voice was low, raw, almost a whisper.

  “Just go home and be with your parents…”

  Pablo leaned back slightly, a slow, amused smile touching his lips—not cruel, just… incredulous.

  “You’re… really sentimental for a kid playing soldier.”

  “I don’t care.” Alex's voice muffled but was sharp with honesty. “Unlike you... I never wanted to be part in any of this. Don’t… drag me even more into your stupid wars.”

  “Guns… missions… vengeance…” He stumbled over the words, each one breaking a little in his mouth.

  A quiet sniff, a ragged inhale.

  "What... are all of you trying to turn me into?"

  “I’m just a child.”

  them from worrying. He was the calm one, the brave one, the boy who smiled so others didn’t have to. But in that locked bathroom stall, there was no one left to protect. No one to reassure. Just the silence and a stranger’s voice. And that’s where he finally let go after being burdened with more than one thing. I believe all of us out there go through moments like this. Not just as children, but as adults too.

  Thank you for reading :)

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