? Hide, Search, Hunt ?
“Just a child…”
The reminder echoed inside the narrow bathroom stall, bouncing off the tiles and settling in Pablo’s ears like a curse. The man stood frozen, staring at Alex — unsure whether he pitied him, feared him, or hated what the world had made of him.
Alex didn’t look away. His eyes shimmered — not from weakness, but from exhaustion. Tears clung stubbornly to his lashes. The expression on his face was a blur of sorrow, anger, and something far more fragile: innocence trying not to die.
Pablo exhaled heavily. “How long have you been doing this?”
The question wasn’t really for Alex. It was more a whisper to himself — to the broken order of things.
Then, louder:
“You’re complicit, you know that?”
Alex blinked, but said nothing.
Pablo’s tone darkened. “Just because you’re a child… doesn’t mean you’re innocent.”
Alex’s voice cracked through the silence.
“You think I don’t know that?”
He swiped at his face with his sleeve — the black fabric of the tuxedo dulling the streaks of tears. When he looked up again, there was a faint steadiness in his gaze.
“I already work for the kind of men you’re talking about,” he said quietly. “But don’t make me add to what I already carry.”
For a moment, Pablo said nothing. He just watched the boy, as though trying to memorize him. Then he stepped aside, leaning against the tiled wall, leaving the way open.
“I said I wouldn’t hurt you,” Pablo murmured. “That’s me paying you back for saving me.”
Alex hesitated, searching his face.
Pablo slipped one hand into his pocket. “That’s the difference between us, kid. Unlike those rotten geezers and their dog, the Undertaker, we don’t use children. Don Enzo doesn’t throw boys like you to the wolves. You’re disposable to them… but to us? We know where the line is.”
He tilted his chin toward the door. “Go.”
Alex inhaled slowly, shoulders trembling as he steadied himself. Then he nodded — faintly — and reached for the doorknob.
That’s when Pablo moved.
A flick of his wrist. The sound of cloth sliding from a pocket. Before Alex could react, a hand clamped over his mouth — a handkerchief soaked with a sweet, chemical scent.
“Mmm—!” Alex’s eyes widened. He twisted, kicking against the stall wall, elbowing Pablo in the ribs — but the man held firm.
“Easy, easy…” Pablo muttered through gritted teeth, tightening his grip as the boy’s struggles grew weaker.
Alex’s fingers clawed at Pablo’s sleeve, his breath stuttering, his vision swimming. The last thing he saw was Pablo’s blurred face.
When Alex went limp, Pablo caught him before he hit the floor.
Dinner was being served in the lobby hall. Silver platters glided under amber chandeliers; the air smelled of roasted duck, buttered vegetables, and steaming soups. A string quartet played near the fountain, its melody graceful, hollow, and faint against the bustling tables.
But Dante wasn’t eating.
He was the only boy moving among the guests and the waiters, weaving between tables as his eyes darted everywhere searching.
Then he saw it.
Near one of the long tables, a waiter bent down to pick up his fallen handkerchief. He crouched lower than necessary, almost vanishing beneath the tablecloth. The family seated there exchanged awkward glances, the mother with a polite smile, the father with a flicker of annoyance, a child giggling at the sight.
When the waiter rose, his face had gone pale. He muttered an apology and backed away, confusion in his eyes, as if something he expected to find wasn’t there.
Across the room, one of the Dons’ bodyguards set down his glass and quietly left his table, following the waiter’s path toward the hall.
For a moment, he wondered how they did it. How they could make someone vanish in a hotel full of light and laughter without anyone noticing. He’d never see that waiter again— of that he was certain.
And not just him.
Something about the room felt thinner — lighter in a wrong way. The serving trays came slower, the tables waited longer, and the chatter grew uneasy. He noticed faces missing from among the servers, one after another. The music still played, the chandeliers still shimmered, but behind the curtains and kitchen doors, the staff were disappearing — erased quietly, efficiently, like stains wiped from a mirror.
No one in the ballroom knew, or perhaps no one dared to know. Only the Dons and their men understood the quiet war unfolding behind the service doors. Still, he couldn’t afford to dwell on it. There were more important things at stake.
Dante swallowed hard.
“Been looking for almost half an hour,” he thought. “Buddy, where are you? Please be okay.”
He turned a corner and nearly ran into Don Emilio, who was walking toward the bathroom, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Don Emilio,” Dante said quickly, “no sign of Alex at all!”
Emilio stopped, glanced around, and crouched to meet Dante at eye level, lowering his voice. “The last one who has seen him is Silvano. Alex handed the revolvers to him earlier but I don't know where that happened.”
Dante’s eyes widened. “It can't be. And where’s Don Silvano? I haven’t seen him anywhere either.”
Emilio said nothing. He just looked at the boy. Steady, unblinking, silent. The weight in that gaze made Dante’s stomach twisted. He didn’t need words to know that whatever was happening elsewhere was too dark, too final, to ask about.
Dante gritted his teeth. “But I’m worried about Alex. Maybe they’re onto him. Maybe they caught him.”
The boy didn't get to finish the sentence as a shadow crossed the marble floor. It was Don Carlo, stepping up behind Dante. His expression was off, too still, too composed, but the tightness around his eyes betrayed concern.
Emilio looked up. “Carlo, Alex is missing. Have you seen him?”
Carlo’s jaw moved, the faintest flicker of tension in his cheek. “No. But so are Olivia and her mother. They’re nowhere to be found.”
Dante froze as if someone had cut the strings that held him upright. Emilio’s eyes twitched, though his face remained calm. Beneath that calm, worry flared sharp and fast.
“What?” Emilio breathed.
Dante’s voice cracked. “I was with them earlier! What now—!”
“Keep it down,” Carlo said quickly, glancing around. “We don’t want to alarm the guests.”
“To hell with the guests!” Dante snapped, louder than he meant. “Where are my friends?!”
Heads turned. Several guests looked over, puzzled by the outburst.
Dante’s shout still hung in the air. Emilio’s eyes met his, unblinking, cold as steel. Carlo’s gaze joined, sharp and unyielding. The warmth, the playfulness, the laughter from earlier — all of it had vanished. Dante’s own voice seemed to shrink against their stare. Every second under their gaze pressed him down, silent and absolute, and in that frozen moment he understood: he had overstepped, and the world had reminded him how small he truly was.
The boy muttered, barely audible. “I… I’m sorry.”
"Let's go and check the other floors, maybe they are exploring the hotel." Emilio said as he stood up and led the way. "Dante. Go and look in the bathrooms. If nothing is there, check the first and second floor. Carlo, you stay here and keep an eye on the party. I will go and check the third floor and all the way up to the upper suites."
Carlo nodded as he walked up to a table, checking if everything is alright and the guests are enjoying themselves. Dante rushed to the stairs, not willing to waste time for the elevator to get down. The boy though... couldn’t help but feel a flicker of awe. Throughout the party, the three Dons—Carlo, Emilio, and Silvano—moved through the chaos with unnerving precision, keeping the illusion of calm downstairs while dismantling the threat above and rotating responsibilities. It was brutal, efficient… almost admirable.
But Dante had no time to admire anyone. His heart was somewhere else—with Alex, Olivia, and Lady Katie. Without affording time waiting for the elevator, he rushed for the stairs.
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Pablo emerged from the rear corridor, carrying Alex in his arms, the boy’s small frame limp but unnervingly still. A lady near the lobby gasped, her hand flying to her chest.
“Oh dear god, is the boy alright?” she asked, voice trembling.
Pablo gave a calm, measured smile. “I think he’s just tired, ma’am. He’ll rest in a proper bed. I know his parents, and they can collect him later.”
The lady nodded, relief softening her face. “...All that running about, so many children worn out by the end.”
Pablo’s gaze flicked down at Alex. A faint, almost imperceptible pity crossed his face. He shook his head. “No, ma’am. He didn’t get to participate.”
He began to turn, and the moment stretched — if he had spoken another word, or stayed one more second, Dante, now approaching the bathroom, would have caught a glimpse of Alex. But Pablo didn’t. He walked on, disappearing from sight, carrying the boy away from the lobby hall before anyone could notice.
Pablo shouldered down the narrow service door and the world of chandeliers and laughter narrowed to the low, smell-heavy throat of the back stairs. The stairwell smelled of coal smoke and old soap— a close, oily tang that clung to wool coats and the steps were worn to smoothness by a hundred clumsy boots. Gaslight from a wall bracket threw a thin, jaundiced pool that barely reached the landing; above it, the ballroom’s music was a distant ribbon of sound, muffled by plaster and linen curtains.
He eased Alex into the shadow of the stair’s little landing, which was a shallow recess where trunks and broom-handles usually slept. There was a ledge of stone at hip height, scalloped by years of fingers, just wide enough for the boy’s shoulders. Pablo lowered him there as if laying down a sack. Alex’s eyelids fluttered once; his face, pale in the lamplight, made a small, stubborn sound that was almost a child’s laugh and almost a sob.
Pablo froze a moment over him, hands lingering at the boy’s collar as if he could mend what he’d just done with a touch. He bit the inside of his cheek until the taste of blood spread metallic and hot across his tongue. The movement was small and animal; his jaw worked under the restraint of it. He smoothed Alex’s hair with one rough palm.
There was pity in the motion, but Pablo kept the pity small, measured. He straightened, shoulders tensing into the practiced indifference of the dining room. “Best not let them see him yet,” he murmured to nobody and to himself, the words no softer than steam. He watched Alex’s chest rise. No more than a whisper. He listened until the stair’s wind and the pipes filled his ears and he could convince himself the boy slept because of exhaustion.
Pablo checked under the boy’s tuxedo. Nothing. Fabric slid over his fingertips; the hollow where a revolver might sit was only a warm, sleeping ribcage.
“Is he the only child working for them or are there others? Or did he extract the rest of the guns by himself?”
“Anyway... he said he wouldn't rat me out, but I can't let him roam free knowing who I am. But he will wake up eventually. I have to be quick and take one of them out at least."
"But me getting back in the lobby and crouching underneath a table again will make me even more suspicious… Guess I will have to continue with a regular knife.”
He stepped back into the stair’s thin light, one last long look at the sleeping face, then turned and climbed. The music floated down from above;
Another one of the Marcettis assassins was climbing the stairs too, somewhere in the upper floors. He’d thought it safer than taking the elevator.
But it wasn’t.
The footsteps had followed him since he left the lobby hall without stopping, always echoing off the walls. Every landing, every turn, he expected a shadow to leap from the corner. The stairwell twisted upward, narrow and dim, gaslight trembling against the old wallpaper.
He picked up his pace, forcing himself to look calm when passing an open door or a stray guest. His heart didn’t listen. The stairwell twisted upward, narrow and dim, gaslight trembling against the old wallpaper.
Then the stairs ended.
The top floor — the upper rooms.
He slowed, breath rough from the climb, wiping the sweat from his neck. For a second, silence. Then he saw it — movement at the turn below.
A man dressed in black stood there. Older. Broader. A face like cracked stone, eyes locked on him, breathing hard but controlled. A hunter’s patience.
The assassin’s stomach turned cold. He slipped around the corner fast, pressing his back to the wall, trying to quiet his breath. He reached under his apron and pulled out the only thing he had — a kitchen knife, same kind Pablo carried.
He held it low, blade trembling.
In, out. In, out.
He was young and his hands showed it.
The footsteps started again, slow and steady, climbing toward him.
...
The bodyguard finally rounded the corner, slow, deliberate, and the younger assassin lunged. Knife up, desperation in every move.
Too telegraphed.
The old man didn’t even draw a weapon. He shifted just enough, parried the attack with a practiced flick of his forearm, redirecting the blade harmlessly to the wall. His eyes didn’t flare with anger — only calculation. Capture, not kill. He wanted answers, and this boy was a live one, unlike the many others he already finished and who wouldn't talk.
But then a sharp jab at his side caught him off guard.
Pablo. Breathing hard from the climb as well, the man’s knife slicing across the older bodyguard’s ribs. He grunted, more from surprise than pain.
The younger assassin saw the opening. His fear turned into controlled rage. He swung, punching the bodyguard in the side of the head, then kicked, forcing the man back a step. Pablo followed, one strike after the other. The two of them worked together, cornering the seasoned henchman.
He grunted, blocking some blows, taking others, but he didn’t fall. Not yet. Then a kick landed low — liver — and the air whooshed out of him. He stumbled against the corner wall, breath shallow.
The two men stood over him, chests heaving, arms slick with sweat. The bodyguard lay on the floor, dark blood spreading across his side. Each shallow breath trembled with pain; strength ebbed fast. He was alive — barely — and left like this, wouldn’t last long.
Relief cut through them. Brief.
The day had been long. Their plan shattered piece by piece, one small victory finally won in a nightmare of schemes and counter-schemes. They didn’t achieve the assassination yet. They didn’t finish their mission. But for this instant, they’d survived. That alone felt like triumph.
“Thanks, cousin.”
“You’re welcome, Alphonse.” Pablo’s eyes stayed on the old bodyguard, chest heaving, sweat slicking his temples. He still felt the sting of adrenaline, the lingering tension of the fight. “Why are you all the way up here?”
Alphonse’s hands shook slightly, brushing at his apron as if the motion could erase what he’d seen. His voice was tight, almost brittle. “I… I think all of the others are dead.”
He didn’t raise his head. His eyes flicked to the stairwell, to the dim landing below, like expecting shadows to leap out. “I couldn’t believe it. None of the guys who tried looking under the tables came back… then I tried one of the tables we marked. Nothing. Where the hell are those revolvers?”
“They’re already ahead, as always.” Pablo said, tone clipped. “They found them and got rid of them... using a freaking child.”
"Seriously?!" Alphonse shouted in surprise. "How disgusting..."
Pablo crouched slightly, smirking as he ran a hand over the bodyguard’s chest, feeling the unnatural stillness beneath his fingers. A strange, messy thrill slithered through him—a cold, sharp clarity. Taking a life, controlling the moment, embracing the chaos… it wasn’t just survival. It was power, intoxicating in its purity. His fingers brushed the belt, and with a swift, practiced motion, he claimed the bodyguard’s revolver, weighing it in his hand. He allowed himself a heartbeat to drink it in.
“Now,” Pablo said, standing and tucking the revolver into his coat, “we have a gun. Five bullets. He doesn't have others.”
Alphonse shivered, recoiling from the sight and Pablo’s reaction. “What are you smiling for?”
Pablo straightened, letting the smile linger like a shadow. “We’re doing something good here, Alphonse. One of their men down, and the city… suddenly, it feels cleaner. Don’t you think?” The question hung in the air, half to Alphonse, half to himself, a whisper of doubt he barely acknowledged.
Alphonse glanced at him, the flicker of their shared history passing silently between them. “All of this... You think it will change anything?”
Pablo nodded, a shadow of satisfaction in his expression. “Of course. Street justice. Delivering it ourselves. Cleaning up the mess they made of our city. One... Just one Don out will be a massive achievement.” He let his eyes darken, thinking of the child he had left asleep under the stairwell. “Let’s… create peaceful streets. Cleaner streets. Streets where children can actually live without fear. Many of the new recruits are here for money, for respect... but not us, Alphonse. We have a greater cause.”
Alphonse looked, then averted his eyes.
"We have nothing to lose either way... No parents to go back to, no relatives to worry about..."
The words tasted bitter and sweet at once. A plan wrapped in chaos, violence coated in justification, a moral maze he couldn’t escape but somehow wanted to believe in.
The upper floor’s elegant lounge sat at the far end of the building, away from the narrow service stairs and the main corridor. It opened into a small, intimate space, more private than the grand lobby below. Polished walnut panels lined the walls, and brass sconces threw soft, golden light over plush armchairs and low tables. A bay window stretched along one side, offering a view of Portenzo City spread beneath them — rooftops glowing in the faint reflection of street lamps, the river glinting silver in the dark.
Olivia sat in her wheelchair near the window, her small hands pressed to the railing in awe, a bright smile lingering from the day’s excitement. Her mother, Katie, stood behind her, fingers wrapped around the wheelchair handles, watching her daughter’s joy.
“Olivia, maybe we should get down now. We will miss the dinner,” Katie said gently, voice carrying in the quiet warmth of the room.
“Nonno Silvano showed me this sight earlier,” Olivia said, still gazing outward. “I wanted to see what it’s like now that it’s dark.”
Katie nodded silently.
After a pause, Olivia’s lips curved in a thoughtful little frown. “Ma… maybe enjoying it in daylight would be better. You can see the rooftops, the boats, the bridges… everything bright. Night is pretty, but… the bright side makes it easier to know where you are.”
Katie felt her heart skip a beat. She smiled softly, brushing a loose strand of hair from Olivia’s face. “You’ve got a way of seeing things, sweetheart. Not everyone thinks of the bright side first. It’s a lesson even grown-ups forget sometimes.”
Olivia turned her head, eyes still twinkling. “Ma… can we move here? To Portenzo City?”
Katie’s eyes widened at the question.
“I… love Nonno Silvano,” Olivia continued, “I like being here every year. Furthermore... I made a few friends... Back home, I don't have any.”
Katie’s expression fell, tired and heavy. She wished she could grant her daughter the wish with a single nod. “We can’t, Olivia,” she said quietly.
“Why not?”
Katie released the wheelchair handles and knelt in front of her daughter. “You’re growing… so maybe it’s time to stop protecting you from some truths…”
Olivia tilted her head. “Truths?”
Katie shook her head gently. “But not today, sweetheart.” She cupped Olivia’s cheeks in her hands, feeling the warmth of her skin. “Today, you enjoy this evening till the last minute. And tomorrow… we will talk, alright?”
Olivia’s lips pressed together, her usual stubborn pride itching at the edges. She wanted to argue, to push back as she felt that familiar rush of defiance.
But then she remembered the hug from earlier — the way her mother had held her, firm but gentle, as if she could carry all of Olivia’s fears for a moment. She felt the warmth of Katie’s hands, the steady heartbeat against her own.
Slowly, the tension in her shoulders eased. Her fingers unclenched from the wheelchair’s armrests.
“...Yes, Ma,” she said quietly, her voice steady this time, carrying a weight that wasn’t there before. It wasn’t just obedience. It was trust.
Katie watched her daughter, really watched her, as if seeing past the child she had known all these years into the young woman beginning to emerge. Her eyes glimmered for a moment, reflecting pride, relief, and something almost like awe.
Gently, she pressed a soft kiss to Olivia’s forehead, lingering just long enough to let her daughter feel it, then slid back behind the wheelchair, taking up the handles once more.
Katie stood, guiding the wheelchair back toward the corridor. Already, her mind ticked forward, turning over how she would explain her grandfather’s true life, the shadows behind the grandeur, the hidden moves behind the laughter. Olivia, for her part, let curiosity wait. She chose to savor the evening, the echo of the opera song still dancing in her memory, the warmth of the friends she had made that day resting lightly in her chest.
They turned the corner near the elevator and the stairs.
And then their eyes locked.
Pablo and Alphonse froze, tense and alert, the conversation they had been having cut short mid-word. Their muscles coiled; the knife in Pablo’s hand felt heavier, the revolver tucked under his coat suddenly alive.
Katie’s hands tightened on Olivia’s wheelchair's handlers, the bright smile of moments ago vanishing as she took in the two men standing there.
The bodyguard they had beaten earlier lay sprawled on the floor. Dark blood spread across his side, his shallow breaths rattling from his chest.
Thank you for reading :)
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