Chapter 77

  ? Too Clean To Admire ?

  Alex and Dante stepped into the apartment. The air was faintly warm, scented with old paper and faint tobacco, familiar yet charged in a way it had never been before. Alex’s eyes flicked to Dante, catching the tight line of his jaw, the way his shoulders stayed rigid, and he realized Dante was lost in thought. He just stared straight ahead, as if the apartment itself could answer questions better than either of them.

  Alex’s gaze drifted to the black coat and fedora hanging in the hall. He had seen them more than once at this point and had learned to keep himself calm at their sight, to never let the weight of them show. But today, the coat’s squared shoulders, the hat perched like a sentinel, stirred something he couldn’t name. A strange pull, close to belonging, as if this room, these clothes, this presence… were quietly waiting for him to fit in.

  "He is here. Let's go," Dante said dryly, with a flicker of command.

  Alex followed without objecting.

  The two boys walked into the office without knocking.

  "Hey boss," Dante said as soon as his eyes fell on Dominick, sitting at his desk, reading the newspaper.

  Alex noticed Dante slipping back into 'boss.'

  Dominick’s gaze didn’t leave the papers, but he acknowledged it with a faint nod.

  "Have a seat."

  Alex and Dante took their usual seats, across from each other in front of Dominick's desk.

  "How are you kids doing?" Dominick asked.

  "Like everyone, boss." Dante said, as he removed his flat cap and scratched his hair with annoyance. "I can barely sleep at night with all the gunshots."

  "And what's your angle on it?"

  "From the... corpse hanging that day," Alex finally spoke. "I think it's obvious."

  "Ah." Dominick finally lifted his eyes and looked at Alex. "So you were there."

  Both boys nodded as Dominick studied each of them. A moment passed. Then, he took off his glasses and started cleaning them with his handkerchief.

  "Just so you know, it was Silvano, Emilio and Carlo. Not me. I wasn't part of the decision or its aftermath."

  "Can't you stop it?" Alex asked, leaning forward a little, eyes hopeful.

  "No. This is too personal for them. And if they wanted my opinion, they would have involved me. Once these three decide something, they won't go back."

  Dominick held Alex's gaze.

  "I know better, Alex. I tried negotiating for your parents' safety. Unless they are offered an alternative, the hunt won't stop."

  "Hunt? Who, boss?" Dante raised an eyebrow.

  Dominick blinked, then.

  "You don't need to know." he said, cold, flat.

  "They are killing the Marcettis, right?"

  The innocent voice... didn’t match the words at all.

  Dante's lips parted at how casually Alex asked the question, talking about 'killing' just like he talked about the food he gave to the little girl, Luna.

  Dominick’s eyebrows lifted in acknowledgment…

  Dante lowered his gaze, then.

  "I was asking because, with you here, I thought we’d have a job as usual."

  "Sit this one out. It's too dangerous and chaotic. I don't want you caught in some random gunshot."

  The echo of Dominick’s promise lingered in Alex’s mind

  The promise to reconsider what missions and jobs he will give them from now on.

  To protect them and their innocence.

  "Your mission for now is to stay safe. I will welcome any information you bring me on the streets though."

  A long silence passed as both kids looked at Dominick, each with a different look.

  Alex was searching. Searching in his eyes behind the glasses, if those words are meant for their safety as kids, or as soldiers.

  Dante swallowed. The words felt like they were pulling him back, away from the boy sitting across from him, and back to this man. The thought of reverting to who he was made him shake his head, trying to chase the thoughts away.

  "Can you..." Alex managed, voice low and small. "give us information about these... gunshots? Like where they are happening? So we can avoid them and not get caught in one at random?"

  Dante braced himself, fists clenching just a little, studying Dominick's upcoming response to a suspicious question.

  “Sure,” Dominick said casually, lowering the paper. “It’s a phone contract. About time I had a line put in.”

  He slid it aside and leaned back.

  “They’ll install it in the living room. Shared use. No reason for you two to be in my office.”

  He adjusted his glasses.

  “I’ll ring every morning at eight. If there’s something happening in the streets you should avoid that day, I’ll tell you then.”

  Alex nodded.

  “If you don’t hear from me, it means there’s nothing to warn you about.”

  Dante exhaled slowly. "He didn't suspect a thing." then.

  "Phone company will send people with the streets like this, boss?" he asked. "All the wires and stuff... will also take time, maybe weeks or so I hear, right?"

  Dominick smiled faintly.

  “The company doesn’t mind inconvenience when the fee is right. They’ll manage it in a day. One of you has to stay here to open the door for them."

  Dominick slid the document to Dante.

  "Of course, I don't need to state the obvious. Not a word that I was here. Contract doesn't have my name and the company people are told to not ask questions."

  "Good." Dante thought to himself, taking the contract, but his eyes searched Alex. "We finally have something for Leo to warn and evacuate civilians."

  "Maybe... maybe I am being paranoid... maybe buddy getting closer to Dominick isn't such a bad thing."

  "Usually, he would smell something is off with that kind of question. But because Alex asked him, he answered normally..."

  "And it's not like Alex changed or anything..."

  "Dante." Dominick's voice dropped, snapping Dante out of his thoughts.

  "Yes, boss?"

  Dominick thought of all the homework he has seen Dante do, and the names he wrote. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

  "Never mind."

  Dante blinked. "Okay..."

  He hesitated, then added, “Can I ask a question, boss?”

  "Go ahead."

  “...How many are dead so far? In this... hunt?”

  "Are you sure you want to know?"

  "Yes."

  Dominick's eyes drifted back to the window, to the city beyond it.

  “I'm not part of it. I'm not keeping count... but I think—"

  "A little less than twenty.”

  The number settled heavily in the room.

  Dante swallowed, then glanced at Alex—just for a moment.

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  Dominick followed his gaze.

  And both froze.

  Alex didn’t move.

  No clenched fists.

  No tightening jaw.

  He sat still in a way he never had before, eyes steady, posture unchanged.

  Dante’s throat tightened. His lips trembled, searching for something that wasn’t there.

  Dominick’s eyebrow lifted, slow and measured.

  “What?” Alex asked innocently, confused why both were staring at him.

  The washroom lay in the basement, half sunk into the earth. Stone walls wept faint moisture, and the air carried the mingled scents of soap, cold water, and damp wool. A single narrow window near the ceiling let in a pale band of morning light, catching on drifting dust.

  Buckets stood lined against the wall. Laundry hung heavy and dripping from lines strung between iron hooks—patched dresses, stockings stiff with wear, sleeves rolled and re-rolled until the cloth had thinned to softness.

  Rocco stood near the tubs, alone.

  His coat was folded over one arm, kept carefully from the wet stone floor. With his free hand, he worked through the laundry—not hastily, not clumsily, but with quiet precision. He checked the small stitched marks inside collars, separating the nuns’ garments from the girls’, folding each piece and setting it into the proper basket. He did not touch the lines or the hooks. Those he left exactly as they were.

  It was busywork. He knew it.

  But it kept his hands steady.

  Every distant sound—the creak of floorboards above, the echo of voices through stone—tightened his shoulders before he forced them back down. He breathed slowly, deliberately, the way a man does when he knows panic is louder than footsteps.

  “Mister Rocco,” Sister Agnes called from outside, without opening the door.

  He straightened at once.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry I can’t have you eat at the table. But I brought you lunch. I’m opening the door.”

  “Oh—yes. Please come in.”

  The door opened, letting in warmer air and the muted sounds of the orphanage above. Agnes stepped inside carrying a small tray: a bowl of thin vegetable soup with floating roots, a heel of coarse dark bread, and a single apple dulled from storage.

  “I wish it were more,” she said quietly as she set it down. “There’s been a shortage. With everything happening outside, we don’t get what we used to. On most days, I’d have had more for you.”

  Rocco shook his head immediately.

  “I’m thankful enough you didn’t send me away the moment I stepped foot here.”

  Agnes gave a small smile.

  “Well,” she said, glancing back, “you should thank this one.”

  Mira stepped in behind her.

  Her hair was still damp, face clean, expression calm in that sharp, unyielding way of hers. She leaned lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed, already half elsewhere.

  Rocco looked at her—and this time, he smiled, a genuine curve of relief.

  “Hey there,” Mira said, lifting two fingers in a lazy wave. “Just checking on you. Can’t stay long. Sister orders.”

  Rocco nodded at once.

  “I understand.”

  She looked him over—quick, assessing—then turned and started up the stairs without ceremony.

  When her footsteps faded, Rocco exhaled.

  “I… can’t thank her enough,” he said quietly. “To think people like her still exist. Children, nonetheless.”

  His expression hardened, resolve snapping back into place.

  “I’ll eat and leave at once.”

  “No,” Agnes said firmly. “Not through the front door. Not the windows either. For all I know, whoever’s after you could be watching this place.”

  Rocco hesitated.

  “But I can’t stay. What if they come looking?”

  “No man sets foot inside this orphanage that I don’t trust,” Agnes replied. “I’ll get a police officer—”

  “No!” Rocco burst out, his voice cracking the still air. “Not the police. Some of them work with the men who want me.”

  Agnes studied him, weary but sharp.

  “Then tell me why I should trust you. How do I know for sure you’re as innocent as you claim to be?”

  Something in Rocco broke.

  “I work the docks,” he said, desperate now. “I’ve been there since I was ten or eleven, maybe. Ask anyone. They know me. Just… not loudly. If they hear you asking, they’ll know you’re hiding me.”

  Then, he realization hit him.

  “No,” he corrected himself hoarsely. “Never mind. That’s too dangerous. They probably sold me out already. You go and you will endanger yourself.”

  "I already did, mister Rocco." Agnes responded.

  Rocco laughed dryly.

  "That's what I get. That's what I deserve."

  "What?" Agnes asked, not catching the meaning.

  Rocco kept smiling, though his eyes were hollow, staring at the ground, searching for a clear picture of his reflection on the wet floor.

  A heavy silence settled before he finally spoke.

  “I deserted my family... After I stopped recognizing it. Men coming in and out, calling themselves my brothers. All they cared about was money. Power. Some rivalry I never chose over... dirty businesses I never liked.”

  “But... when I said no... They said that I was weak. Weak for not wanting blood on my hands."

  "That I wasn’t a man."

  "That I wanted to stay a child when I had to grow.”

  His breath hitched, broke.

  “That I'm...spineless.”

  “Mr Rocco,” Agnes pleaded softly. “Please—calm yourself.”

  Rocco didn't respond, didn't move, didn't do anything. He wiped whatever tears started to escape his eyes with his sleeve as he sniffed, turning away from the nun so she can't see more.

  “You’re safe here,” she said. “You can stay here for days. I’ll find a way to get you out. Quietly. Somewhere safe.”

  No answer.

  No nod.

  Nothing.

  “I’ll… give you some privacy.”

  Rocco finally nodded, eyes fixed on the floor.

  Agnes closed the door behind her.

  The key turned with a soft click, locking the washroom from the outside.

  And Rocco stood alone in the basement, questioning everything that had brought him here—only to find that his effort at being clean, at being careful, had rewarded him with a hiding place like the rat his family once called him.

  The apartment felt smaller without Dominick who just left.

  Alex stayed standing, eyes fixed on the door. He didn’t know why. It just felt wrong to turn away too fast.

  Dante moved first.

  He reached for his cap, rolled it between his fingers, then put it back on his head. A habit from before. One Alex hadn’t seen in months.

  “So,” Dante said lightly, forcing the tone, “we let Leo know on this one. We’ll get him information soon.”

  Alex nodded, giving a brief, weak smile.

  “And…” Dante hesitated. “Twenty. That’s… a lot, right?”

  Alex nodded again. “Yes.”

  And that nod was enough for Dante’s stomach to turn. His face folded in on itself.

  “It was… good while it lasted.”

  Alex tilted his head.

  “What was?”

  Dante walked into the living room. Alex followed, confused. The table was still covered in papers—the crooked letters, names carefully rewritten, the mistakes crossed out, the corrections made with painstaking care.

  “This,” Dante said simply, never lifting his eyes from the work.

  Alex’s heart sank.

  “Why? Are you stopping? Are you still mad at me?”

  Dante shook his head slowly.

  “You… don’t even realize it.”

  Alex’s voice rose, more from desperation than anger.

  “Are you doing this because of what I said earlier? About… maybe me changing my view on Dominick?”

  Dante kept his eyes on the papers. His fingers traced one name, pressing it to the page as if it might slip away.

  “Even back then,” Dante said quietly, “Even the old me would’ve flinched at wiping out a whole family—at twenty dead people.”

  It took a moment for Alex to realize what Dante meant.

  He pressed his lips together, looking down, ashamed.

  “I’m… being honest. I’m sad. Who wouldn’t be, hearing that number?”

  “You didn’t look sad. Not one bit, buddy.”

  “I…” Alex opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  “I’m… getting used to it,” he said finally, voice low. “What’s so wrong with that? I can’t… collapse every time I hear about a corpse.”

  Dante finally turned toward him.

  Alex continued, voice cracking, shoulders sagging as if the weight of every gunshot pressed him down.

  “I’ve lost count of how many I’ve heard. At the party… I had pistols glued to my stomach... I was drugged... I had to make decisions... and it was terrifying."

  "I’ve seen bodies… Pablo’s, twice. The second time worse than the first. The kidnappers Vince killed. Robert in the bar… Giovanni a few days later...”

  He lifted his eyes,

  "I'm trying to do good. I'm studying. I'm helping you study too. I'm sharing food with the poor... I swear I'm not admiring the criminals or anything..."

  It took some time for him to put his feelings into words, having a hard time understanding them and accepting them himself.

  "But—"

  Alex swallowed hard.

  “I need… to stay sane, Dante.”

  “You don’t have to throw away what you did—what you learned, just because I'm... changing.”

  Dante took in the words, the tone, the weight. And none were enough for him.

  “That’s honest,” he said. Then he looked straight into Alex’s eyes. “But I only know what’s okay by watching you.”

  Alex’s chest tightened at the words, unsure what to say.

  “If you’re letting go… then I am too,” Dante added.

  The sentence hit like a stone in both their hearts. For Alex, it was the cold whisper that Dante—the boy who had followed him through hunger, fear, and the streets—might drift back to the ways he had fought so hard to leave behind: the casual deference to Dominick, the sneaking, the wallets lifting, the slowly softening boundaries that violence carved into them both. Every nod to survival felt like a pull toward the old world they had tried to escape. Him calling Dominick by 'boss' again earlier... was the beginning already.

  For Dante, it was worse. He felt the slow erosion of the boy he had watched grow, the boy who had fought hunger, who had believed he could wrestle this city and win. Now, even as Alex stood before him, still upright, still trying, Dante could feel the part of him slipping away—the innocence, the certainty, the hope that they could survive without becoming what they feared.

  Suddenly, Alex walked and bent down into the swarm of papers, carefully rifling through them, searching.

  Dante waited, quietly, the faint creak of his chair the only sound.

  “You wanted me—” Alex muttered as he moved papers aside, careful not to ruin the neat work Dante had done, “to understand myself.”

  He found one, then another, then another, gathering the empty pages in a careful stack.

  “I’m having a hard time here as well… but this—this will help.”

  He looked up at Dante.

  “I don’t know… how I feel about Dominick. Not the criminal, Dante. Dominick the man."

  “I don’t like how I’m reacting to deaths anymore.”

  "But I'm never ever becoming like him. I'd rather die.”

  “I’m sure of one thing about myself,” Alex said, stepping closer, papers in both hands. He pressed them gently into Dante’s chest. “I want you to keep going. To never fall back because of me.”

  “I—” Dante began, but Alex held up a hand.

  “This isn’t a lesson or anything. I want you to write something for me. I have an idea. It will help me remember that people getting hurt… is never… acceptable."

  "Write what?"

  "Handbills. I have an idea. Another thing I can do to help the people around here."

  Dante hesitated, then finally took the papers, eyes firm and steady, and walked to the table in the living room. He sat cross-legged on the floor, searching for his pen.

  “I… may not get it right if it’s complicated, you know?” he said quietly. "Maybe write it yourself?"

  Alex gave him a small, encouraging smile. “It should be you.”

  Dante looked down at the empty page like it was sacred, like it held the weight of everything he had learned and everything he wanted to protect.

  The pen felt heavy in his hand.

  He lowered it slowly, the tip touching paper with a deliberate pause, as though he were fixing a point in the world—pinning himself there, and with him, Alex.

  No turning back once it marked the page.

  “Alright,” Dante breathed, almost to the ink itself.

  “Say the words.”

  Alex took a breath and started, watching Dante carefully, feeling the slow, careful reconstruction of something fragile but unbroken.

  Yet.