Chapter 61

  ? The Three Above, The Three Below ?

  The echoes of music and laughter had seeped out of the manor like warmth from an abandoned hearth.

  Upstairs, Olivia slept curled against Katie, fingers locked tight in her mother’s dress as if the world might slip through her grasp if she loosened them. Every so often her body gave a faint tremble. It was the ghost of her panic still lurking inside her. But she stayed steady in the shelter of her mother’s embrace… and in the memory of the two boys who’d salvaged what remained of her night.

  Downstairs felt like a different building entirely.

  No celebration remained — only the gathering of people who lived in the quiet aftershocks of violence.

  Polished shoes whispered across the marble. Glass chimed faintly. Faces held the bright civility of nobles but the eyes of men accustomed to reading danger in posture and absence. Their greetings were half-murmured, their glances too sharp, each step measured as if the floor itself might shift beneath them.

  Don Silvano eased into a chair with the careful weight of someone who had been holding the night upright alone. Don Carlo and Don Emilio joined him, their expressions carrying the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from the knowledge of what must follow.

  Carlo let out a breath through his nose. “Would this night ever end?”

  Emilio didn’t lift his gaze from the drink resting in his palm. “We covered the mess… more or less. But the swarm of bodyguards, Katie's absence and the broken window upstairs is giving a hint. We can’t let them smell weakness.”

  Carlo answered. “I’m afraid they already did. Look over there for example.”

  He tilted his chin toward a table near the far wall.

  “Minister Barzetti, Lord Havel, and Comptroller Renoux… three men who’d sooner strangle each other with their own cravats than share a glass.”

  Silvano followed his gaze as the three nobles leaned in close, their heads almost touching, voices low and sharp.

  Carlo went on quietly. “And yet here they are, speaking like old friends. They only do that when the sharks smell the same blood. They oversee grain tariffs, railway permits, and coal distribution. Separate kingdoms on paper. But if they’re whispering together tonight, it means they found a common target to attack.”

  “And it’s us.”

  Around them, the room pulsed with unspoken questions.

  Guards posing as waiters.

  Waiters nowhere to be seen.

  Staff huddling too close to walls.

  Conversations clipping off mid-sentence.

  The nobles noticed everything. The manpower stretched thin, the replacements who didn’t know where to stand, the stiffness hovering behind every polite smile.

  Silvano’s voice was low. “And after tonight? What do we do next?”

  Carlo shook his head. “Despite everything that happened, I say no retaliation. No one died but a mere bodyguard. Don Enzo’s head is enough.”

  Silvano scoffed. “We’ve been passive for too long. That’s why they thought today was the day. Enough of this political dance.”

  The two's thoughts couldn't be more different... so Carlo and Silvano turned to Emilio, searching for his insight. The latter leaned back, calculating and analyzing how they have been dealing with these matters for years since he took over and this war started. He looked at the table, checking the pieces of a chessboard no one saw but him.

  “Silvano…" Finally he spoke. "For years, I pushed to keep things quiet. Subtle. Dominick’s clever tricks were bleeding the Marcettis dry in the shadows. And it worked. They’re weak.”

  “But—" he continued, "they keep biting anyway and that's a problem we have been ignoring too, Carlo. And now, you say the Veraccis could be involved? No. That's danger. Looks like they mistook our silence for weakness.”

  Carlo rubbed at his temple.

  “If we hit them openly, the people notice. We finally got close to legitimacy. We can't burn that, can we?”

  Silvano’s jaw tightened.

  “Their little stunt almost killed me, my granddaughter and my daughter-in-law. That’s what I’m burning for.”

  Emilio lowered his glass.

  “Then we do it the old way. We remind them and anyone plotting here tonight why we survived this long and who we truly are."

  The table fell silent for a moment at Emilio's words. A sentence that reminded them that the hotel, the dresses they wore, the wealth they achieved, the allies they made, the businesses they built... wasn't done with clean hands.

  Carlo broke the silence and spoke, calmly.

  “The coppers won’t like it. Pocketed or not, too much noise and they get pressured and will have to act against us.”

  Silvano drummed his fingers, impatient.

  “Then we pay them more.”

  Carlo shook his head.

  “That’s when they start squeezing.”

  Emilio’s reply was flat, unblinking.

  “Actually, now that you mention it, I don't think they will, Carlo. Unless they want to spend a little vacation in a casket, they won't. They remember Inspector Julian. Greed has limits when a man ends up like that. I don't believe that story is forgotten as people to this day still refer to Dominick by that nickname. The ones who will not like it are the nobles... But we will worry about them when the time comes.”

  Carlo rubbed his chin, taking in the argument.

  "I still prefer the quiet methods. I don't want to risk the reputation we've finally built. Not to mention it will be bad for business... But looks like I'm losing the vote here. What you're saying also makes sense in a way so..."

  Silvano leaned forward.

  “If Don Juan Veracci and Faustino had a hand in this, they go under too.”

  Carlo lifted a hand.

  “Only if we have proof. Them skipping tonight doesn't count as one... but they will have to answer why they didn't attend. If it sounds like an excuse, we can assume they had a hand in this.”

  Emilio’s gaze slid across the room again. “We wait a few weeks. Until Katie heals. Until she leaves with Olivia. And we see what happens with Don Enzo gone. Time to be loud now. Like the old days when we were young... like our fathers did. I don't want a hidden cousin of Enzo or some street thug who will take over to think we are some old men who have had enough or grown soft. Who agrees?"

  Emilio and Silvano lifted their hands. Carlo didn't, but he understood.

  The three Dons didn’t toast this time...

  But something shifted in the room. A quiet, imperceptible tilt of the world, like a storm choosing where to fall.

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  It was decided.

  Meanwhile, somewhere in the slums, the thunder rumbled overhead, bouncing off the narrow alley walls and filling the place with a low, rolling pulse. Rain slicked cobblestones glistened, puddles forming in shallow craters, reflecting the dim light of distant lamps. Leo stood in the center, framed by the alley but somehow larger than the space around him, a presence both patient and imposing.

  Dante tried to break the tension with a grin, though it faltered against the storm. “Oh! Hey, Leo! Seen Mira last time. She looks as good as ever.”

  Leo’s gaze didn’t move. He held Dante still with a calm intensity that made every attempt at levity crumble.

  Alex swallowed, his eyes darting between the two boys. “Leo… is everything alright? Did anything happen?”

  Finally, Leo spoke, his voice quiet but edged with weight. “Do you remember a shooting in San Thiago street, near a school and a police station? About three years ago?”

  Dante stiffened, unease curling in his stomach, though he couldn’t yet place the memory. Confusion and that vague dread he carried through every street of the slums crept forward, gnawing at him. Alex’s gaze sharpened; he listened, every muscle taut.

  “A homeless man was there,” Leo continued. “Said he saw a kid that looked like you. With freckles and a tan as young as you and me.”

  Dante blinked. “I’m the only freckled kid in the slums now? Sure. If you say so.”

  Leo didn’t waver. “I saw you handing a note in the bar I worked at a few weeks later. Dominick Marviano, the man known as the Undertaker, came and collected it a few minutes later.”

  Both boys froze, exchanging a glance thick with sudden understanding.

  “L-Leo… I’m sure you’re mistaken,” Alex said quickly. “Dante’s grown. We both have, in three years. He doesn't look the same as he was back then, so maybe you're confusing him for someone else.”

  “I hoped I was wrong." Leo admitted. "So I watched him cleaning shoes."

  "Too aware. Always covering your back. For a kid whose fortune’s barely a handful of shoe-polish coins, he carries himself like he’s loaded."

  “Not just that." he carried on, "Changes routes. Double backing. And now this expensive dress.”

  Leo’s voice dropped lower.

  "You run errands for the mob."

  Alex’s eyes widened, realizing the fragile veil of their secrets thinning, exposing everything to Leo’s quiet, careful scrutiny.

  Dante forced a laugh, sharp and brittle. “Stick to fighting, pal. Playing detective is not really your thing. We were at a friend’s birthday. Her mother lent us this. That’s all. And… Undertaker? You mean, you want me to guide a funeral for you or something?”

  “Never joke about funerals. Seems like you have never been in one before.” Leo said. There was no anger. Only the weight of history, the memory of something he could barely let himself name. “I wish you attended my little sister's whom you watched bleed out.”

  Dante’s expression shifted, shock and guilt crossing his features. Recognition sparked, the date, the street, the memory of a tiny body caught in chaos.

  “What?” Dante whispered, voice nearly gone.

  The rain intensified, splashing in the puddles at their feet, rippling across the alley. Water ran over broken crates and tipped barrels, carrying the stink of the slums in cold currents.

  Leo’s voice softened, distant yet deliberate. “You do remember her. I’m her brother. The seven-year-old girl shot for nothing.”

  Silence thickened, pressing on the three of them.

  Alex’s heart twisted as Dante's words of the day he confessed to him echoed in his mind.

  "She was six, maybe seven. A full shootout erupted and a little girl, wrong place, wrong time, was..."

  “Tell me how it happened,” Leo said finally.

  Alex turned to Dante, voice low, “Dante?” His friend’s shoulders trembled, images flickering behind eyes that refused to close.

  Dante hesitated, bit his lip and finally formed the words. “I… I tried to get her out of the way.” His inhale was ragged. His exhale sharper, deliberate. "I swear."

  His hands clenched. His knuckles whitened. “I was supposed to confirm that... a snitch was in the police station. They wanted to silence him before he gets there... But I saw her… and I asked her to leave."

  Dante slammed a fist against the wall, voice cracking, eyes blazing. “But she told me her brother was waiting! Even when I warned her! That there would be a shooting, she… she got more worried about you showing up, about you getting hurt!”

  Tears slipped down Dante’s face, one after another. Alex could only watch, heart pounding, chest tight, aching with a helplessness he had never felt before. He closed the distance and wrapped Dante in a trembling embrace, pressing close to share the weight of the storm around them. The rain soaked them both, but Alex held him anyway, silent, letting Dante’s shudders shake through him.

  Dante broke free aggressively from the his friend's hands and stepped forward. “It wasn't—”

  but Leo’s raised hand stopped him.

  “Stay right there,” Leo said. “I don’t know what I’ll do if you come any closer.”

  A crack of thunder split the sky, sharp and sudden.

  Dante’s step died in his chest; his shoulders slumped as if something heavy had settled on them.

  “I told her to wait by the police station right next to her school. Thought it's safer." Leo continued. "...What is wrong with your bosses?” His confusion was genuine about the cruelty and the amount of inconsideration. Places meant to protect had become danger zones. "And don't act like you care by crying."

  Alex gathered all his courage and stepped in front of Dante, ignoring Leo's earlier command— a shield made of his own body. “Leo, he talked to me about it. That day still haunts him. He is not pretending!”

  “Then why is he still working for them?” Leo demanded.

  Alex’s voice was low, steady, carrying the weight of all he bore. “We don’t have a choice. Dante was taken in young and he can't just walk away after everything he knows. But we’re trying to find a way out.”

  "We? You too, Alex?" Leo’s brow lifted. He couldn’t imagine the gentle, careful boy tangled in mob business… and the memory of Mira’s life in Alex’s hands made the revelation hit harder.

  Alex nodded, without hesitation—not out of pride, but to carry the burden, to take the blame alongside Dante.

  "Dominick uses us because we go unnoticed... scouting, passing signals... that sort of thing. Me too, I can't just walk from this. If I do, my father, who has a past with them, dies."

  The words hung, thick as the storm, and silence devoured the alley.

  "This... ambush. Was it also his plan?" Leo asked.

  Dante nodded in shame.

  “He was there. He always is, when it’s traitors. He either pulls the trigger himself or checks the body.”

  Disgust flashed across Leo’s face—then resolve, then something stormier.

  “Help me kill him,”

  The words landed and the alley inhaled.

  Alex’s hand flew up. “What?!” His voice was a broken thing—shock, denial, the echo of an impossible idea.

  Dante’s breath left him in a thin, sharp sound.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Leo’s answer was low, bitter and alive.

  “I am.”

  Alex’s face crumpled almost imperceptibly.

  "You don’t understand. This is not someone you box with.”

  Leo looked at him dryly and disappointed, making Alex shrink as he carried on.

  “He likes children, So I’ll be useful. One day, I won’t be.”

  “What do you mean—You want us to recommend you to him?” Dante spat, horror flashing. “You’d walk straight into his arms?”

  "Yes."

  Dante’s hands rose, frantic.

  “That’s reckless! He’ll see you coming from a mile away. He is sharper than you might ever imagine!”

  “Trying to save him?”

  “No! But—” Dante began.

  “I’m giving you the way out you claimed to want. If I fail, I won't drag you with me. Unless you’re pretending, I don’t see why you’d refuse.”

  Alex watched him, remembering what happened earlier in the party to someone going after the mob.

  "Why did you bring this up only now? Why not when we first met?" Alex asked.

  "I want Mira and the others out of it."

  "The mob aren’t just one man, Leo." Alex’s reply was immediate, the panic of someone trying to hold a leaking dam. "Even if he dies, there are others. His bosses. The enforcers. Are you going to kill them all? How many lives will that take? Say you succeed by some miracle, they will come after you for revenge!”

  Leo’s face shifted. The hard line in his mouth softened; his shoulders slumped as if the rain had finally found purchase. He looked at the wet cobbles, at the puddles that reflected their tired faces, and the grief turned inward—less an actor and more a weary man remembering a small, ruined life.

  “I don’t want to do this,” he said, the words coming out like someone lighting a match and then watching it gutter. He closed his eyes a moment, and the memory came back—too quick, too sharp—a small hand, Dina’s laugh, the sudden dusk of a bright day.

  "I... have to do this."

  The words echoed through the narrow alley.

  “You two know Pinch,” he murmured. “She was as small as him, or smaller.” His fingers dug at the seam of his coat. “And yet… people still line up at their doors.”

  Alex and Dante absorbed the sight differently. Alex’s face slackened, sympathy and helplessness pooling in his expression. Dante’s stomach seemed to tighten with every measured movement of Leo, every pause in his words; a cold twist of guilt dug deeper into his ribs.

  Leo lifted his gaze at last, slowly, deliberately toward the two boys in front of him, as if searching their faces for the thing he’d been chasing for so long.

  “You two helped saving Mira the other day. I owe you both... so I’ll ask."

  "One more time."

  ...

  “Help me kill him.”

  The alley held its breath, the puddles circled by rain, sound wrapping them all tight. The boys stood under a sky that wanted thunder, and each knew, in that heavy, small moment, that nothing would ever be the same if they answered.

  In the hotel—in the city’s shadowed chambers, the three Dons whispered plans that would rip through these same streets. Below, in the alleys and corners, three children lingered in the storm’s pulse—silent, watching, waiting, each carrying grief, guilt, and hope in their own ways.

  Three poised on the edge of action; three shaping the fate of the city, though in utterly different ways.