interlude | no mercy
i decided to write an interlude to pause from the main storyline so most of you can refresh on what's happening.
pls read the ending authors note.
this entire chapter contains very important flashbacks that will inspire events within the story. read carefully.
I also understand people don't like third person, but I'm writing it so stop kidding urselves
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August 2015
Innocence. The state, quality, or fact of being innocent of a crime or offense. Michael Davidé Luciano lost his innocence long ago, and tonight, within the confines of his most sacred place, he stares up at the photograph of the man who took it. Azazel Luciano.
But the demon who stole his throne and murdered his father didn't just take Michael's innocence.
He took his soul.
A young Michael Luciano drags his sobbing mother behind him, his hand tangled in her long hair. She looks pathetic. Snot runs down her nose and tears pour out of her eyes. Sobs slip past her lips as she struggles against her son's grip, fighting to escape as she's dragged along the cold, damp, concrete floor.
She scratches at Michael's arms, doing her best to get him to release her. She even manages to jam her recently manicured nails into his skin, drawing blood. Michael grimaces, but the act of trying to hurt him backfires. He slams her head into the floor, and she releases him, stunned.
Michael looks over his shoulder, catching the eye of the only other one in the basement of the home he grew up in. Vincenzo De Santis. His curls are loose and long, drooping so far over his forehead that they disrupt his vision. He gives his head a gentle shake, moving the curls out of his line of sight for the time being.
Michael's fist connects with his mother's cheek. Once, then twice. He grabs the pearls around her neck, using the expensive jewelry to draw her closer to him, and hits her again. They break and pearls scatter across the basement floor. He hits her again. Her bottom lip splits and begins to bleed. The left side of her face is caked in her blood, and the blood that seeps through the cuts on Michael's knuckles.
"Michael, please!" She grabs Michael's fist, breathing heavily. Blood trails out the corner of her lips and down her chin. If her left eye wasn't already swollen, tears would be falling out of it. She sobs again. The only plea out of her mouth is the name of her son, her firstborn. "Michael."
But the young man who would soon reign over it all—from the state of California to the entire west region of the United States—doesn't respond to her cries. The young man who would not only take the throne of the Luciano empire, but find himself at the top of the criminal hierarchy for the entirety of his reign—and long after—allows his mother's sobs to fall on deaf ears.
"Fuck you." Michael spits. "All these years you would sob in my face over dad—over a man you didn't even love. And to find out you helped Azazel kill him. You helped him take Dad's throne, and you helped him keep what was rightfully mine from me! You fucking—"
"Michael, please—"
Michael hits her again.
The next name out of her mouth is, "Vincenzo!" Her cry finally reaches an ear willing to hear. She raises her forearms over her face, bracing herself for another brutal blow from her son. It doesn't come. Her body shakes in fear, from tears, as the boy steps to Michael's side.
She knows the history of the De Santis empire well. But she doesn't know much about its future heir. She knows Vincenzo is a few years younger than her son and his physical appearance proves that. His shoulders are less developed. He still hasn't reached his full height. His facial features suggest that he's young, and the way he wears his hair—curly and untamed, like a mop—doesn't help.
The most she's ever gotten out of Vincenzo De Santis is "hello," and "you too, ma'am." He isn't much of a talker from what she understands, but his lips never seem to stop moving whenever he and Michael are alone. There's still an ounce of innocence left in him, or so Mrs. Luciano believes. And that's why she calls his name.
That, and because if anybody can stop Michael, it's him.
There's a certain level of respect Michael shows Vincenzo, despite their small age difference. It's more than the respect you would show a friend. It's something similar to the respect you would show somebody you fear, or somebody you should—eventually.
"Vincenzo, please."
Vincenzo meets her eyes. "Call on your God, ma'am. Not me."
She rises to her knees, grasping at the fabric of Michael's pants. She pleads with him, with them. She pleads for her life. "Michael..."
The blow Michael lands on the side of his mother's face is a devastating one.
"Michael?"
Michael Luciano is drawn from the basement of his childhood home, finding himself back in his safest place. His shoulders tense at the sound of his name—gentle, soft. It sounds just like his mother—because the last thing she ever said was his name. He feels a tug on his dress pants.
He extends his arm quickly, knocking the intruder to the ground.
Regret settles heavily on his chest as he stares down at the little seven-year-old. Rosalie. She props herself up on her elbows, fighting back tears caused by shock and pain. He wants to tell her how sorry he is. He wants to reach down, to pull her into his arms and comfort her, tell her that he'll never do it again. But all Michael Luciano does is press his lips against the rim of his glass and take another sip.
"Rule number one?" He finally asks after a moment has passed.
Rosie rises to her feet in understanding. Understanding why the man who raised her didn't offer his hand, offer his support. She doesn't understand it all, but Michael always told her that one day it would all make sense. He said she would understand one day soon, but he wouldn't be around for her to tell him that she gets it now.
"Kings aren't born." She tries to hide her wince as Michael turns away from her, striding deeper into his office. "They're made."
She doesn't see the corner of his lip lift in a smirk.
Michael sets his drink down on his desk and turns around to lean against it. He crosses one expensive shoe over the other. "You remember everything I taught you?"
The little girl shrugs, clutching her stuffed animal tight. "I remember everything you say."
Michael quirks an eyebrow, unsure as to if he believes her or not. He doesn't have time to challenge her.
"Like when you taught me how to shoot that gun." Rosalie takes a step forward and pulls the toy from her chest, gripping it tight in her left hand. She continues to close the distance between herself and the man that raised her. She stops a few feet short of Michael and lifts her right hand, folding it in the shape of a gun. She aims it up at the only man she's ever called her dad. She closes an eye. "There's two rules."
Michael pushes himself forward and lowers himself to a knee. Rosalie's finger gun finds its way right between his eyes. "And what are they?"
Rosalie's eyes meet his, and for the first time in years, Michael and innocence meet.
Air is pulled out of Michael's lungs as he witnesses what he could never be, what he never was. But what twists his stomach into a knot and cuts off his circulation isn't his experiences, but what is to come for the little girl that stands before him. For the little girl that he loves.
He lifts a finger to the corner of her eyes as tears find their way to his.
"Always aim for the head," Rosalie repeats Michael's rules with the upmost confidence.
Michael smiles, then nods. "And the last one?"
"No mercy."
She pretends to pull the trigger.
Rosalie is so focused on pretending to blow smoke away from the barrel of her fake gun, that she misses the rare smile that graces the king's face. She doesn't see the love, or the admiration. She doesn't see how proud he is. She doesn't see his lips move, the word barely tumbling out his mouth. She doesn't hear him say, "Never, sweetheart."
By the time Rosie holsters her fake weapon, Michael's smile is gone.
Michael's eyes find Rosalie's in sincerity, and his hands find her sides in security. "I want you to understand why I didn't help you up. Why, sometimes, I lack compassion...forgiveness." Rosalie's watches him carefully, listening to his every word. "This world is compassionless and unforgiving. This world will knock you down and step on your neck, and there won't be anybody around to offer you their hand. You must learn to stand up by yourself. Alone. I want you to learn this lesson now or I promise, you will leave this world the same way you came into it. Crying."
Rosie nods. "I understand." Michael rises to his feet, turning to move around his desk. "You know I love you, right, Dad?" The little girl winces. "I know you're not my dad, my real dad, but I want you to know I love you like you are."
The king kneels once more. "And I know you're not my real daughter, but I love you like you are. I protect you like you are. And I would die for you, like you are."
Rosalie's small body slams against his, her arms finding their way around his neck in a tight hug. One the little girl has no idea that he needs. Hesitantly, Michael's arms find their way around her small frame, holding her close. She sighs against him, resting her head inside the crook of his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed.
Michael holds the little girl close as he stands. Her legs wrap around his waist, her grip around his neck tightening. But she knows he won't drop her. He runs a hand down her back, a soothing motion to the sleepy child. His voice is low when he speaks again, "What're you doing up? You should be sleep."
"Couldn't sleep." Her words are muffled with her lips pressed into his suit jacket. She turns her head, resting the side of her face against his shoulder. "Bad dreams." Michael lowers himself and Rosie into his seat. He adjusts the grip he has on the little girl, making sure she's comfortable. "I want to hear the end of the bedtime story you were telling me."
It's been a while since Michael put the little girl to sleep, and frowns as he tries to get comfortable. "Which one?"
Rosalie twists in his grasp, angling her body so she can sit in his lap and lean against his chest. "The story about the evil uncle king who killed the prince's dad and took the throne. I want to know how the prince got the throne."
"Right." Again, Rosalie misses Michael's smile. "Previously, on the best bedtime story ever..."
Rosie smiles and shuts her eyes. She's always loved the sound of Michael's voice, but more specifically, she always loved his accent. She could listen to him talk every day, unable to understand how he can make his words sound like that when she can't. His accent thick, his voice deep—it was like honey to a sore throat. Soothing.
"The evil uncle king, Scar, kills the good king and takes the throne away from the rightful heir, the prince." Michael sighs. The completely, unoriginal bedtime story is a delight to Rosalie's ears—but a painful reminder of Michael's past. For the bedtime story isn't fake. It's his origin story. "The prince finds out that his mother, the queen—the evil queen—was having an affair with Scar the entire time. She wanted the prince's father dead from the beginning."
"What?!" Rosie sits up, eyebrows pressing together. 'Why would she want to kill her own husband?"
Michael can't answer the question because his mother never answered it either.
"Ready to keep going?"
She nods, and the story continues.
"When the prince found this out, he was mad. He was so mad." Rosalie notices the muscle in Michael's jaw clench. She reaches out, her small hand brushing along the hair on his jaw. Her fingers brush across the muscle that clenches, and feels it relax beneath her touch. "So, he took the evil queen somewhere where nobody would hear her screams, or her cries, and he asked her if..."
Rosie sits up at Michael's hesitation. "What did the prince ask his mother?"
The breath the former prince lets out is a shaky one. "He asks his mother if she ever loved him, if she even wanted him. Because you have to understand," Michael glances down at Rosie, "The prince, at the time, he didn't feel loved. He didn't think he was worthy of it. His dad died before he got to know him, and his evil uncle didn't give a shit about him. And his mom...she was probably worse than Scar."
"Sounds like he needed a hug."
"Yeah," Air moves out of Michael's nose as he tugs the little girl closer to him. "He needed a few Rosie hugs."
Her question is soft. "Did the prince's mom ever answer the questions?"
"Her silence was answer enough." Michael blinks through the vivid memories. "He killed her."
"Just like he killed the evil uncle, Scar."
"Just like that."
Rosalie snuggles against Michael's shoulder, her eyes heavy. "What happened to the prince after that?"
"He took the throne."
"And after that?
Michael thinks quietly. "He ruled for a long time. But he ruled by himself because there weren't many that he trusted. Everyone that met him, feared the king. They shook in his presence and bowed at the mention of his name. The king loved it. He loved the power."
"But?"
"A lot of people hated him." Michael clears his throat. "But they hated him because they couldn't understand him. And they couldn't understand, or didn't understand, because nobody ever really tried to get to know him. He was never friendly, how could he be? Everyone he ever thought loved him had snaked him. How could he ever trust anybody else when he couldn't even trust his own mother? How could he be a father to a boy when he didn't even have an example to follow?"
Rosalie meets Michael's eyes.
He pulls her close, and whispers, "And how I could be a father to a little girl, when I didn't have a mother to teach me how to be gentle?"
It doesn't take much for the little girl to put two and two together. "You were the prince."
The quick nodding movement of his head causes a tear to escape.
Rosalie lifts a hand, resting her small palm on the short hairs of his beard. She lets the tear fall to her, then wipes it away. "You did good." The little girl leans up, pressing a kiss to the side of Michael's face. She tugs his face closer to her and breaks out in a smile. "You're a good dad and I love you. And I know Liam loves you, even though you guys fight a lot..." Rosie hesitates.
"What's wrong?"
She lifts her eyes. "Is there a happy ending for the king?"
The clock of Michael's life is about to strike midnight. But he's known for a long time that his life was drawing to a close. Azazel taught him long ago that every king knows when their time is up. Michael was always known for his favorite three words: I'm not done, but when he woke up one morning, nearly seven months ago and shuffled into the bathroom. He knew. He knew when he stared at his reflection in the mirror and saw that the fight—the fire—that kept his brown eyes ablaze was dwindling, that it was almost time.
He knew, when he uttered the words, I'm done, that midnight was surely creeping around the corner.
But there were so many times in Michael's life when he was sure the clock had struck midnight. Like the time Liam was just a baby. Michael was rocking the infant to sleep when an intruder turned the corner and entered the nursery. To this day, Michael still doesn't know how he got past the security of their gated community. Michael knew the intruder; the son of a man who had been done wrong by Azazel. He wanted to avenge his father's death, and with Azazel long dead, Michael Luciano was the closest thing to revenge for the boy.
The armed intruder kept approaching, and Michael kept rocking. But what Michael didn't experience as the man approached and aimed his weapon, was fear. There wasn't much Michael could do with a baby in his arms and his nearest weapon in the bedroom. He held Liam tight as the intruder said what he had been probably practicing in the mirror for weeks. Then he pulled the trigger, or at least he tried.
The gun jammed.
Michael smiled underneath the low lights of the nursery.
And the intruder ran.
Michael eases himself out the rocking chair as the man rushes out the door, disappearing into the dark hallway. Michael lowers Liam into his crib and presses a kiss to his face, mumbling the same line he had uttered when he held his son for the first time. "Long live the king."
Michael scoops down, picking up the discarded—seemingly worthless—gun and heads for the doorway, pausing just long enough to initiate a lockdown sequence via the security panel found inside every room in the house. His fingers dance across the keypad quickly. There's a gentle hum. Then nothing. Every door in the house has been locked, and every window deemed inaccessible. Nobody can get into the house, and anybody inside, can't get out.
The king makes work of the upstairs quickly, before poking his head inside the master bedroom. Zara is sleep. He shuts the door quietly, not to disturb his wife. He travels down the elegant stairwell quickly, gun at his side. A quick glance at the front door suggests that Michael had initiated the security protocol before the man could escape. He's still here, somewhere.
Michael draws in a breath as he takes a step, then pauses, listening carefully. He moves into the dark family room, drifting deeper into the large room. His eyes are still attempting to adjust to the dark lightening, but he catches movement through the reflection of the massive mirror on the wall.
Michael ducks as the man swings a lamp at his head. It shatters against the wall as the two engage in brief hand to hand combat. It's not a fight. The intruder was prepared to rely on a weapon to do his dirty work, but the hands he goes against have taken down assassins, kings, and a mother—his own.
An elbow to the face sends the intruder to the sofa. Blood runs down his nose, as well as the laceration across his cheek. He spits as Michael approaches, staining the king's shoes with droplets of blood. He grimaces, showcasing his blood covered teeth.
The intruder nods at his weapon in Michael's hand. "That gun jammed for me, what makes you think it'll work for you?"
Michael knocks the gun against his thigh twice. "It'll work."
He takes aim.
"Because I learned a long time ago; I'm the chosen one."
The gun fires.
That was only one of many near death experiences in Michael Luciano's life. There was the time when the young assassin, Vincenzo De Santis, had accidently murdered the daughter of another Sicilian family in the states. Michael accompanied his young friend to the gentleman's home to explain the situation, but a short conversation later, they found themselves standing back-to-back in the basement of the man's home, with his soldiers aiming their guns at them.
Vincenzo was positive they were going to die.
Then the floor shook.
The earthquake was felt for miles from the origin of the epicenter. It was just the distraction the two men needed, and they escaped, unharmed.
Michael Luciano smiles at the brief memories, then he hears Rosalie's question again: Is there a happy ending for the king?
His smile falters. "No. There's no happy ending for me."
The somewhat harsh, brutal truth hits the girl a little harder than Michael expected. Tears rush to her eyes as she nestles her head against his shoulder, tugging her lower lip into her mouth.
"If I could, I would end it right here." Michael's voice is hardly above a whisper, just loud enough for Rosie to hear without straining. A few tears roll down her cheek, but this time it's Michael's turn to catch them. "If I could end my life right here I would. This would be my happy ending. Holding you."
Rosalie sniffles. "Take me with you."
"With me?"
She nods half-heartedly, her eyes fluttering closed as she fights exhaustion. Michael notices and refrains from pushing for an answer. He tugs her against his chest, his fingers finding their way to her hair. He hums the words of a song he would use to ease an infant Liam to sleep in hopes that it would help Rosalie. But his humming turns to a soft, gentle tune. He sings for her.
Rosie shuffles against him. "You sing prettier than Liam."
"Where do you think your brother got his voice from?"
"Have you ever sung together?"
Michael nods. "Once."
"I bet it sounded like angels."
"You're my angel."
Rosalie squeals as Michael peppers her face with kisses. She does her best to swat Michael away, but eventually gives in, accepting his love with open arms.
"You should sleep."
"Will you come tuck me in?"
Michael sighs as he pushes his chair back, quickly glancing at the tripod and camera that lay waiting across the room. Rosalie scrambles to her feet, fixing her crooked pajamas. "In a couple minutes," He resigns.
"Okay." She turns to leave.
"Wait."
Rosie glances over her shoulder.
"Can you keep a secret?"
All signs of exhaustion are washed away as excitement passes over her young features. "Dad, is this good tea or is this good tea?" She rushes back over to him, hopping onto his lap before he can brace. Her knee finds his groin. "I'm the best secret keeper in this family. Did you know Tommy, the guy that transports you everywhere is sleeping with Jason's wife? Like Jason, Jason, the other guy that rides with you everywhere. And she thinks she's pregnant, but she doesn't know who the daddy is—and like I don't know if you or Liam know this, but I saw uncle Dominic in the room the other day and he was like, taking something from this bottle. He said it was I-bee-proof-in—"
"Ibuprofen. Wait." Michael cuts her off. "How do you learn all of this stuff?"
"I usually just pretend to be asleep."
Michael blinks. "Smart."
"So," The little girl claps, excitement rushing through her veins. "What's the secret?"
"Hard to believe you were just drooling on my shoulder a second ago."
Her eyes narrow. "Princesses do not drool."
Michael points to the stain on his suit jacket.
Rosie blinks. "...sometimes."
Michael winks, and the little girl smiles.
"So, what's the secret?"
"I'm making a present for Ms. Faith."
The little girl gasps. "Do you need paper? A pencil? I have a lot of coloring pencils, and a lot of shades of crayons—Liam got me the crayons with all the pretty skintones because he says that it's super important that I—"
"No." Michael cuts her off. "I don't...color."
"Mm-hmm." Rosie crosses one arm over the other, her eyes narrowing to a sharp glare. "That's what you tell all those big, bad scary council guys, but I know you remember the time we colored from my Cinderella coloring book."
Michael's response is delayed. "...that never leaves this room."
Rosie salutes.
"I'm making her a video."
"A sex video?"
"What the fuck do you know about a sex tape?"
Rosalie blinks.
Michael copies her.
"Nothing?"
"We're moving on."
"Yes," Rosie's laugh is forced, "Moving on."
"Do you know how I teach you sometimes? How I teach Liam?" Michael inquires. She nods, and he continues, "Faith needs to be taught too, but I—I may not have the time to tell her in person, so I want to make a video for her. And that's where you come in..."
"I'm listening."
Michael hesitates, unsure how much the little girl needs to know. "I'm..." Their eyes meet, and the truth comes out. "I'm not going to be able to give her this video myself, so I need you to do it. You'll know when to give it to her."
"How?"
"You'll know. Just...when things get scary, give her the video."
Rosie nods, uncertain. "But what if I forget?"
"You won't, my love." Michael rubs her back soothingly, before gently pushing her off his lap. "Now go get some rest. I'll be up to tuck you in soon."
Rosie nods, still thinking about her new assignment. She doesn't want to let Michael down, positive that she has so many other times before. She hasn't, at least not in his eyes.
"Hey."
The little girl jumps at the pressure on her shoulder, weighing her down and keeping her from leaving the room. She turns around as Michael lowers himself to a knee. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his hand drifting just far enough down to tickle the side of her neck, earning a smile from her. Her tension and uncertainty about her new job leave immediately.
"I never believed in angels until I met Liam's mother." Michael's thumb finds the underside of Rosie's chin, forcing her to look up at him as he finishes, "But I never believed a woman could be king until you."
Rosie wraps her small hand around his wrist, smiling wide.
"Look at me." His stern voice captures her full attention almost immediately. "If you don't remember anything I've ever taught you, anything I've ever said, please, remember this." His thumb brushes her cheek, and in the moment, Michael Luciano could never be prouder of the girl Rosalie has become. He's already proud of the king she'll grow up to be. He doesn't need to witness it to know. "Rule swiftly, powerfully, and devoid of mercy. Everything you do, do it with honor, in glory, and execute with power. Do not bow. Do not fall to the level of your enemies. Rise above and conquer it all."
Rosalie's stern nod is her response.
Michael slips his hand in hers and lifts it high over her head in a ritual they've performed since Rosalie was small. She spins, a high-pitched sound of laughter coming from the base of her throat. She always told Michael that she felt most like a princess when he would spin her, and when he could help it, he made sure to do so right before bed.
But what Michael isn't aware of yet is that not only will this be his last time spinning her, but the last time he'll hear her laugh.
He draws the little girl close to him and smiles, still holding tight to her hand. He bows his head and presses a kiss to the back of her hand. "Long live the king."
Michael is still on his knees as Rosalie bounces out the room, eagerly anticipating he tuck her in before.
It takes a lot for Michael to pull himself to his feet. It takes all he has. There was a time when he could get knocked down and held down, yet he would still find a way to his feet within seconds, fueled solely by the look the man above him was giving. But if he were to get knocked down one more time, he knows there's nothing left in him to pull him to his feet once more. It's time.
Michael presses a button on the camera that's positioned on the tripod. He has about ten seconds before the recording starts. The small, red dot indicates that a recording is in process as Michael eases himself back down into his seat. His eyes meet the camera, and whoever comes across this video in the future. His hands work swiftly to unbutton his constricting suit jacket. He doesn't speak until the last button has been undone.
"Ms. Crawford, if you're watching this then I am nothing but a name spoken in past tense." Michael's words come out deliberately slow, making sure that whenever the young woman watches this video, she understands every word he says. "I want to apologize for the way I treated you. I want to say sorry, even though I've never been very good at it—" The former king cracks a smile, "—I usually kill instead of apologizing."
He pauses, eyes drifting from the camera to meet the photograph of Azazel Luciano.
"I knew from the moment you stepped inside my house that it was you." His eyes meet the camera lens once more. "It was you. Not your sister, or any other woman that my son has ever escorted through our house. It's you." He shifts in his seat, "What I'm referring to, it's undefinable, yet not many women have it. I see it in Rosalie. I saw it in Zara. I see it in you."
"Before this year, there were only two women in the world that I believed could run my empire, Rosalie and Jaiyana." Michael fights a faint smile. "And now there's you, positioning yourself amongst a name of greats. Rosie is young, but she's special. It's in her blood. Jaiyana—I knew she was special from the beginning, and I was right. She just needed a little training, a little teaching, just like you. You have everything you need to find yourself in the history books, amongst my name, Vincenzo's, and Liam's. But the purpose of this video is to teach you things you need to know in order for you to get there."
Michael's lips part, but words don't follow. His throat tightens, his chest constricts—then his bottom lip shakes. His eyes water and before he can even lift a hand to stop it, a tear falls. He wipes at it quickly, turning his head just enough to conceal the movement from the screen.
Vulnerability has never been one of Michael's most favorite feelings.
He pushes through his speech. "Because if you're watching this, then I'm dead."
Michael's eyes meet the camera once more. He doesn't turn away as another tear falls, followed by a third, then a fourth. But to be clear, he isn't upset at the idea of his death—he's welcoming it, borderline thankful for the event that has yet to happen.
He's upset because if he's recording this video, then that means his biggest fear has come true.
"Because if you're watching this, then I'm dead," Michael repeats lowly beneath his breath, struggling to finish the sentence. He takes a breath.
"And so is my son."
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D I A V O L O // G A B R I E L
[MONTHS AGO]
-RUSSIA-
It's cold. It's dark. The floor is hard and wet from the rainwater that's seeped through the cracks in the foundation of the Rostov's mansion, finding a home on the floor of the assassin's cell. Small bricks of concrete litter the floor from where Diavolo ripped the chains from the wall in anger. Clumps of his dark hair lie scattered around his cell from the last time they cut it months ago. The curly strands not only mix with the rainwater, but with his blood—the bleeding caused by his most recent bout of torture.
The assassin sits in the corner with his long legs pulled as tightly to his chest as possible, his forearms on his knees, and his head bowed.
The Russian soldiers like to joke, suggesting that the assassin doesn't sleep. Nobody has ever seen Diavolo sleep. He simply enters stand-by mode. Eyes closed. Senses heightened. His breathing exercises slow his heart rate.
He always hears the night duty guard approaching. If the guard is a dick, he will rattle the locked prison bar door or run his baton across the metal to disrupt any rest the assassin might be receiving. But tonight, the guard on night duty doesn't show.
Diavolo lifts his head immediately, eyes narrowing underneath his black hood.
It's too quiet. He pulls himself to his feet and presses forward, unable to avoid stepping into a shallow puddle. He wraps his gloved hands around two metal bars and closes his eyes again, listening.
Then the alarm sounds.
If Diavolo didn't live in fight or flight mode, it would've been activated.
The shrill of the alarm is loud enough to wake the dead. It's paired with a spinning red light, that illuminates Diavolo's dark cell and the metal barrier that restrains him. It lights up the long hallway that ends in a stairwell, leading upstairs.
A door opens and shuts at the top of the stairwell and the sound of footsteps descending the stairs echo down the narrow hallway. Diavolo narrows his eyes, curious to see who's been sent to let the monster out his cage.
His grip tightens on the cage bars as the soldier strides down the hallway, towards him. It isn't a piss-on soldier who has nothing to lose, but it's the commander of Valentin Rostov's army, unaccompanied. Kirill Volkov. You can tell he holds the highest position in the army based on the badges clinging to his form-fitting uniform. A gun is strapped to his hip, the thigh opposite, and a semi-auto is slung across his back. He pulls out a ring of keys as he steps in front Diavolo's cage.
Kirill is the only solider who doesn't bring back up when it comes to releasing the assassin. He's the only soldier who doesn't require Diavolo to take multiple steps backwards before unlocking his cell door, despite witnessing the mauling of those who have made the same mistake. He doesn't fear a monster he knows he can tame, nor does he fear a human who is misunderstood.
Kirill nods, doing what many won't, and turns his back on Diavolo, retreating towards the steps. The assassin falls in line with the soldier, no questions asked. "Intruder. An assassin sent to take Valentin out—" The commander stops abruptly, and Diavolo follows a step ahead of him, glancing back at Kirill's hesitation. "—I know you're smiling under there, you sick fuck—"
Kirill Volkov is the only soldier that has ever heard Diavolo speak more than a word, more than a grunt or a growl. He's the only solider that will willingly march down into the basement to check on the assassin. He does more than just glance into the cage to make sure Diavolo is still there but is the only one who will open the door and sit beside him. The commander concluded at a young age that treating a monster like a monster will get you one.
But treating Diavolo like a human—something he has never experienced—might yield a different result. And it has. Kirill has earned trust. He's earned the assassin's respect. Diavolo doesn't know it, but Kirill has earned his friendship. It took years.
Kirill Volkov was a recruited child soldier, and at the age of eight he began his training at the Rostov's estate. He was stripped from his family, his home, and thrown into an unfamiliar setting to be something he never wanted to be. He always told his parents he wanted to be one of the good guys—the police, maybe even a firefighter—but he never had the chance. He was never given the chance. It wasn't long after he joined the Rostov family that he built the courage to visit the monster in the basement.
The monster in the basement didn't talk to Kirill then, but he talks now.
The monster in the basement never made eye contact. He makes it now.
The monster in the basement never smiled. Kirill isn't sure, but he's certain that Diavolo has cracked a smile underneath the hood of his once or twice during a conversation.
But what changed everything was the epiphany that hit Kirill one night in his late teenaged years. There was never a monster in that basement, just a young man conditioned to believe that's what he was.
And conditioned to believe that's all he'll ever be.
Diavolo turns from Kirill, continuing their steady journey down the long hallway. "I do not smile."
The commander can hear a smile but doesn't object. He switches topics quickly. "I thought it would be best to let you sleep, but...well, we have it covered. The assassin is surrounded. Gun to Valentin's heart. But it's suicide. A simple command and he'll have about two hundred bullets piercing his body at once."
"Is the assassin Russian?"
"Italian."
Diavolo stops, forcing Kirill to do the same. "Who?"
The commander pulls a phone from his pocket and flips the screen so Diavolo can see. "Just had IT pull his file. Gathered about every single piece of information on this guy, all the way down to the hospital he was born at. I'm pretty sure they even have his social—"
"Federico De Santis—" There isn't much that catches the Russian assassin off guard, but this has. He meets the commander's eyes. "He cannot die." Diavolo takes off down the hallway, "He cannot die. He cannot die."
"Diavolo." Kirill curses beneath his breath and jogs, doing his best to catch his friend. "Diavolo! Gabriel!"
The assassin freezes at the bottom of the steps.
Kirill rips out the communication wire that travels out his ear and coils, running down the side of his neck. Nobody could ever hear what he's about to say. "Calm the fuck down."
"I'm not going to calm down." Diavolo reaches for his hood and yanks it down. The curls that took so long to grow back bounce around his youthful face, drawing attention away from the healing scar on his left cheek. "You don't understand."
It's a dangerous move to many, but Kirill doesn't hesitate to rest a comforting hand on Gabe's shoulder. Gabriel tenses but doesn't shake his hand off. "I will not let him die. That's why I'm here. That's why I came to get you. But you need to know that I understand a lot more than you think."
Gabriel blows out a mouthful of air. "No, you do not."
"Oh, really?" Kirill's offended tone is easy to spot. "Then tell me if you've heard this story before. The Rostov and De Santis family fight for decades, but instead of following any sort of code, Valentin Rostov aims his line of fire at the Antonio De Santis' heir, taking out his fiancé and his child. But instead of taking out the child, like he made so many people believe, he switches the body—Vincenzo De Santis is too distraught to even give a fuck about double checking, and strips the next De Santis heir, locks him in a basement, beats the shit out of him, conditions him to be some sick, in-human object that kills on order, only—"
Diavolo clamps a large hand around Kirill's throat, driving him hard into the concrete wall. Air isn't an option. The commanders first instinct is claw at the arm cutting off his circulation but it's a waste of time. Although he might appear more muscular than Diavolo, the assassin has been expertly trained on when and how to use his strength. Kirill draws his weapon with rapid speed, only to have it flung across the hall.
A red zone Diavolo is the most dangerous Diavolo of them all, and unfortunately for Kirill, the assassin is there now. He's always been able to spot it but hasn't entirely figured out what triggers the response in the assassin. A red zone Diavolo nearly took out one-third of Valentin's army a couple years back, so Kirill knows he doesn't have a chance except for the one he decides to take.
He arches his back just enough to get an ounce of air, then struggles to say, "You're not surprised. How long have you known?"
Air rushes into the commander's lungs as Gabriel drops him immediately. The assassin lets a second pass, unafraid to meet Kirill's gaze as he gasps for air. No verbal apology is necessary.
How long have you known?
"Since I was twelve," is Gabriel's response.
Air leaves Kirill's lungs out of shock this time. "Gabe—Gabriel—" He reaches for his retreating friend, grasping his shoulder and yanking him back, "G, stop, just stop." Their eyes meet and confusion writes itself all over Kirill's face. "Okay, maybe I don't understand." He waits for Gabriel to utter a word in explanation, but when he doesn't, Kirill decides to try and rehash the story once more. "You've known since you were twelve that Valentin isn't your father, took you from your actual family, and has tortured you and made you this...thing, in what I can assume, is just a sick way at getting back at your real father, which you knew?"
"Yes."
"Since you were twelve?'
"Yes."
"I'm so—"
"Valentin's ultimate plan is to take out the De Santis family, using a De Santis to do so."
It clicks for the commander. "He's using you."
"Yes."
"Gabe—" Kirill reaches for Gabriel once more, but this time the assassin shakes him off. The commander doesn't care. "Why the fuck are you still fighting for this man if you know what he did? If you know what he's going to do?"
There's a moment in time given to Gabriel to answer the question. A half second of silence dedicated to his response, but all he does is tug the hood over his face.
Diavolo doesn't respond.
••━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
The Federico De Santis that stands inside the Rostov's home is not the one Diavolo remembers studying. He's pulled hundreds of hours of video footage on the Italian's assassin, analyzing everything from his footwork to his timing. Diavolo knows when Federico is more likely to throw a right hook than a left, to when the assassin prefers to go on the defensive than the offensive in a fight. He knows how Federico fights when he's outnumbered, outgunned, or caught off guard.
But as excellent of a fighter Federico is, Diavolo is certain that he makes for a better marksman. After hours of analyzing even more footage, he wouldn't be surprised if Federico could hit a needle in a moving haystack from a ridiculous distance.
All the videos Diavolo watched, all the quick clips of the Italian's assassin continuously laughing, smiling, or causing others to do the same did not prepare him for this. For this Federico. The confidence spotted in every video is gone, for the hand holding the gun to Valentin Rostov's heart, shakes. The always calm, always cool, and always collected world-renowned assassin is falling apart right before Diavolo's eyes.
"Shut up!" Federico shouts into the crowd, unknown that he's responding to Kirill Volkov's demand to put his gun down. "I take orders from one man and he is not here."
"Vincenzo De Santis?" Valentin steps toward the assassin as Diavolo moves swiftly through the thick crowd of soldiers, working his way towards Federico. The confidence in Valentin's voice, paired with a mocking tone is almost enough to wake the sleeping demon inside Diavolo. "Did your father really believe he could send you here to kill me, and expect you to come back?
Federico is losing composure. His hand starts to shake move, affecting the grip he has on his gun. Diavolo can pinpoint the bead of sweat that begins to roll down the assassin's temple, as well as the way his eyes dart around the crowded room. It's starting to sink in. The idea of death is starting to sink in, and for just a second, Diavolo recognizes peace.
It washes over Federico's face like the waves of the ocean people are always speaking about. Diavolo has never seen the ocean for himself, so he has to believe what others say.
"Yes," Federico answers, "He did."
"Then you are stupider than I thought if you believed the same as he did."
"Who said I ever believed I would return home?"
Diavolo and Kirill meet eyes from across the room.
Valentin doesn't hesitate to speak up. "You're saying you knew this was a suicide mission from the start?" It might seem like a simple question, but it's one that would break even the strongest man down. Valentin knew the answer to the question before he even asked it.
The gun in Federico's hand starts to shake more, and he's unable to keep it aimed at his target's heart—but Diavolo understands, Valentin was never the target.
Federico De Santis knows he was his own target the entire time.
"There's not much I don't know."
Diavolo approaches closer, closing the distance between him and Federico. But he hesitates, coming to a halt beside another soldier as Federico shuts his eyes. His shoulders begin to shake, and his face turns a faint shade of red. When his eyes open, he turns the gun on himself.
"De Santis! Put the gun down!"
"Close in! He's going to pull the trigger!"
"Boss! He's gonna do it!"
Diavolo takes a steady breath as time appears to slow. Shouting erupts from every angle as soldiers press forward, many wanting to take the shot themselves, to be able to say they took down the world-renowned assassin. Many others want to take Federico into custody, tie him up in the basement, and torture him for the fun of it. Diavolo wants neither.
He can hear the soldier beside him, shouting something about I'll kill De Santis before I let him kill himself. The soldier releases the safety on his weapon and takes aim, preparing to pull the trigger—
Diavolo glances between the man to his right and Federico. It isn't till he looks to the Italian do their eyes meet. Diavolo nods subtly in respect. But he realizes he can only stop one or the other. He reads Federico's body language in a matter of milliseconds, determining that the soldier to his right will kill the assassin faster than the assassin can kill himself.
"I surrender."
Diavolo snatches the glock from the soldier and wraps a solid arm around the man, pulling him flush against his chest. Diavolo jams the gun underneath his jaw and pulls the trigger.
Chaos erupts as the soldier's partially headless body hits the floor. Federico's gun is next to hit the floor, startled by a gunshot he thought would be his.
Diavolo doesn't hesitate. He breaks through the barrier of the crowd, sprinting towards Federico. Everyone anticipates what's about to happen—the monster's lost control and he's about to kill the intruder. But nobody lost control because Diavolo has it all. Before he can reach Federico a group of soldiers restrain him, then they restrain the Italian, pulling the two apart from each other.
Valentin just smiles. "Oh, you want him?"
A low rumble rises from the back of Diavolo's throat as he fights against the six men holding his arm back. Nobody in the room can see the slick smile cross his face as his witnesses his plan fall in perfect place.
Valentin turns to his commander. "Let Diavolo have him. Whatever remains we can send it to his daddy."
Kirill nods respectfully, ordering his soldiers to escort the De Santis boy out the room. Valentin holds a palm high, forcing the soldiers to wait. He comes to stand before Federico, quiet as he just nods. "Just like your father." He rests a cold palm against Federico's cheek. The assassin doesn't fight it. "A whole bitch."
Valentin doesn't walk away until he's spit in Federico's face.
Federico's shoulders just fall.
There's no fight left.
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
A multitude of soldier's escort Federico back to the cage, followed by their commander and Diavolo, who remain back at a respectable distance. The prison-like door is open, and Federico is thrown in. He stumbles and drops to his knees and by the time he looks up, Diavolo is standing over him.
The cell door is shut behind them and laughter echoes as the soldier's march away, muttering something about giving Diavolo privacy as he tears that weak bitch to pieces.
Federico backs himself into a corner, the same one Diavolo stood from earlier, and presses himself against the wall. Diavolo turns back at the feeling of someone still watching them, finding Kirill eyeing Federico with compassion.
Diavolo grabs the metal bars of his cage and leans himself forward, lowering his voice so Federico doesn't hear. "Emotion," He nods at the commander.
"He just...he reminds me of you."
The expression that crosses the assassin's face is a mixture of a grimace and pure disgust. The commander fights the laughter building in his throat as he witnesses the rare expression change of his friend. It's rare you see Diavolo change expression, rare you see his face at all. Many of the soldiers have yet to master the ability to read the assassin's body language, but Kirill has it down.
"Disrespectful," Diavolo mutters, casting a glance over his shoulder. He can barely make out Federico's frame as the he clings to the concrete wall for security. "When have I ever looked that...that..." He can't find the words.
By the time Diavolo glances back, Kirill is shooting him a pathetic look. "Remember who you're talking to. You've looked like that before. You don't show it like..."
"Say it."
"...you don't show it like normal people do, but I've seen it." Kirill clears his throat and lowers his voice to a low mumble. "He looks like he could use a friend but hurry up. If he isn't dead by sunrise, I've been ordered to execute." Diavolo feels a nudge by his hand and glances down. The commander offers him a set of keys. "Do what you need to. Get him out of here. I'll be back."
Diavolo pockets the keys as Kirill strides down the hallway and bounds up the stairs. He turns and cranes his head, unsure of how to approach. A part of him knew he would get this far, because hell, no-one has been able to stop him a day in his life—yet another part of him didn't think he'd get this far.
The assassin steps through another puddle, leans his back against the concrete wall, and slides down it a couple feet from Federico.
The two sit in silence until.
"Nice place you got here."
Diavolo hesitates, then in a low, shy voice, he responds. "I clean it once a week."
Federico's laugh lights the dark, dingy room up. One could argue that he laughs too hard for something that didn't deserve it. Then silence welcomes them both.
"I've studied a lot about you, Cinderella." Federico glances over at Diavolo, eyeing the man carefully. Even seated, he's more intimidating in person than in video. He's taller, shoulders a bit broader, and the outfit just takes the cake. Federico's convinced if he was in any other situation that he would've shit himself if he saw this thing running towards him at full speed. "But in no videos or audio or file did it mention that you speak."
Diavolo narrows his eyes, confirming with a single word: "Selectively."
Federico pulls his legs to his chest and wraps his arms around them. He keeps his eyes on the assassin beside him. His black clothes drape over his body in a way that shields everything. No matter what angle he turns his head, his face is concealed. Rico couldn't even pinpoint his complexion, thanks to the gloves that cling to each hand.
"I know you're supposed to kill me and everything and respect—" Federico holds up a fist, "—for not doing it so quickly because I have seen your work and let me just say..." Diavolo glances in his direction and Federico pauses, his humorous statement lost in what he really wants to say. His shoulders fall. "I know you're not here to be my therapist, but I thought killing myself would be easier when I had pressure." He looks up. "I've tried before...to shoot myself in the head, eat a bullet, take a bunch of pills, but I always bitch out and it's stupid, but I just thought if I got myself in some wild ass situation that it would be easier and what did I do—bitch out."
"Why do you want to die?"
Federico stands, "Because—" Then he stops, and for the first time since he's been thrown in the cage, he sees it. He sees the thin blanket in the corner. He sees the blood mixing with the water in shallow puddles beneath his feet. He sees the chains and the cuffs attached to them. He blinks, making the connection. "Because I...I never wanted to be this. Because I never wanted to be this. I never wanted to be Fantasma but when I say that I feel like I guilt my dad because I'm who he wanted me to be."
"You can't die."
Federico slumps back against the wall and drops into a seated position. "A lot of the people I've talked to say that, when they don't know how bad it is. They tell me to keep going, keep fighting, but when it's just me and me alone locked in a dark bedroom—everyone else living their life while I'm—I'm paralyzed with..." He lets out a breath, "Nothing I'm saying makes sense, just forget it—" Rico stands again.
"I do not know much about love." The way Diavolo says it, Federico must agree. "But if you don't protect the people you love, or loves you, then who will? There're not many people like us. Not many people that can walk into a room and know if shit goes down, we will be the only ones walking out of it. I think I know what you mean, but I haven't...It's been so long since..." Diavolo slaps the concrete below in frustration as he struggles to explain himself.
Federico notices his hesitation and pitches in. "I don't think you know what love is. I think you're just trying to make me feel better and I appreciate it. But love is...it's...unconditional. I think you'd have to see it to know what it meant."
Diavolo doesn't entirely understand, nor does he try. He clears his throat. "I've died every single day of my life, but I can't kill myself."
He has Federico's undivided attention now. "Can I ask why?"
Federico is met with a deeper, more raspy voice. "Because then my mission will be in vain."
"And your mission?"
Diavolo hesitates. He's known his mission since he was twelve. He's planned every piece of it accordingly. There isn't a day he wakes up that his mission isn't progressing, or a day he doesn't wake up when it isn't on his mind. Everything he does is because of it and everything he has done is because of it. He's never voiced it out loud, not even to Kirill, and that is why he hesitates.
Federico snaps his fingers in front of Diavolo's face. "Your mission, Cinderella? You can't keep me—"
"To burn this motherfucking empire to the ground and take Valentin Rostov with me." Diavolo's catches Rico's eyes from beneath his hood. "That is my fucking mission and stop calling me Cinderella, I don't even know who the fuck that is."
Federico pauses. "I'm not sure which is worse, the fact that the Russian assassin is planning on taking down the biggest Russian mafia family in generations or the fact you don't know basic Disney."
"What is Disney?"
"Oh, you're far gone."
Diavolo stands as Federico paces, muttering something about if he makes it out of here, which Disney movie he should convince Diavolo to watch first. "I mean, Tangled, is literally excellent, ten out of ten, and the singing? Top tie—"
"You've been looking for me." Diavolo cuts him off, causing Rico to stop in his tracks. He looks up, a serious expression washing over his face as hie eyebrows crease together. The Russian assassin lifts his hand slowly, his heartrate rapidly increasing as he pulls the hood from his face. There aren't many that have seen his face, and he wants to keep it that way, but this was vital.
Federico's face pales.
Gabriel clears his throat, nervous. "I don't know everything. But I know when you were nineteen, you went to the grave of Vincenzo's son and you had them dig him up and test his DNA. And you found out that that was not Vincenzo's biological son. You found out that the Russians switched his son with someone else's, killing that baby, but not his, and from that day on you've been looking for him. You didn't tell your dad. You just started looking. I don't know much, but I do know it's me. I'm Vincenzo's son."
Gabriel bows his head, allowing his thick, dark curls to droop across his face. Federico takes a cautious step towards him, his eyes darting to the matted hair on the floor, and it makes sense.
"They cut it." Gabriel admits. "This is the longest it's been in years, because they always cut it."
Federico is speechless, because he sees it. Gabriel looks more like Acacia, his mother, than he does Vincenzo—but one thing is certain: "You got his hair," Federico breathes out.
Gabriel lifts his head, meeting Federico's eyes with a faint smile. "And his rage."
Rico's smile matches his. "Those were always his better qualities." His laugh is brief. "We have to get you the fuck out of here."
Gabriel doesn't move. "I was going to say the same for you."
Federico moves to the metal door and shakes it. The thing barely budges. He glances over his shoulder, frowning as Gabriel remains stuck in place. "Why aren't you moving?" He steps away from the door. "I've seen your work. Knock the door down."
"It doesn't happen on command."
Federico snaps, "Well wake the demon, Cindy, we've gots to go."
"No." Gabriel shakes his head and slips a hand inside the concealed pocket of his pants. He tosses a ring of keys in Federico's direction. "You go. I stay."
Federico lets out a laugh that signals his unbelief. He marches toward Gabriel and lowers his voice. "Okay, listen here champ, I understand you're not used to social situations considering..." A quick glance around Diavolo's home states his point, "But you just told me that you're my dad's long lost son, whom has been presumed dead for over twenty years, whom I have heard my father crying night after night about you, only to find out you're trapped in the creepy, dirty ass basement of the gnome looking bitch who also so happens to be my father's worst freaking enemy and you want me to leave you?"
Gabriel cringes. "That had to be a run-on sentence—"
"You're coming with me." Federico grabs Gabriel by the arm, only to be flung off.
"No, I'm not."
"Just shut up. I'm saving your life."
"I didn't ask to be saved."
Federico's shoulders slump. "You saved mine. This is what we do. You save mine, I save yours. It's an Italian thing, you wouldn't know anything about that."
"Why would you throw a tree?"
"That was shade."
"Same difference."
"I just felt a couple brain cells die."
"Something always does in my presence."
Federico laughs, "Oh, you got jokes? You're cute. I like—" Rico curses as Diavolo shoves him outside the cell, grabs the key ring, and slams the door, locking himself back in his cage. Anger flashes across Federico's face as the assassin slams against the door, "You fucking—"
"Save your friends. I don't need saving."
"Yes, you fucking do."
"I'm sorry, Federico." He meets Rico's eyes, yet he can't quite mirror the look of sadness in them. "But the mission isn't done."
"Fuck the mission, Diavolo—"
"You can call me Gabriel."
Federico falls back to his previous point. "Okay, Gabriel, forget the mission. You're going to die."
"I'm sorry."
"For dying?"
Gabriel presses himself against the metal and shakes his head. "For what I have to do to your friends. They're going to get hurt, but I have to. I have to do it for the mission. I learned a long time ago that the only way to really take an empire out is from the inside. I've been working on this for years, and I can't stop now. Not when I'm so close."
"Come with me, and I promise we will help you."
Gabriel fights a scoff. "Do you really expect me to believe that after everything I've done—everything I'm going to do, whoever is on the other end of we is going to help me?"
"Listen to me. I've done a lot in my lifetime, and I've been forgiven and I know that's terrible to say, but I promise—"
Gabriel steps away from the door, ignoring Federico. "When I was ten, Valentin told me that I was on a collision course with death. And there is nothing you can say or do to stop it. I plan on taking this motherfucker's empire down, even though I live underneath it. I'm taking him with me."
Federico sighs. He can't fight this. He can't fight Gabriel. He lets out a breath. "Be willing to die for the mission. You're more Italian than you think, Cindy. I respect that."
"Thank you."
Federico pauses, not wanting to leave. "I hope you know I plan on coming back for you. I want dad to meet you."
"He'll never accept me."
"You're fighting for an empire you were stripped from. You're fighting for an empire you were never apart of, Gabriel." Federico steps forward, "You don't know Vince like I do. He'd accept you. He accepted me."
"We're different."
"How so?"
Gabriel takes a step back, distancing himself. He speaks quietly. "Because I am nothing but the monster in the basement."
Federico shakes his head. "That's what you were taught to believe. You're not what they make you think you are. These people are evil, and I'm going to make sure you find out everything you want to know about what happened when you're younger. I just need you to promise me that you'll stay alive till then." He starts to retreat, "And by the way, since you're so content on fighting this war, if you hurt anybody that I love, if you even lay a finger on Carmen Esperanza Vega, I'm coming for your ass."
Diavolo leans forward, smiling a devilish smile.
"Challenge accepted."
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
a/n: hi, *dodges rapid fire* no but fr i'm so sorry about the wait. for those who know, I had a wild ass summer and got into graduate school. Updates are already infrequent and they will continue to be so, but I'm really doing my best.
I will not be abandoning this book, so never feel like that.
Thank you to everyone leaving kind messages on my wall. I see them all.
I wrote about 7k words in one day so that's wild I'm bout done for the night but I hope you all stay safe. Love you. Back to the irregularly scheduled program of our main characters next chapter. highly recommend refreshing your memory.
y'all i think i forgot how to write anyways the fact that gabe talks more with rico >> love that. thanks for being so patient !