xxxii | heaven and hell
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
This is not a night Federico De Santis will ever remember once he grows up.
The sound of thunder rumbling the wooden floors of the De Santis estate will be replaced by the pain of every fist that will meet his rib cage. The vibration, eerily similar. The sound of lightening striking the grounds outside will be replaced by every gunshot he ever heard. The blanket that trails behind him will become his robe. And the burger king crown that sits tilted on his head, will be replaced with a real one.
Federico, at only ten years old, turns the corner into the office. "Dad?"
This is not a night Vincenzo De Santis will ever forget.
Because one day he, too, will be replaced by the father Federico deserves – and the one he knows he can never be.
Vincenzo glances up from his work. He smiles when his eyes land on Federico. The boy will never be able to understand, and Vincenzo is okay with that, because he will never be able to find the words to express just how the ten-year-old standing in his doorway saved his life. And his empire.
Thunder vibrates the walls of the estate. Federico flinches. Lightning strikes, momentarily lighting up the dim room. Vincenzo smiles.
Vincenzo and Federico. Thunder and Lightning. The history books will one day compare one duo with the other. There is no preparation that you can do for the destruction that thunder and lightning can bring. There is nothing you can do to stop them from coming. All you can do is watch them leave.
"I'm scared of thunderstorms," Federico blurts out before Vince can question why he's not in bed. The boy has lost count of how many days it had been since Vincenzo plucked him from the street and gave him a real home. The wrinkled calendar in the corner of his bedroom where he had been keeping track stopped at 365 days. But even at a year, and a little bit more—a timeframe he may never remember—the two didn't know much of each other.
Federico can't remember the exact moment he started calling Vincenzo "dad," but it had stuck with him ever since. Sure, the two engaged in nerf-gun wars with other soldiers that always left Rico with pain in his lungs and his cheeks, both from laughing way too hard. But Federico didn't open up about his past, and Vincenzo was the same.
The boy feels his heart sink at the look Vincenzo shares with him from across the room. He will never admit to how much Vincenzo used to scare him. His voice is deep, his words laced with an accent that makes him even more intimidating. His hair is long, draping just far enough over his forehead to block the browns of his eyes.
Rico will never know that Vincenzo began wearing bandanas again, using the material to push his curls out of his eyes, for him.
"I'm..." Federico shifts in his stance, wanting nothing more than to turn and bolt out the room. He doesn't say it as confidently the second time, "...really scared of thunderstorms."
"Then good thing thunderstorms are terrified of me," Vincenzo smiles, offering Federico a seat beside him on the plush sofa.
Vincenzo fights a low chuckle as the boy rushes to his side, doing everything he can to keep the paper crown atop his head while avoiding getting his feet tangled with the long blanket draped across the back of his shoulders. Federico leaps to the sofa and melts into its warm embrace with a faint smile.
They share a moment of silence. Federico with his eyes closed, his shoulders relaxing and his breath attempting to return to normal now that he is safe. Vincenzo, sharing a brief glance at the boy before returning to the work that is sprawled out before him—folders, papers—all of them requiring his overexaggerated signature.
He's halfway done signing his name when Rico talks again. "What are you afraid of?"
The pen freezes. Losing control. Love (because everything that he has quietly claimed to love, has left or been taken from him). Losing his empire (because he would be nothing without it). Thunderstorms (because it was pouring rain the night his mother was murdered). Michael, the only one who understands him, his only friend, leaving him. Vulnerability. Being alone. Dying alone. Vincenzo De Santis (because he is afraid of himself). Federico's parents (because he is afraid that every day that passes by, and every moment he allows himself to love the boy will leave him vulnerable to the day the inevitable happens and they return for their son).
The remaining portion of his name is sloppy and rushed. He drops the pen.
"Thunderstorms," Vincenzo leans back, offering Federico a wink and the ghost of a smile.
Little Rico gives his dad a knowing smile and lifts a small fist, "I'll never tell anybody."
Their fists meet in a silent promise.
"I like your crown." Vincenzo shifts in his seat, the papers requiring his signature now on the back burner. He plucks the burger king crown from Federico's head and flips it onto his. It sits on his head funny because of his hair and Rico stifles a laugh.
"You don't need a crown!" Federico sits up just long enough to snatch his crown back, dramatically placing it back on his head before falling back into the comfort of the sofa's pillows. "You already have a real one."
Vincenzo watches Rico adjust the crown back to his liking before speaking again, "Would you want a real one, one day?"
Federico contemplates his answer while he plays with a loose thread on the blanket. Their gazes eventually meet. "Yes, but I wouldn't want yours."
"Why?" Vince frowns.
"That would mean something happened to you." Federico shrugs, unable to hold eye contact any longer. He's never had a real parent before. He can't imagine losing the only one he has now. "I don't want something to happen to you."
Something clicks inside the boy's head. "That's why I'm going to train and be the best assassin ever," Rico states boldly. "So that way nothing ever happens to me, or you, and we can be the best nerf-war team that anybody has ever seen forever and ever."
Vincenzo offers a knowing smile, "We are undefeated, aren't we?"
Federico laughs, "Hell yeah."
"Language."
"Fuck off."
The two fall into their own laughter, a warm sound in comparison to the rhythm of cold rain hitting the window.
"I don't want to let you down," Federico admits quietly, "I want to train and be a better assassin than you, for you. Like, as a thank you." He hesitates but glances up to see if Vincenzo is watching him. He is. "I was at the orphanage a long time, and nobody wanted me. I know something is probably wrong with me—"
"Absolutely nothing is wrong with you."
"Then why didn't my parents want me?"
Vincenzo doesn't hesitate. "I want you." He knows he should say more, to open up and express all the feelings that he doesn't have the vocabulary for. But he doesn't.
"I just want you to be proud of me." Rico sighs, "I just want you to be happy."
"Funny," Vincenzo leans back against the cushion, and shoots a smile over at the boy. "I could say the same to you."
Federico smiles and draws the blanket close to his neck as the storm continues to rage outside. With heavy eyelids, he watches as Vincenzo shifts back upright, reorganizes his papers, and continues scrawling his name across the bottom in declaration. Federico yawns as the silence draws on longer and the storm only picks up in intensity. He likes this feeling. A calmness that he isn't used too, one that doesn't include the tightening in his chest and the nerves that cause his hands to shake. He feels safe, and he knows who to thank for that.
"You know what I think?" Federico's voice is soft, his eyelids fighting against the strong urge to sleep. He sees Vince's hand pause, hovering over the paper, and he knows his dad is listening. "I think if you're the best assassin ever, and I become the bestest assassin ever, then we could be the best assassin's ever, together. And nobody could stop us. The only people who could stop us..."
The boy's words fade, and Vincenzo's sits quietly, eagerly anticipating the ending of a sentence that Rico will never finish.
Vincenzo does so for him. "...Is us."
He glances over his shoulder then, his eyes falling on Federico, who has managed to lull himself to sleep. He draws his attention away from Federico and begins to sign the remaining few papers roughly, his pen digging into the paper and his name becoming more and more illegible as the cursing in his head continues.
Damn him. "I'm afraid of losing control, and I put myself through hell in training to be able to control situations and I still can't. I still lost my mom, I still lost the woman I loved, I still lost my son." Vincenzo mutters violently to himself as he shoves another paper away and presses his pen to another line, his frustration only growing, "I'm afraid of fucking thunderstorms, and I'm afraid of fucking sleeping because I'm no better than anybody else when my eyes are closed. I'm afraid of being by myself and I'm afraid of dying alone. I'm afraid of losing someone else that I care about. I'm afraid that your parents are going to come and take you from me, and I'm afraid of myself. Because I hate myself, so why wouldn't you?"
Vincenzo stands abruptly. Damn him. He doesn't know how to feel. He doesn't know if its guilt or relief that pulls at his chest knowing Federico didn't hear him. Maybe it's a little bit of both—guilt, knowing he should have opened up when Rico gave him the opportunity. Relief, knowing his worst fears are still safe inside his mind.
He tucks the blanket around Federico once more before slowly making his way out the room. He keeps a crack in the door, just incase the boy wakes up, frantically looking for him. The trip Vincenzo makes to the kitchen is swift, his steps carrying him much faster than they do today—where age, injury, and even more loss, have slowed him.
He flips the light on in the hallway as he enters the kitchen, giving himself just enough light to maneuver and grab a glass of water without blinding himself. He grabs a chilled plastic bottle of water from the fridge and a glass from the cabinet. His hand freezes once he begins to twist the plastic cap.
He and Michael used to laugh, calling Vincenzo's ability to sense even the slightest shift in energy a superpower. But this was not something he was born with, but something he was forced to learn. It's the way Vincenzo's body automatically stiffens, his head tilting ever so slightly, listening for confirmation. He can always tell when he isn't the only one in the room. Vincenzo would tell you it is the way the air shifts or the way the floor groans under another weight. It's not something the retired assassin can explain, nor something we will ever understand. Even Michael gave up a long time ago.
Vincenzo's instincts, once again, do not fail him. But the energy he picks up isn't a negative one. Like he never hesitated, Vince breaks the seal of the water bottle and begins to transfer the liquid into a glass. His shoulders relax and his fight or flight response slowly dissipates, all while he remains with his back to the dark, grand kitchen.
"I thought I sensed my demon," Vincenzo draws the glass to his lips and turns around, leaning against his black, marble countertop.
Michael Luciano takes a step forward, a smile toying at the corner of his lips. The hallway light catches his smile perfectly yet misses his eyes almost purposefully. "Is that really how you view me? I always thought I was the angel on your shoulder."
Vincenzo fights to choke down water and suppress a laugh at the same time. He lifts his glass as a one-man toast, "Cheers to your delusions."
The diamonds that sit nestled in Michael Luciano's ears and the chain that clings tight to his neck shimmer just as bright in the ray of light as his smile. His outfit gives away the purpose of his visit. Michael has retired his infamous suits and embarrassingly large tie collection for the night, swapping it for a pair of black sweatpants and a black zip up hoodie, which he refused to zip up. The only thing that clung to his torso was a thin layer of rain drops and a necklace.
"What're you doing here, Michael?" Vincenzo tries to fight the irritation in his voice, but he can tell by the way Michael's face morphs into one of mocking, that he does a terrible job.
"Damn, can I at least get a hug first?"
But as irritated as Vincenzo wants to be, he can't help but smile as Michael walks around the massive island, centered directly in the middle of the room. He sets his glass of water in time for one of their many handshakes. This is the one where Michael pretends to throw a right hook, then a left, then a higher right while Vincenzo blocks effortlessly before the two transition smoothly for a brief hug.
Michael grabs another water from the fridge, Vincenzo watching him silently the entire time. That was his best friend. The one he told everything to, even the fears he couldn't bring to tell his own son, Michael knew. He was terrified for a long while, worried that Michael would use them to his advantage one way or another—somehow finding a way to throw them in during one of their many arguments—but he never did, and Vince hoped he never would.
"I repeat," Vincenzo mutters, watching the remaining sip of his water swirl around in his glass. He looks up once Michael makes himself comfortable atop his island, feet dangling. "What are you doing here?"
Michael feigns disappointment. "Can I not check up on my best friend's mental health?"
Vince blinks. "No."
Michael takes a sip of his water before setting it down beside him. His momentary silence is noticed. Michael looks up again. "You haven't answered my calls."
A muscle in Vincenzo's jaw clenches. "I've been busy."
Michael mirrors him, and a switch is flipped. "Answer me when I fucking call you."
Vincenzo sets his glass down so hard he's surprised it doesn't shatter in his hands. He takes two steps forward, a threatening move in Michael Luciano's eyes. "I'm not your fucking bitch."
Michael pushes himself off the island and rises to meet Vincenzo at his full height. The former assassin doesn't flinch. Their stare-down doesn't last long. Michael can't help himself. "You sure?" He teases, sarcasm laced through his Italian accent. Michael pulls at one of Vincenzo's tight curls, "I usually like them with curly hair."
Vincenzo scoffs and Michael laughs, even as he's shoved playfully backwards. The edge of the countertops strikes Michael in the ribs, and he groans through another laugh. By the time he turns around, clutching his ribs—mainly because of laughter, not pain—Vincenzo has resumed his position and is staring at him.
"So, you flew from California to Michigan because you wanted to check on me?" Vincenzo questions.
Michael lifts an index finger, "In inclement weather, might I add."
"You saint," Vincenzo adds dryly.
They both laugh, Vincenzo's fading faster than his. Michael pulls himself back onto his seat and falls quiet, Vincenzo clearly more interested in his water than in talking to him. But silence has never been a bad thing, and Michael has learned to embrace it. For the most important lessons he's ever learned have been delivered in the quiet.
Michael had always heard that everyone mourned loss differently. He learned quickly just what kind of mourner Vincenzo was. The more time that passed after the loss of his mother, then eventually the love of his life and his child, the more it affected him. His joking nature, the banter that Michael always loved to engage in, went first. His laughter, followed shortly after.
The king of the Luciano empire will never admit that having a front row seat to the downfall of his generations greatest talent, and his best friend, was one of the hardest situations he had ever been through.
Michael clears his throat. "How's the boy?"
Vincenzo's smile is immediate, "He's good. He's happy." The former assassin glances away from his friend and mutters, "I think I am too."
And Michael believes him. There was a time just before Federico came into the picture that Michael's stomach would drop anytime his phone rang between midnight and five a.m., certain that someone was calling to confirm the inevitable: Vincenzo De Santis was dead, and suicide was the culprit. But then the boy appeared one day, something like a miracle, and slowly but surely his best friend was brought back to life. His sarcasm, their banter, his laugh.
The boy had given Vincenzo's life a purpose.
Michael nods silently in agreement, then slowly folds one arm across the other. "This was a talk I had prepared myself to give you a while ago, but it never happened because you never brought your son home." Pain darkens the beautiful shade of Vincenzo's eyes at the memory that passes through them. "But you have one, now, and I think it's time we talk."
It's hard to miss Vincenzo's hostility. "Are you about to give me a speech on how to be a good parent?"
"Is that so hard to believe?" Michael smiles, but when Vincenzo doesn't, the Luciano king understands that this won't be a conversation he can use sarcasm to get out of. Michael slides off the counter and walks around the island, buying himself just a half second more time. He turns around, presses the palms of his hands against the cool countertop and exhales, "These last few years have been like trying to get to know the one person I swore I knew better than myself, all over again. I don't want to see you hurt again, Vince."
Their eyes meet.
"King's first." Michael states lowly, "Father's second, because everything we do—"
"—We do it for the empire," The two state in unison.
Vincenzo shakes his head gently, "What are you trying to say?"
"I know you love Federico. Deny it all you want, but I know you do." Michael continues softly. "And I love Liam, I love him with everything that I have, but I've accepted the fact that when he grows up, he's going to despise me. He's going to hate me with everything that he fucking has, and I've accepted it. Because I will know that I did everything in my power to not only raise a decent man, but an even better king. And I will know that the future of the Luciano empire will be secure, long after I'm gone." Michael gently slaps the countertop gently, making sure Vincenzo's attention is still on him. "King first. Father second."
Vince nods slowly, quickly trying to process information he would rather not here. If it came from anybody else, he would kick them out and claim they're insane—but he can count on one hand just how many times Michael Luciano has been wrong in his lifetime. "You're saying that everything I have to teach Rico to become a better assassin than me and to take my throne one day, will make him hate me?"
The question is rhetorical, and Michael knows this. He sighs and rounds the island, joining Vincenzo.
"And you're okay with this?" Vince questions harshly, "You're okay knowing your son will grow up to hate you?"
Michael lets a second pass. "I would rather Liam hate me and become the best king he can be and know that everything that I worked so hard for will be safe in his hands, than he love me and I lose it all."
"But Michael—"
"He won't hate me forever." Michael continues, "He'll hate me because I'm unfair. He'll hate me when I push him down and don't help him up. He'll hate me because I'm harsh. He'll hate me because he won't think I love him. But he will hate me because I love him. And he will learn one day that the world is much harder on him than I ever was. And sure, he will damn my name and miss my funeral, but he will understand one day. It might be the day he holds his own child or the day he turns forty, but there will come a time when he'll stand at my gravestone and cry because he understands my sacrifice."
"But one thing is certain," Michael glances up, his fingers nervously tapping the black marble, "We won't be alive to hear them say they love us, too."
"But why does he have to hate me?" Vince wonders after a brief lapse in conversation. "Why can't we just be happy?"
"Happy?" Michael fights an offensive laugh and blurts the word out like it doesn't belong in any worldly dictionary. "This isn't a fairytale. There are no happy endings." He leans forward and shoves Vincenzo lightly, trying to ease the tension with a faint smile, "Whose delusions are we cheering to now?"
That does earn him a soft smile. It fades, quickly. "If you came to ruin my night, you succeeded," Vincenzo brushes past him and drops his empty glass in the sink.
Michael groans, "That wasn't my intention, Vince. I just..."
"Can't stand to see other people happy?"
Michael blinks and silences his internal demon that stirs at Vincenzo's unnecessary jab. But he doesn't mean it, and Michael knows that. "Maybe I can't stand to see people happy," Michael agrees calmly, "Maybe I silently hate my life and everything about myself. Maybe I am, indeed, the ultimate hater—but one thing will never change, I want to see you happy, because if this world has been unfair to anybody, it's you."
Vince sighs, "I'm sorry."
"I wasn't trying to upset you," Michael urges, "I just want you to be careful. I don't want to lose you, again."
Vince can't seem to look Michael in the eye when he says it, "I don't mean to be negative, Michael, but if the trajectory of my life continues, I think I'm going to be the one who loses you."
Something about the smile Michael shares is comforting. Peaceful, All-knowing. The look that passes between them is enough to express their respect, their appreciation, and although it has never been voiced, their love for each other.
Michael pats Vincenzo's chest in goodbye, "Just know you can call me. Anytime you need me, call me."
Vincenzo watches Michael leave. The king strides out the room, zips up his hoodie, and shrugs the hood over his head as he opens the front door. Vincenzo makes out the four-man security detail that stand out in the rain, hands folded properly behind their back. The door slams shut and all that remains is the picture in Vincenzo's head, of the security detail flanking Michael on all four sides. He doesn't have to look outside to know that they don't run, despite the rain, to the stalled SUVs. Everything done in purpose and power.
His eyes flutter closed as he leans back against the countertop and waits. He doesn't know how long he waits, but then he hears it. Lightning cracks outside, and Vincenzo counts. One-thousand, two. Two-thousand, three. Three-thousand, four. Thunder rumbles. He waits again. Lightning cracks, he counts. One-thousand, two. Two-thousand, three. He counts to seven. Thunder rumbles. He waits a third time, and a third time, he counts. Thunder doesn't rumble until he hits fourteen.
Vincenzo waits a fourth time. He waits five minutes, then he waits ten. Lightning never strikes, but thunder does rumble.
Because there is one thing about thunder and lightning, about Vincenzo and Federico, that makes them all the same.
You can run. You can hide. Or you can just wait.
Because the two always split in the end.
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
Was it coincidence or was it destiny that brought Federico and Vincenzo together? Was it coincidence or was it destiny that orchestrated the broken road full of tears, bloodshed, and doubt that morphed Federico into Fantasma? Was it coincidence or was it destiny that brought the heir of the Luciano throne and Dominic together? And was it coincidence or was it destiny that sparked their friendship and provided Dominic with his most respected role as Liam's right hand?
You can argue that it was coincidence that brought them all together, colliding Federico and Dominic's paths just long enough for their biological parents to find them. But I say destiny. Because only the moon and the stars, and the beginning and the end, can align themselves so beautifully.
Dominic looks terrified. And if I could take a trip inside his head, I'm pretty sure I know what I would find. He doesn't want his parents' first memory of him to be like this. He can hardly stand to look at his reflection long enough to notice his change in weight, to notice the thinning of his hair. A ghostly reflection of the Dominic we once knew, and the one they would have to learn to love. And the one he never will.
Federico is quiet. He looks sad. I can only imagine it is in reference to the conversation he just had with Vincenzo, not even twenty minutes prior. Our eyes meet. His smile is faint. I don't have to take a trip inside his head to know what he's thinking. He was experiencing a form of loss and gaining something he had never had before. His parents. Real parents. But known to only Liam and I, he had to lose one to gain the two.
"They will absolutely love you, Dom." Carmen quietly straightens Dominic's collar, reassuring him in the only way she knows how.
"And you," She reaches for the sleeve of Federico's hoodie, giving him a reassuring squeeze. "They will love you, too."
Liam hasn't said a word since we put Rosalie to sleep. His hand sits in mine, somehow growing colder the longer we stand there. He doesn't have to speak, and neither do I. His thoughts, the same as mine. This isn't fair. I'm so happy for them. Why couldn't this be my parents? But Federico and Dom deserve this. Then why do I feel angry? I hate this. I hate this. I hate this. And I hate that I feel—
Liam squeezes my hand. He squeezes my hand because he knows. He always knows. The pressure of his palm against mine draws my attention to the present, and away from the war inside my head. There's no point to even try. It wasn't one I was going to win.
Federico and Dominic glance over their shoulders, their eyes dancing across my expression for hardly a second. Their attention drifts over my head, searching for something. The elation of Liam's smile and the pain in his eyes don't match, but between that and the gentle nod he sends the brother's way is enough.
Federico pulls the door open.
Crixus's laugh is the first thing we hear. His laughter has always been the light of any room, but tonight feels different. Maybe it's because I still can't unhear the panic, fear, and pain that slipped past his lips in body-shaking sobs just a short while ago. It feels different because for as short of a time that I've known the little assassin, he's been a breath of fresh air, someone less tainted than the others. I always saw his as an open book, but the smile on his face and the laugh that dances off his tongue suggests he learned how to hide his emotions faster than his brothers.
What took Federico twenty years to learn, took Crixus a whole lot less.
Grace Santiago is gorgeous. Her short black hair frames her face beautifully and somehow manages to draw your attention to the light shade of her eyes. Her arms suggest she's in the gym more frequently than her children, the definition of one muscle attaching to another clear to see. A tattoo runs down one arm, starting from her shoulder and ending at the bend of her wrist. Her other arm sits in a sling, clutched against her body. There is no denying it underneath the lights of the room. Federico is her twin.
Her good arm has Crixus's neck trapped in the crook of her elbow. His laughter is somehow mixed with a breathless scream as he tries to break free. His laughter makes it hard for him to focus long enough to pull her arm away from him. Her smile is bright. His, even wider.
It doesn't take long to see it. To understand a part of their dynamic. Grace Santiago is a loaded gun. She's chaotic and funny, acting first and thinking later. Anthony Santiago stands behind them, offering nothing but a grin and a low chuckle. She's the loaded gun. He's the dagger. Quiet and reserved, words saved for only when they're needed. His presence speaks more than he'll ever need to, and all you will ever learn about him is from the art inked into his skin. You'll hear Grace coming. But you will never see him.
Grace releases her youngest son when her eyes land on Federico. She doesn't waste time closing the space between them. She throws her good arm around Federico's neck, with no regard to the injured arm she crushes against his chest. She pulls back just as quickly, resting a gently palm against the side of his face. You can barely hear her whisper, "Grayson," before she spins to his side and presses her face against his. "Look at him!" She exclaims to her husband. "He's beautiful, just like me."
She spins back to face Federico before Anthony can comment. Or maybe because she knows he had no plans to. She takes a step back, a sudden realization dawning on her, "Oh, Grayson, I'm so sorry, I didn't even ask if I could hu—"
It takes a moment for Federico to find his words. "You can."
"Mom," Grace turns to her youngest at the sound of her title. Crixus stands beside his father, somewhat of a serious look pulls at his expression. "His name is Federico."
She turns back. "Federico," She repeats softly, her eyes dancing across every feature that defines his face. "Federico," She says again. Her eyebrows press together, and her smile fades a bit. From here, you can see Rico's shoulders begin to fall.
He takes a cautious step forward, a hand extended to his mother, "If it bothers you, you can call me whatever—"
"No," She cuts him off with the shake of her head. Her smile returns. "I'm just mad I like that name more than the one I gave you."
The room echoes with a laugh from everyone.
A laugh from everyone except him. Except Anthony. Something pulls at the corner of his mouth. "Are you admitting that you fucked up?" In anyone else I would have immediately picked up on the sarcasm, on the underlying joke that was nestled between the two. But nothing about Anthony's tone screamed sarcasm, the only giveaway that he was joking was written on the brief smile Grace sends his way. It doesn't last long.
"Anthony," Grace's tone is filled with warning.
Crixus turns to his father, a slow grin pulling at his lips. He points an obnoxious finger up at Anthony and teases, "You're in trouble, Dad," He sings softly.
Crixus doesn't have time to cry for help. His father traps the boy against his side and uses his free arm to provide the worst torture known to man. Anthony tickles him. Crixus squirms, laughs, and screams, all the air in his lungs fleeing in one quick second. He's released mercifully and stumbles to the side, one last laugh escaping him. Anthony's expression changes for just half a second. His love for his Crixus expressed in the time it takes to blink. His face softens and his jaw relaxes, his smile faint, but his love is obvious. Then his expression is back to normal, like it never shifted. Neutral. Unreadable.
A mother's love is undeniable. Grace hasn't seen her two boys' since the day she left them at their respective orphanages, yet she loves them just as much as the one she was able to raise. There is nothing Federico could do or be that would make her not want him. But there was something about Anthony that scared him. Would he be enough? Was he enough? Would he ever look at him as a son, or just a nuisance that came into his life too late? He knew right off the bat that he would one day be able to open up to Grace and she would accept him, but would he? Could he mention all the doubt that his mind tends to conjure up to him and not be seen as weak? Or would he have to fake it, forever?
Federico shifts underneath Anthony's gaze.
He tries to greet his dad in a way that doesn't sound utterly stupid. His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. Words fail Federico.
Anthony speaks first. "You look like your mother."
You can hear the smile in Federico's voice. "And you look like Dom."
Anthony blinks, his attention transitioning over Federico's shoulder, and directly on his eldest. Dominic doesn't stand a chance. He shifts uncomfortably and knocks into Liam's side, the ricochet affect would've knocked me off balance too if Liam didn't have a tight grip on my hand.
His attention falls to Federico once more. A second passes. "Grace cried for years, night after night, because no matter how hard we tried, we couldn't find you," Anthony's voice never tends to fluctuate past a certain volume. He's loud enough to hear, but it forces your focus. He takes a confident step towards Federico, and Rico does all he can not to take one back. "And our relationship suffered." Grace looks away, confirming the truth. "It suffered because she blamed herself for leaving you, possibly killing you, and I blamed her too." Anthony pauses. The memory is painful, but nothing on his face indicates that. "And then one day I read about Fantasma."
Federico can't help himself. He smiles.
And his dad does, too. "And I told Gracie, that's our boy."
Federico cries. He cries for the little Federico. For the younger version of himself who decided that he didn't deserve a moment like this. He cries, reliving every moment he ever felt alone, abandoned, and unwanted. For every punch he ever took and every scar that lines his back, positive that it had been something he deserved. He cries for every pill that didn't work. For every bullet that didn't fire. For every blade that refused to cut too deep. He cries for the version of him who gave up. For the one who stopped believing. For the one he lost. And for the one he became.
Anthony pulls him into a hug.
I don't know what I feel first. The tears that make their way out the corner of my eye are painful enough, but nothing compares to the pressure of Liam's hand over mine. I have always appreciated the way Liam can communicate through touch. A gentle squeeze is enough to quietly suggest he notices my overthinking, or a method to draw me back into the present moment. Sometimes it's used as a silent I love you, I got you. A squeeze lasting more than a few seconds suggest we're in danger or to take note of my surroundings. I could list them, on and on. But this is not a touch I recognize. Because he's hurting me.
"Liam?" I glance up at him, my wince deepening as each second passes. "Liam?" His attention has fallen on Federico and Anthony, father and son, and the embrace they share. And although he's standing right beside me, hand in mine, he couldn't be further from the room. He tightens a fraction more and I slap a palm to his chest. He takes in a sharp breath, something close to a gasp. "You're hurting me."
He releases my hand entirely. I expect an apology or an apologetic glance. I get neither. Liam excuses himself past Dominic and slips through the doors, his exit swift.
Dominic glances over his shoulder, something close to betrayal washing over his thin face. It was like all the reassurance he needed to meet his parents vanished out the room on the breeze Liam took with him. As much as I want to go after Liam, it's clear who needs my help more. I join Dominic at his side, offer a warm smile, and urge him towards his mother.
He takes a cautious step forward, followed by another that lacks even more confidence than the last. His arms fold across his chest as he comes to a stop. The only thing that could make this situation worse for Dominic was if the lights shut off and a spotlight was drawn directly on him, highlighting every imperfection his addiction has caused or worsened.
Grace does the same as she did for Federico. The only difference is her approach is slower, more cautious. She reaches her eldest and gingerly rests her hand against his cheek. Something pulls in my chest because the saying is true. A mother always knows. She has no idea what's wrong. She has no clue what her son has gone through. But she knows she has to be even more gentle with this one.
Dominic cries the moment she touches him. It's a silent cry. She pulls him into a warm embrace. He whispers something twice. I only hear it the second time. "I'm sorry." Grace leans back, her hand back on his face, wiping away the tears that stain his cheeks.
She shakes her head slowly, confused. "What are you sorry about?"
It was a loaded question that Dominic had no intention of answering. He's sorry he's a disappointment. He's sorry he's nothing like his talented brothers, whose names make waves across the globe. He's sorry he couldn't keep the only job he had. The only thing he ever felt like he was good at. He's sorry he's stubborn. And he's sorry because he should have listened to Liam all those years ago, taking the personal break that could have avoided his monstrous downfall. He's sorry he ever touched a pill in the first place. And he's sorry for every shameful act he had to commit to keep getting them. He's sorry he feels as though he doesn't have a purpose anymore. He's sorry for pushing all of his friends away. And for choosing medication over them. He's sorry this is the version of Dominic that his parents have to meet.
And sometimes, at the latest hour of the night, he's sorry the pills didn't just kill him.
"You know," Grace sighs softly and pauses, trying to choose her words wisely. She doesn't see Anthony leave Crixus and Federico behind, standing quietly, side by side. He approaches just as cautiously as his wife – if not more – than her. Grace smiles as he nestles in behind her, an arm going around her waist. She glances up at the man she loves, then back at the son that resembles him the most. She sighs once more, "Me and your father never worried about you, Dominic. I don't remember how, but we found out early on that you had been adopted by a sweet family and..." Tears glaze over the hazel of her eyes, but they never fall. "I just want you to know I love you, everything about you, and nothing will ever change that."
I'll never know how much Dominic believes her. But I hope he does.
Anthony steps to her side. Dominic quickly wipes at his face, gathering the remains of whatever tears his mother missed. He lets out a nervous, breathless laugh and ducks his head, feeling more scrutinized under Anthony's gaze than hers.
Mr. Santiago doesn't let another second pass. "I'm the one that should be sorry."
Dominic jerks his head up, eyebrows forming together. "Why are you sorry?"
A quiet moment passes. Dominic stares at him, and Anthony stares back. All that's missing is the glass, identifying the mirror that the two stare into. The reflection propels Dominic into the future as he stares up at his father, seeing the healthy person he can become. His weight, back. His shoulders, broad. His smile, white. His hair, full. The same reflection pulls Anthony into the past. Because the look that dances between the browns of his eyes is one I've seen too many times before. Recognition.
Anthony blinks, and the look is gone. "Because addiction can be part hereditary." He states softly, "And if it is, then I'm sorry, because it came from me."
Dominic barely gets his question out, "How did you k—"
"Because I know," Anthony responds. But his most powerful words are the ones that follow. "I understand."
That was everything Dominic needed to hear. He steps forward quickly and throws his arms around his father. The hug is reciprocated. I swear I hear Carmen crying in the corner. But then the mood of the room shifts when Anthony leans towards Dom's ear and whispers something only he can hear. The widest grin pulls Dominic's lips apart and his laugh fills the room. I can't remember the last time his smile was that bright, or his laugh that loud. Anthony tosses an arm around Dominic's shoulders, keeping him close as Crixus and Federico join the lopsided circle.
Crixus bounces into view, "So, Dad, quick question," He doesn't wait for confirmation, and immediately points at Federico. "Rico is over six feet tall," He points at Dom, "And Dominic is over six feet," He points at his father, "And you are over six feet. So what happened to me?"
Anthony fights an eyeroll. "Crixus, we've talked about this a million times. You're fifteen. You'll get taller."
The boy narrows his eyes, "If I stop growing at 5'11 I'm slitting your throat."
Crixus narrowly misses the slap. The smile on his face suggests it was a playful one. He sticks his tongue out at his dad just long enough to bounce back into the circle, excitedly jumping from one foot to the other. His excitement is entirely too much for the boy to contain, his words spewing out faster than he can keep up with them.
"You should see Rico fight though. He's good, but obviously not as good as me. But together? We're the best. You should have seen it! He was like—" Crixus does his best impression, throwing repetitive left and right hooks into the air, "And let me tell you, his punches hurt. But then one time we were in this dark room somewhere and there was the scariest assassin I have ever seen, mom, you would be terrified—"
Grace takes personal offense to this. "I would not."
Crixus grows rarely serious. "Mom, he growls."
"Excuse me?" Anthony questions.
"He's like ten feet tall," Crixus holds his outstretches his arm over his head, as high as he can, "And he wears this black suit looking thing that honestly looks kind of demonic and he goes like grrrr, but then the craziest thing happened and Veggie took the knife like this and—" Crixus pretends to hold a dagger in both hands, raising it high over his head before drawing it down to the ground. Federico cuts him off.
"Mom, we would all like to know what kind of drugs you were on the night you conceived Crixus."
Everyone laughs, even Grace, who tries to force a stern expression.
"Who is Veggie?" She is finally able to question.
Crixus shoots a sharp side-eye in Federico's direction before morphing his expression into the most innocent smile. He's about to answer, but once again, is cut off.
"Unfortunately, that's me."
The attention of the room swivels toward the doorway, where Veleno leans. The gauze around his bicep is clean and was recently changed. He winces slightly, doing his best not to irritate the bruise on his ribcage as Crixus rushes over to him. The boy grabs his hand and tugs him toward the group.
"You were supposed to be sleeping," Crixus frowns slightly, concern growing for his friend. "Is the pain medicine working?"
"I was," Veleno confirms just as softly, "But I woke up and you weren't there. So I came looking for you."
Crixus continues to drag the assassin towards his parents, "How much did you hear?"
Veleno regrets the laugh he lets out. "Your rendition of our fight with Diavolo is pretty perfect."
The assassin reaches the group and immediately extends a hand to Grace, then to Anthony. "Veleno," He greets. "I've had the privilege of working with both Federico and Crixus, and I would just like to say...your son is crazy."
"Which one?" The two parents ask.
Veleno can only smile.
My attention drifts away from them. I move quietly toward the doorway, the laughter and conversation from the group is comforting as background noise. Crixus begins to plead with his mother to consider officially adopting Veleno. That he's always wanted another brother. More laughter.
Light from the room manages to sneak outside the door, illuminating just a small portion of the never-ending hallway. There's a portion of the hallway where the light meets the dark, where heaven meets hell, and that's where Liam stands. In purgatory, with his back against the wall.
I glance over my shoulder just long enough to see Grace introduce herself to Carmen, their hands collapsing within one another. I push my way out the door and hesitate. There's so much that I could say to him, and so much that I could relate to him with. Yet I can't seem to find the words to call out to him, to Liam, and comfort him when I'm fighting an almost identical battle.
All I can say is his name, and even then, he doesn't respond.
"Liam." Federico blows out the door, past me, and I fight to keep up with him. The hallway starts to dim, the light more behind us than in front of us when Federico stops. Liam doesn't answer him, and from a few paces behind him, I see Rico's shoulders fall. And in a voice too soft for the long hallway, Federico whispers, "I hate you."
Liam finally pulls his gaze away from where the ceiling and the wall meet. He turns to Federico slowly, "What?"
Federico raises his voice and repeats, "I hate you."
Liam saunters slowly toward him, and only then do I notice the tears that shimmer in his eyes. Yet none have fallen. He slows to a stop, just a few feet away from Rico and a little further from me. He glances down at his feet, then up, and their eyes meet. His voice lacks the anger I anticipate and is calm, almost eerily so. "Why do you hate me, Rico?"
Federico doesn't look away. "Because it wasn't supposed to be a sacrifice. You weren't supposed to lose your parents so I could gain mine."
"There is always a sacrifice," Liam adds calmly, "But that can't be why you hate me."
Rico doesn't hesitate, "I hate you because I hate myself for not being able to do anything to save your parents." His logic almost makes Liam smile, "I hate you because you did everything you could to save mine, and I really hate you because if you had to choose between saving your parents or mine, you would—"
"Choose yours." Liam nods. "I would choose yours every time."
Federico nods softly, "That's why I hate you." He swallows, hard, "Because you're a better person than me. You're better than I'll ever be. And you deserve the world, but you know you'll never get it, so you try to give it to other people."
Federico isn't smiling, but Liam urges his own in hopes of drawing one out of Rico. He takes a step towards his friend and nods toward the open door behind us. "Go in there," Liam quietly commands, "Hug your mom. Laugh with her. Cry with her. Share all the crazy stories you can with her. Love her. And let her love you. You deserve it. Every second with her. And if she ever asks? Take her hand."
Liam starts down the hallway, his walk slow, like each step physically hurts. Federico blinks quickly and backs away, silently cursing himself for letting his emotions get the best of him for a second time tonight. He storms past me, and I'm left there, stranded.
Laughter drifts down the hallway as joyous chatter echoes out the room, only growing louder once Federico re-enters. The room is bright and welcoming, filled with the opposite of everything we are so accustom too. Death and sadness. Loss and heartache. It's love and friendship. Endless possibilities and happy stories. Everything in me desires to join them. To laugh with Crixus. To share knowing glances with Carmen. To smile with Rico and resonate with Dominic. To bond with Veleno and officially meet the Santiago parents.
Heaven.
Liam slowly makes his way in the opposite direction, his walk slowing the further he goes. The light has long since faded, but my eyes have begun to adjust, his silhouette clear as he slips into the darkness of the hallway. There's no laughter. No cheery conversation. No hugs or words of encouragement. There's no love where he's going.
Hell.
I glance over my shoulder once more, the ghost of a smile dancing across my face at the sound of Carmen's laugh.
My tears blur the bright light because there is no choice to make.
I make my way down the hallway,
And leave heaven behind.
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
Liam doesn't stop walking until he crosses the threshold of our bedroom. He doesn't turn around until I shut the door behind me, my palms pressing against the wood, watching him carefully. His hands are shaking and when he turns around, his expression is torn. A part of me is scared. Scared because I have no idea what he's feeling. And scared that I have nothing to say for what he is.
"I would choose yours, too." Liam says quietly. He doesn't need to elaborate further. As he would not hesitate to save the Santiago parents over his own, he would do the same for mine. His head shakes gently in the shadows of the bedroom, the moonlight managing to catch his silhouette in the dark room. "I would choose yours, every time."
There's no hesitation from me. "I know."
Nobody says anything for a while. And that's the moment that everything is said. Because the times that have held our silence, have slowly become my favorite conversations. The look he shares when our eyes meet and we both smile, fighting a silent laugh in the most serious of situations. The look we share when an inappropriate thought dances across our minds at the same time. It's a look I always have to turn away from to fight the reddening of my face. He's always smiling after. Or the look he shares when he's lonely, begging I scoot closer. But my favorite of all, and one I will never forget, is the look that asks for nothing, but a simple reminder, I love you.
But the doubt in his eyes is easy to see, even under the cover of dark. He doesn't vocalize it. He never will. Tonight being nothing but a brutal reminder that good will never happen, and all he can do is give it to other people. A reminder that everything Michael once told him was true. There will always be a sacrifice. And there is no such thing as a happy ending. Not for us. Not for him.
We had spoken about this before, under the safety of our comforter and the dark of night, our voices barely above a whisper. We had laughed quietly together, like we were the only two up in a room full of our friends at a sleepover. I thought I had convinced Liam differently, suggesting that Michael was wrong, and Liam did deserve a happy ending. But the look that dances between his brown eyes tonight tells me that I hadn't.
"You would sacrifice your parents to save mine," I state softly, taking one step towards him, then another. And each step that draws me closer, the more he begins to relax. His shoulders begin to loosen and the expression on his face softens. "But I would sacrifice the world. I would put every innocent soul in their grave if that meant saving yours--" I jab a finger into his chest, "—if that meant saving you."
"You tell me I've changed," I add, louder this time. "You look at me like I've changed, and I hate it because we don't talk about it. There's a lot we don't talk about. We don't talk about the fact that you would beg to save a child, but if I was put in that same position, I would pull the trigger. We don't talk about how you're teaching me to be a king. And we certainly don't talk about what kind of king I would be."
I take a step away from him, tears burning my eyes. "If I ever took that throne, you would know you deserved a happy ending. Because I would be the one who won't."
Liam lets out a breath. "We don't talk about it," He acknowledges. A second passes, a tear falls. His words fail him, but I can see his lips move, telling me, you're crying. His hands have steadied by the time he reaches me, one on my waist, the other wiping away my tears. "You have changed, but I don't love you any less."
"I just hate the way you look at me," I admit. "Every time we lose another soldier, every time something happens to me because of this." I motion towards the ground, the foundation, the empire. "You don't think I see it, but I do. I crawl in bed beside you, and I close my eyes, but you look at me like you're terrified that you're going to wake up one morning and the person you fell in love with won't be there. Like I won't be there."
His silence confirms that my statement is true.
"I was little," Liam hesitates, then glances up and over my head. Whatever he finds there helps him continue, "Dad and mom were fighting. It was the loudest I ever heard. And then dad asked her, why do you love me? Because you know, loving any one of us, is a game you won't win."
It was like Liam had asked me, my answer being just as swift, even though I didn't know the ending.
That doesn't matter. "I'd play it again."
Liam smiles. "That's what mom said."
I don't know how long I laid there, my fingers trailing the same path across the muscles of Liam's back – over, over, and over again. He fell asleep quickly, having just enough energy to shed his shirt, but too exhausted to climb underneath the covers. I grabbed a blanket and tossed it over long after he was sleep. But I don't leave him until I confirm that he is.
I slide out of bed and sneak out the room, the door closing behind me. I hear my name sooner than I expected it. There is no doubt in my mind that the sun is about to break the horizon, leaving me with a comforting thought that everyone in the house should be sleep. But just like me, one other person isn't, and I slip my head through the crack in the door to see who it is.
Federico.
Him being awake doesn't surprise me, but Dominic asleep beside him, does. I leave the door open and squeeze inside quietly, the lamp nearest to Federico's side of the bed casts a warm, comforting glow across the room. But nothing is comforting about the look that pulls at Dominic's face. Even asleep, he manages to look like he's fighting a war we know nothing about. A thin layer of sweat dots his hairline and at certain angles, causes his warm complexion to shimmer against the light.
"How did you know it was me?" I ask Federico in a low whisper.
Federico pushes back the strands of long, black hair that tumble across his forehead. The transition from short hair to long is something I hadn't had the time to truly notice, let alone come to terms with. It made him look older and much wiser, though I would never tell him how smart I knew he was. But behind the long hair and the beard, he's still him. The teasing smile that pulls his lips apart, showcasing a row of white teeth suggests he always will be.
"Your footsteps," The assassin responds.
And as quickly as his smile appeared, it left.
"I'm really worried about him, Faith," Rico says carefully. He looks up at me for the first time, and If I didn't believe him then, I do now. "I thought him meeting our parents tonight might help, but he was shaking so much afterwards that it scared me. He started sweating, and he was talking nonsense, and he was begging me for a pill and I—" Our eyes meet at the bottle of medication that sits on the nightstand. "—I would rather him take one with me watching him, then he take a handful without me."
I sigh, but somehow, I can't find the energy to be disappointed. "Rico..."
"I don't want to lose him," He looks up at me again, and I can't help but let my words fade as Federico desperately searches me for comfort, for an answer, "I'm going to lose him. I know I am." Rico's attention falls back to his brother, and hesitantly, gingerly, I watch him gather a strand of Dominic's hair in his hand and pull, the thickness noticeably different. "He still isn't eating. You can tell." There's a pause as another thought comes to mind, "He told me some of the things he would do for pills. Then he cried because he said he let me down. That he knew I would never look up to him again."
A look of disappointment crosses Federico's face, but I know it isn't towards Dominic, but himself.
"What did you say to him?" I finally ask.
He looks up at me. "I'm a terrible brother."
"Rico—"
"—No, Faith, I suck." And the tone in his voice suggests there is no way I can convince him otherwise. "I'm always so worried about myself, and when I choose to worry about someone else, it's never Dom because he always has his shit together. But now he doesn't, and he came to me, and I didn't know what to say. I know how he feels. I've been there, but for some reason, I still don't know how to help him."
I sigh, hoping my question leads Rico to the answer he's desperately trying to find. "When you were at your lowest—"
"Which time?" He interrupts.
I fight a frown. "I thought you could only hit rock bottom once."
And Rico fights a sheepish smile. "I thought that too, until I hit it and realized I was still falling."
He'll never know how much hearing that hurt me. "What would you have wanted someone to say to you when you were at your lowest?"
Rico doesn't think long. "Nothing." He looks back up at me, and I know he's being honest. "All I wanted was someone to hold me."
I'm not needed for him to connect the dots. I slowly step forward, a smile playing at my lips as Federico situates himself under the comforter of Dominic's bed. My hand dances along the nightstand light, trying to find the switch. Federico rests his head on the extra pillow and right before I twist my fingers, sending the room spiraling into darkness, his lips part.
"I need your help."
"With?" I question.
Rico looks away from me. "I was supposed to meet someone at the graveyard right before sunrise."
I know the answer before I ask the question. "Who?"
His eyes find mine, again, and quickly. "You know who." Federico doesn't wait for me to give my opinion. "I was going to go, but now," His eyes drift to Dominic for a second, then back up at me, "I don't want to leave him hanging. He likes listening. He's a good listener. And I'm getting two vibes from you. The first one being, you need someone to talk to, and the second one? You're not sleepy."
I will never admit how right Federico is. I simply blink. "Nathaniel Rostov was murdered, and Valentin is probably raging hell over there, what makes you think Diavolo will show up tonight?"
"He will," Rico sighs out, and I swear he's drifting between the thin line of consciousness and sleep as he mutters, "He always does."
The sliver of light snaking in from the hallway guides me out the door quietly and safely. I cling to the doorknob until I hear the faint, click, as their door locks. And for just a second, I find peace. Peace in the silence of the hallway. Peace in the silence in my head. The second of peace doesn't last forever, but it lasts long enough for me to make a calculated decision.
I march down the hallway and descend the stairwell quickly. I fling open a closet door, grab my jacket, and continue across the foyer without breaking stride. With one arm struggling to fit into a sleeve, I yank the front door open with the other and step outside. Federico was right, I wasn't sleepy, but the brisk air that hits my face wakes me up more than I thought was possible.
The crowd outside had thinned, the individuals called in to help with small injuries, cuts and bruises inflicted on the assassins that Valentin had captured had slowly begun to disperse. Liam had offered the extra space that he had on his estate, just a mile or so down the road, to the assassins who were now displaced due to the fall of the Organization they spent all their lives serving. It would give them a warm roof over their head while they determined their next move, each of them fighting a similar battle; continue as an assassin, or start a normal life while they have the chance.
It doesn't take long for me to find who I'm looking for. I shrug my jacket over my shoulders and come to a stop beside Liam's highest-ranking soldier.
"Do you mind driving me to the graveyard?"
Giovanni stands beside one of the many Escalades that idle in our driveway. He offers a hand to the female assassins that climb inside, quietly thanking him for his assistance. I wonder if he notices the quick glances, the curvature of the women's smile whenever their small hands meet his large palm. I wonder if he can hear the quiet conversation as the inside of the SUV continues to fill, a few of them casting quick glances his way. If he is aware, he says nothing about it.
The commander slams the door and presses gently against the coiled earpiece that is nestled gently in his ear. Giovanni mutters something into the communication device, and the car pulls away slowly, leaving us basking in the red of the brake lights. Although he will never admit it, he's tired, on the borderline of exhaustion, but everyone ranked below him comes first. There is no question to be had about Giovanni's ability to lead an army. His skill in orchestrating has been on display for all of us to see from the beginning. And sure, it helps that he's attractive – his dark complexion always smooth, his hair always cut low, beard always neatly trimmed -- but what sets him and Tatum, my favorite Lieutenant Commander, apart – is this.
They don't ask questions.
"Only if I can take a nap," is his response.
We share a smile, one only noticeable between us, and silently walk towards a pair of parked vehicles. Giovanni climbs inside the driver's side of the blacked-out Range Rover, and I join him on the passenger. We don't speak again until our short drive is over. He pulls the vehicle into the small parking lot associated with the vast plot of land Liam had purchased to provide his father with a permanent and private resting place. Never could we have imagined that the woman Michael loved, or the woman that adopted me, would join him as quickly as they had.
Giovanni reclines his seat before he entirely kills the engine, eager for a moment he can rest his eyes. "Call if you need anything," He states. Gio pulls out the handgun that was strapped tightly inside his thigh holster and offers it to me, "But please, use this first." The corner of his lips lift in a smile.
I grab the weapon, offering him a thank you that I know he doesn't hear.
Double checking to make sure the safety is on, I tuck the gun inside the pocket of my jacket and make the quick walk. The Rover slowly fades from view as I cross the small parking lot and dip down a slight decline. The grass has recently been cut, still fresh to smell. Rows of little lights have been positioned on either side of the walkway to illuminate the path, but they refuse to do much for the acres of grass that extend outwards, far into the dark abyss.
I slow when I see him. He sits on the grass, his long legs pulled to his chest, arms around his knees. The gentle breeze rustles the black hood he has pulled over his head, but does nothing to knock it down, exposing who hides beneath it. I take one step. Then another. Guilt creeps into my conscious when I realize how tightly I'm clinging to the gun inside my jacket pocket, my finger resting gingerly against the trigger.
I stop a few feet away from him. But what causes my hesitation isn't him, but where he sits—directly between the headstones of Michael Davidé and Jaiyana Zara.
Gabriel never looks over his shoulder. "You're not Rico."
"I'm sorry," I saunter forward and with a significant amount of space between us, I lower myself to the grass and join him. I read the engraving on Michael's headstone, then on Zara's. I do it twice before I gather the courage to look to my right, "I'm sorry I'm breaking tradition."
The same lights that illuminate the walkway are also positioned around each headstone, providing a warm, yellow glow, making it easy to read each engraving. The light reaches out and dances across Gabriel's black boots but doesn't do much to detail the features of his face. But every time the assassin shifts, swaying gently from side to side to remain warm, a ray of light catches his face from underneath the hood. I catch the curvature of his lips and the bridge of his nose, but the light never, ever reaches his eyes.
I mirror his position, drawing my legs to my chest, my arms around my knees. My attention falls forward, to the headstones nearest to me, and the one just a few feet behind the Luciano parents. My adopted mother.
Gabriel's voice breaks through the crisp wind. "Is he okay?"
"Rico is fine," I assure him. "His brother isn't."
There's a pause, then in a quiet voice, Gabriel simply inquires, "Dominic?"
"Yeah, Dominic," I confirm softly. My eyes dance across the headstones, across the skyline that will slowly begin to transform into a beautiful mixture of oranges, yellows, and faint reds as the sun prepares to rise. I sneak a look in Gabriel's direction. "Does Rico talk about him a lot?"
Gabriel turns to me. The air inside my lungs never has a chance, gone like I've been sucker punched in the stomach. The light catches his face, revealing the deep blue and dark purple of the fresh bruise that blends into his complexion. The corner of his lip is split, and his eye more closed than open. Our gazes meet. And I understand why Gabriel is not a man of many words. His eyes are no different than the many others that I've seen, yet somehow, they're special, unique, oddly captivating. Because they hold every answer Gabriel cannot verbalize, now or since he was a child. He doesn't say it. He doesn't need to.
All the time.
"Valentin?" I ask the one question that I don't need an answer for, and thankfully, Gabriel doesn't provide me with one—verbal or nonverbal. I make the mistake of reaching forward, my fingers brushing along the edge of his hood, pushing it back just enough to get a glimpse of the damage Valentin inflicted on him. "You're you," My nails accidentally graze his bruise and Gabriel recoils in pain. "How do you let that man do that to you?"
He turns away from me now, somehow receding even more into the safety of the material that drapes over his face. Time passes. The breeze picks up, dies off, and does so in that order again and again until Gabriel decides to say something. "You wouldn't understand."
"You're you. You're Diavolo," I argue back. "I don't have to tell you about the kind of fear you instill in the most decorated assassin and you're trying to tell me that you just let that ugly ass old man beat the shi—"
"You're not talking to Diavolo." His response stops me cold, and somehow the breeze that follows awakens every bump on my skin. Gabriel slowly angles his head towards me, and for just a second, I'm met once again with the discoloration of his face, and the bruises that distort it. "You're talking to me."
Gabriel and Diavolo. An iconic duo derived from the same individual. For the years that have passed and those that have yet to come, generations will try to unblur the thin line that separates the two. They will fail, despite its simplicity. Gabriel was innocent. No more than a few hours old before his torture began. He was beaten and starved from more than just food. Raised in a way no human should ever be. Gabriel was damaged. Diavolo was the result.
For every action has its consequence.
"I'm scared of him."
Gabriel's attention is on the slowly changing skyline. His lips pursed in a tight line, like he never spoke at all. The declaration was so soft, so gentle, so innocent that I convince myself it's been imagined. And as the sun begins to rise, I turn away from him, mirroring his position once more so we can watch the sky together.
I take a deep breath and gather the courage to ask a question that I know will never get a response. "Who?" I question cautiously, "Who is afraid of Valentin?"
I don't know how much time passes as we witness the slow changing of the guard, the sun slowly beginning to peak over the horizon. Gabriel shifts, and the impossible follows. "Both of us."
Gabriel's eye contact is brief. But one glance suggests that his answer holds true.
Gabriel fears the man who broke him. Diavolo fears the one who made him.
I tug Liam's hood over my head, bracing my ears and neck from the strengthening breeze. I let out a scoff. "I don't know what to do with you," I start slowly. Gabriel glances at me out the corner of his eye, still secluded by the material draped across his face. "I want to hate you, but you saved my life. I want to hate you and I want to kill you because you killed her," Our gazes meet at my adopted mother's gravestone. "But what kind of person would I be if I hated you but loved Rico for doing the same damn thing?"
His question is simply put, "Who?"
"Federico was hired to kill my sister." I explain slowly, "He was told to make it look like an accident." The pause between the continuation of my story is drawn out as the colors of the sky slowly transition. The silence draws on, long enough for Gabriel to glance over his shoulder, eager to hear the conclusion of my story. "And he did. He killed my sister. He killed my father. My mom survived, but it's ultimately the reason she died tonight. She hated the Luciano family so much..."
Something in Gabriel's expression softens. "She was a threat," He acknowledges quietly.
"Yes," I nod solemnly. "Federico pulling the trigger might have changed the trajectory of my life, but I learned to hate the man that gave the assassin the order, and I came to love the one who pulled the trigger." I sigh and admit what I've been refusing to vocalize since it happened. "Your hands might have been around her neck, but the woman who raised me is dead because of Valentin. Not you."
Gabriel watches me. He watches me longer than he has all night, his eyes darting across my face as he silently depicts the meaning of my every facial expression. Gabriel finally speaks, but what catches my attention is the octave that his voice reaches. And the fact that he is actually able to string together more than three words at a time when he wants. "There's a difference," He says plainly, "Between me and Rico. Two, at least."
I shrug my shoulders and urge him on, "List them."
"Rico is easier to forgive." The non-swollen corner of his lip curls upwards, the white of his teeth shining for just a second. "He's more...warm and cuddly than me."
I fight a laugh, "And the other?"
Our eyes meet. "He's on your side."
I have nothing comforting to tell Gabriel. I have nothing to say that would make him feel better. I have nothing, because he's right. It will always be easier to forgive someone who is working to protect you, to save you, to help you than it is somebody actively trying to hurt you. But nothing about this situation, between the Russians and the Italians, between Diavolo and the war he fights within himself, is simple. Born Italian. Raised Russian. He's a piece of both sides of the war.
"What's he like?" The wistful nature of Gabriel's voice suggests who he asks about.
My eyes fall on Michael's headstone, and every word I ever had that could define Vincenzo De Santis leaves me. Because truly, we will never know. Federico often talks about the Vincenzo that raised him, the one who was still trying to deal with the loss of his love, and his son. I can discuss the Vincenzo that I know, post-assassination period that includes his late-bandana era and the fall he took from his throne. Liam can speak on Vincenzo in a professional capacity, but he won't have much to say on anything else. But at the end of the day, when all is said and done, the only one who knows Vincenzo better than any of us can ever piece together was his best friend.
"I was told he was one of the best assassins in his generation," I finally say, leaving time for Gabriel to imagine the version of the father he has never met with my vaguely worded description. "He was a good king, and I would like to think he was a good dad. I compared him to Federico when I first met him because their personalities were so similar—"
Gabriel snorts. "Loud and annoying?"
"More like insane and borderline psychotic."
"That tracks."
I don't fight this smile as I nudge his shoulder, playfully, "I'm going to tell Rico you said that."
Gabriel returns my nudge, and I nearly fall over. I dig my hand into the grass, bracing myself from hitting the ground as a laugh erupts from the pit of my lungs. The power Gabriel put behind his nudge was nothing playful, yet the laugh that fills our silence suggests it was.
I swear I hear him laugh, too.
The laugh is what does it. His laugh. It triggers memories I swore I forgot, memories that didn't seem significant enough to store away for another time when they happened. His laugh reminds me of his father. "Funny." I add, almost immediately. "Vincenzo is funny. He used to laugh a lot, but he doesn't anymore. He's protective and caring. I don't doubt the lengths of what he would do for someone he loves. It's funny because even after all these years, he stills carries himself like an assassin. Every movement done with thought and precision. He's confident, but it's a quiet confidence, one I've only ever seen in one other person. Sometimes I catch Liam watching him because he sees it, too. And for just a second, it feels like Michael is still with him."
Gabriel's attention never wavers, his eyes never leaving my general direction. I don't continue until I know I have his undivided attention.
"I don't know why I'm telling you all of this," I admit, "I care about Vince, I do. But I hope nothing ever happens to him, for Liam. Because I know if he loses Vincenzo, he loses Michael, forever."
"They were best friends?" Gabriels asks about Michael and his father.
"The best," My response is short and simple, but the silence that follows suggests the thoughts it provokes. Gabriel quietly wondering how Michael and Vincenzo met, how they eventually became friends, how they came to become the most lethal king-assassin duo in their generation, and how their names are still being brought up in conversations they will know nothing about. "I hated Michael because he was the one who ordered the hit on my family. But then I came to learn that my sister was in the wrong. She deserved to die. But Michael...I didn't think he cared much for me, but I'm starting to learn he did. I just don't know what he saw in me."
A shadow passes over Gabriel's expression, and for just a second, he looks like he's about to say something. He abandons the thought quickly and stands up instead. Gabriel fixes the hem of his hoodie and tugs at the edges of his hood, concealing most of his face. "We leave soon. Russia," is all he says as he steps over me, prepared to make a haste exit.
I stand up abruptly, hoping to catch him before he leaves. "Tell me something." Gabriel slows to a stop. My invisible timer is counting. "You saved my life. You helped my mom. You confuse me. Sometimes you act like you're helping us, but then you talk like you're one of them."
"I could never be one of you."
"Why do you say that?"
Diavolo's comeback is quick, "Do you want me to be?"
"I never said that," I defend, "I just want to know why you believe what you do."
He takes a step forward, his voice lowering an octave as he begins, "The Luciano family isn't the first family in La Cosa Nostra that has heard of me. I've been wrecking the lives of CN since I could walk. You might accept me solely because Vincenzo De Santis is my dad, but your council never would. And stop asking me questions, you know I don't like to talk."
"Wow," I awe breathlessly, "That might've been the longest sentence Diavolo has ever pieced together."
"You're pissing me off."
"Good," I declare, "Because it sounds like you already have your mind made up. But for future reference, we don't listen to the council. The council listens to Liam."
He nods. A simple movement that suggests he heard what I said, processed it, and respected it. A movement that doesn't offer an argument or a counter because the assassin already has already made up his own mind, already sealed his own fate. He's accepted what he is, and what he will never be. A killer. A son. Cold. Warm. Detached. Cuddly. Unloved. Loved. Russian. Italian.
"Thank you," I tell him. Diavolo freezes. "I might not see you again, not for a while, so thank you. Thank you for saving my life." All I can do is hope he knows I mean it.
You can see it in the tension of his shoulders and the way they fall as he fights himself, desperately wanting to leave, but knowing he can't. He reluctantly turns around, his head shaking almost unnoticeably. Side to side. "You will never need me again."
I don't have to think about it. "Something tells me I will." I take a nervous step forward, one hand grasping the other.
His eyes meet mine. I can't find his. "You will never need me to save your life again," Diavolo corrects.
I fight a frown. "And how do you know this?"
Diavolo sways. "I met Michael Luciano, once." He admits slowly, "And sometimes I wonder, if he had recognized me, would I have become this?" The assassin offers his palms to me, hands held at his side. "But all he saw was a boy, bruised and my feet shackled, and all he did was stare. That was the last time I remember being afraid. Then Valentin's soldiers dragged me away, down the steps, and the last—the only thing Mr. Luciano said was You don't need me."
"So no," Diavolo takes a menacing step forward. I hold my ground. His voice drops another octave, "I'm not Michael, but what he saw in me that day, I know he saw in you. I see it, too."
The assassin reaches forward. His fingers hold tight to the fabric of my hood, and he tugs it forward, even further over my head.
He takes one step back, then another, almost like he's admiring his work. He tilts his head ever-so slightly to the side. The lights that illuminate the path manage to sneak underneath his hood, just enough for me to catch his grin.
"Because demon always recognizes demon."
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
a/n: the uncool translation: a bad person always recognizes a bad person. a killer always recognizes a killer. a king always recognizes a king.
anyways...slow smile on my face rn bc the villain era faith ann crawford would have would just be legendary let me tell you--