Chapter 75

  ? Mother Instincts ?

  The mansion in the nobles’ sector lay half in shadow, lit by the low glow of crystal lamps and the pale spill of moonlight filtering through heavy drapes. Somewhere deeper in the house, a clock chimed the hour—soft, distant, easily ignored.

  A servant had poured the coffee and withdrawn without a word. The door lingered open a moment too long.

  Silvano’s gaze lifted.

  The door shut.

  Silvano, Emilio, and Carlo sat around a broad mahogany table scarred with old knife marks and ink stains. Papers lay spread before them, weighted down by a silver letter-opener that had never quite been returned to its case. A long list of names dominated the center of the table. Nearly a third had been crossed out—some neatly, others gouged so deeply the parchment had torn.

  Silvano’s hand rested on the list, fingers smudged black with ink. He lifted the small silver cup, sniffed the coffee once, then took a careful sip. He set it aside untouched.

  “Who’s still breathing?” Emilio asked, voice low, rolling a cigarette between his fingers.

  Silvano dragged his finger down the parchment.

  “Five… maybe six,” he said. “Six men.”

  He pushed back his chair and stood, leaning over the table, palm flat beside the list.

  Emilio exhaled smoke and glanced up at him.

  “If standing made the numbers better,” he said, “we’d all be on our feet.”

  Silvano didn’t look at him. He stayed standing.

  “How many dead?” Carlo asked. He hadn’t lifted his gaze. He stirred his coffee slowly, though it had long gone cold.

  “Fifteen.” Silvano answered, walking up to the window, "Do the math yourself next time."

  Carlo exhaled through his nose, the spoon clinking softly against porcelain.

  “That’s… a lot of bodies,” he muttered. “In just a couple of weeks. No wonder the cops are under pressure. No wonder the nobles are pissed.”

  He hesitated, then added, quieter, “Should we stop?”

  Silvano’s voice didn’t rise.

  “No. We keep going. We agreed to see it through. Stop now, and it looks like we bowed to noble pressure.”

  He picked up the pen and slashed another line through a name—not yet confirmed dead, just marked. Ink bled into the fibers.

  “What does that tell the people? Weakness. Again.”

  Emilio waited a beat before replying, letting the edge settle.

  “Yes, Carlo,” he said calmly. “We’re almost there. The slums got the point—but we finish this properly.”

  He lit his cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face. “The papers will say it clearly. All of the Marcettis are gone. Only then do we stop.”

  Carlo nodded once, reluctantly. He lifted his cup, swirled the coffee, then set it back down without drinking.

  “Fine. But expect lower incomes and a huge loss of money because of all this. Our casinos are less frequented, our restaurants are quieter, and discretionary spending has become… selective.”

  Emilio nodded, then.

  "Who’s still missing?”

  “My men are on Rocco,” Silvano said, eyes narrowing. “The last of Enzo’s bloodline. Got Salvatore and Tessio on him.”

  He flicked the pen toward the lower half of the list. “The rest… adopted rats.”

  “I sent Vince as well,” Emilio added quietly. “He dropped by last night.”

  Silvano’s jaw tightened. Just once.

  “Then it’s done.”

  A hush fell over the room.

  Silvano marked the list again—this time slowly, deliberately. He wiped the nib against the margin and placed the pen down parallel to the paper.

  “It’s… strange,” Emilio said after a moment, tapping ash into the tray. “Vince.”

  Silvano didn’t look up.

  “What about him?”

  “Throughout my life,” Emilio said, leaning back, “I can count on one hand how many times he’s taken an order directly from me. Normally he just follows Dominick. Like a shadow.”

  He smiled faintly. “Seeing him alone yesterday… it felt wrong.”

  Carlo traced the rim of his cup with his thumb.

  “Like us,” he said quietly. “They stick together.”

  A pause. “That’s… comforting.”

  Silvano gave a faint nod, eyes flicking briefly toward the drapes.

  “True. We’re not ones to talk.”

  “I know,” Emilio said, exhaling smoke slowly. “But it’s different. I know Dominick—his potential, his methods.”

  His gaze returned to the list. “But him? Almost thirty years with us and I still can’t predict him.”

  Silvano hummed.

  “We all had doubts once. Found ways to live with them.”

  He tapped the parchment. “Vince never did. Drink. Smoke. Nothing.”

  A pause.

  “He is… how do I put it?”

  Carlo stirred his coffee again, slower this time.

  “Too at peace with what he does.”

  The lamps flickered as a quiet wind pressed against the drapes. Smoke curled lazily above the table, blurring the names on the parchment—some gone, some waiting.

  The morning sunlight was unusually clear for autumn, a quiet contrast to the tense days the orphanage had endured.

  Vince stood at the door, hands lightly folded behind his back, a small, calm smile on his face. Black suit, brown tie, polished shoes—neatly dressed, unassuming.

  "Good morning, sir." Agnes said.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you, sister.”

  “No,” Agnes said carefully. “Can I help you?”

  “I’ve given small donations here before. Nothing official. I was nearby and thought I’d ask whether everything was all right.”

  Agnes relaxed by a fraction.

  “That’s… kind of you.”

  He shifted his weight, glancing past her only long enough to register the movement of curtains, the faint shuffle of feet.

  “Is this a bad time?” he asked. “I can come back."

  “No, no,” Agnes said quickly. “It’s just been difficult weeks.”

  Only after did she realize she hadn’t taken the easy excuse to send him away.

  Agnes noticed his eyes flick briefly to either side, then behind him—subtle enough that he never broke composure.

  “I know,” he replied after a beat. “To be honest, I was a little nervous coming into these neighborhoods myself. With all the talk about gunshots lately.”

  "Anyway—" Vince's hands, slowly unfolded from behind his back. Agnes stiffened, expecting a weapon.

  But it was a sack.

  "Here are some sweets, chocolate and food I bought on my way here. Thought it might impolite if I come empty-handed." Vince said, smiling, offering the bag with both hands.

  The girls—peeking from behind the door, some from the windows, gasped hearing the words sweets and chocolate.

  "Thank you." Agnes took the sack with both hands, mirroring the polite gesture. "What is your name, sir?"

  "Um... can I keep it to myself?" Vince scratched his cheek with his finger.

  Agnes hesitated before speaking again.

  “It’s only proper to know who we are thanking.” she said carefully, insisting on getting some sort of identity. "Not many donors come in person, so I would like at least to have the honor of addressing you by your name."

  Vince considered her words for a moment, then.

  “I was taught that charity answers to God before it answers to people.”

  Agnes blinked. Not offended—just caught off guard.

  “If people know who gave,” he went on, gently, “gratitude starts to travel in directions it shouldn’t.

  "I’m only afraid my name might slip out there,” he added lightly, lifting his hand and letting his fingers flutter in a small, playful wave toward the hidden onlooking girls, “and I wouldn’t feel right offering a name just to satisfy formality”

  Agnes exhaled quietly, her grip on the sack... loosening.

  “…I understand,” she said at last.

  "He could have given a fake name..."

  Suddenly, Sarah dashed past Agnes to the door, bold in full view of the visitor—her eyes lighting up at the man.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  “Oh, look at you, little one,” Vince said, his fingers dancing in a playful wave. “You’re taller than I thought you'd be.”

  Sarah’s smile widened, delighted.

  “The funny face you made earlier—can you do it again?”

  "Ah, the one I made while you were looking from the window when I knocked? Sorry, but no. That is too embarrassing to do now that other people are watching." Vince said, gesturing at Sister Agnes.

  Sarah made a sad, disappointed face, looking at the ground.

  "But—"

  Vince crouched down, bringing himself closer to Sarah’s level. With his index and middle fingers, he began to make a tiny “walking man” on the floor, his fingers moving slowly like little feet tiptoeing across the ground. Sarah’s eyes widened in delight as the miniature figure approached her.

  When the tiny “traveler” reached her, Vince’s fingers darted lightly to her sides, tickling her just enough to make her giggle.

  His smile was warm, almost wholesome—but behind it sat a stillness, precise and assured, that went unnoticed by everyone else.

  “Got you!"

  Vince grinned.

  Indeed—he got them all.

  The girls were laughing at the sight of Sarah giggling and warming up to someone.

  Even Sister Agnes couldn't help but enjoy the sight.

  The nuns inside exchanged glances of relief. Whatever fear had lingered in the halls seemed to loosen its grip.

  And just like that, the little traveler reached the end of the room—

  with every eye following its steps.

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

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

  Rocco stood near the tubs, shoulders drawn in, coat folded over one arm as if he didn’t dare let it touch the floor. He looked up sharply when Mira stepped closer.

  “Stay here,” she murmured. “No noise. No moving around. Don't come out until I come and pick you.”

  Rocco nodded immediately.

  Mira added, already turning toward the stairs.

  “If something feels wrong, don’t try to be brave. Just wait.”

  He swallowed, then spoke, low and earnest.

  “Thank you.”

  She paused.

  “For standing up for me,” he added.

  Mira glanced back at him, studying his face and exhaustion. Indeed, this is clearly a man that had nothing to do with the gang wars.

  She nodded, firm and reassuring.

  Rocco dipped his head, gratitude plain in the small gesture.

  Mira took the stairs two at a time. With every step, the damp chill of the basement gave way to warmth and sound. She slowed near the top, adjusted her cap to look casual, breathing in, then out—once, twice—composing herself before stepping into the hall.

  Light flooded the space. Sun through tall windows.

  And... laughter is all she could hear.

  The nuns stood near the door, talking normally.

  The girls clustered close—giggling, whispering, staring openly with bright, curious eyes.

  Mira exhaled, tension easing from her shoulders.

  “Looks like it’s a regular visitor and not some killer...”

  She moved closer—

  —and stopped.

  Sarah was right at the door, utterly fearless.

  Sister Agnes leaned in, smiling, as if caught in a spell she didn’t quite understand.

  And there, still crouched among them, was Vince in a black suit, his fingers mid-motion, as though he had only just finished a game.

  Something in Mira’s chest tightened.

  She didn’t know why.

  Sister Agnes spoke, warmth in her voice.

  “I suppose… perhaps Sarah was longing for a father, and she found you, sir.” She hesitated, then asked, “Do you have children?”

  Vince straightened slightly, smile smooth, practiced.

  “Not of my own,” he said. “But my friends do.” His gaze passed briefly over the girls before returning to Agnes. “I know what it’s like to grow up in a place like this. Raising children here isn’t easy.”

  Mira watched how he stayed where he was, never stepping closer than invited. How he never once glanced toward the door behind him. How everyone—without realizing—shifted to face him, bodies angled in his direction, attention pulled as if by gravity.

  She swallowed.

  The pressure in her chest didn’t fade.

  She’d seen men bark orders to be obeyed.

  She’d seen men grin wide and false, trying too hard to be liked.

  This one... was barely trying.

  Too handsome.

  Too well dressed.

  Too human for the slums.

  And somehow, that was worse.

  “I’ll be going now,” Vince said pleasantly, brushing his hands together and turning to leave. “Have a good day, sister. It was nice to stop by.”

  “Oh—” Agnes lifted a hand. “Actually, sir. If you don’t mind… there is something you might help us with.”

  Vince stopped.

  "There is a ma—" Agnes started.

  But—

  Mira’s hand shot to Agnes’s sleeve, clinging hard. Her small frame pressed close, shoulders stiff, head tilting sideways with a sharp, almost imperceptible shake. Her eyes—wide, wary, calculating—burned with warning. Her jaw clenched, pupils darting with predator’s caution.

  Agnes froze, caught off-guard. The expression was familiar, too familiar: the exact look she had seen on Mira when danger lurked beyond sight. A look that screamed don’t take the bait.

  Maggie, the older girl who always clashed with Mira, narrowed her eyes in annoyance.

  "What's with her now? Is that a way to behave in front of a guest and a donor like that?"

  Agnes’s lips parted, then pressed together, snapping her out of what felt like a trance—not because she didn’t trust Vince, but because she trusted Mira’s instincts even more.

  “There is a matter I wanted to discuss with you,” Agnes said again, voice steadier, a thread of nervousness underlined by resolve. “Can you talk to the authorities for me? Regarding the doorman matter I mentioned?”

  No answer came.

  ...Vince’s eyes had shifted.

  They weren’t on Agnes anymore—

  They were on Mira.

  His smile was gone.

  The calm warmth of before replaced by a still, unreadable mask.

  Every nerve in Mira's body screamed: don’t trust him. She pressed closer into Agnes, one small step shielding her. Fingers gripped the fabric of Agnes’s dress. Her body was taut, coiled, ready to spring.

  “Sir?” Agnes said carefully, placing her hands lightly on Mira’s shoulders. “Oh—Sorry… this is a tough one.”

  Vince’s lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile. Not the playful one from earlier. This one crawled along Mira's spine. It was precise, measured, and cold in its calmness.

  “I can see that,” he murmured, eyes never leaving hers.

  Then he shifted his gaze back to Agnes, the warmth returning to his tone as if nothing had happened.

  “If I drop by the police station, I will let them know. They are very busy these days.”

  Agnes bowed.

  “Thank you. Have a nice day.”

  Vince mirrored the gesture, then offered a gentle wave toward Sarah, the girls and the nuns inside who waved back smiling.

  Finally, his eyes returned to Mira. He mouthed the words—they didn’t come out, but they were clear.

  Good job.

  Mira’s jaw tightened. Her glare could have cut glass, a wolf mother warning off a man from her children.

  Without another word, Vince turned and left, hands folded neatly behind his back again.

  The quiet that followed seemed heavier, charged.

  All the way in the opposite side of the slums—the western one, Dominick stood alone in the office, black coat still on, one hand resting against the desk.

  "Alex should be at work by now. But I expected Dante to be here at this early hour though..."

  His gaze flicked toward the doorway leading into the living room.

  He hadn’t meant to look earlier. But the mess had been impossible to miss: papers strewn unevenly across the table, ink smudges where frustration pressed too hard, letters rewritten until the parchment thinned. A trace of a ragequitting fist was on the tabletop as well.

  Someone learning to write.

  Most letters were precise, deliberate—even challenging words, carefully formed. And some were strikingly neat.

  Dominick’s eyes caught the names: A-L-E-X, D-A-N-T-E, and others—all spelled correctly.

  But one name struck him harder than the rest.

  Slower. Repeated.

  A sharp, unwelcome tightening beneath his ribs.

  He hadn’t read it aloud. Hadn’t let his eyes linger.

  Some things didn’t belong on scraps of paper.

  And then, quieter, darker, the thought followed.

  Dante hadn’t tried his name.

  Vince’s was there… but not his.

  "Why do I care?"

  The thought irritated him.

  A fragment of memory stabbed in: Alex on his shoulders, calling him… Uncle Dominick.

  He turned away from the doorway before the idea could settle.

  A knock sounded.

  Once.

  Then the door opened.

  Vince stepped inside.

  Dominick’s expression was already composed.

  “So?” he asked. “Did you find him?”

  Vince took his time answering. He adjusted his cuffs, and leaned casually against the back of a chair, as if this were a social visit.

  “Not really,” he said at last. “Checked a few places. But… I’m not sure.”

  Dominick turned then, eyes narrowing.

  “You spent longer than usual.”

  “I like to be thorough.” Vince shrugged lightly. “Most suspicious place was a girls’ orphanage. Nuns. Religious institutions must not be crossed like some... bar or warehouse. Or the Dons will trigger the wrath of the nobles even more than they already did."

  "That's why Emilio needed me." he added, "The big intimidating bodyguards and even the professional hitmen are a bad pick for those kind of places..."

  A moment passed as Vince replayed the earlier scene.

  "—But I backed off.”

  Dominick watched him closely.

  “What made you?”

  Vince tilted his head.

  “Someone was on to me. I didn’t want my face remembered. Even if Rocco is in there, I decided to leave the place alone. Somebody else will catch him once he leaves.”

  That earned a faint frown.

  “Who?”

  “A red-haired girl,” Vince said, almost idly. “she didn’t recognize me—but she didn’t trust me either.”

  “That’s rare,” Dominick said. “You sure she didn’t know who you were?”

  “No.” Vince smiled faintly. “That was the interesting part.”

  Silence settled between them.

  Then Vince added, softer, as if concluding a thought only he had been following.

  “I'm glad. The place is spared and the poor Rocco gets to live for a few more days.”

  Dominick removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

  “Do you even hear yourself?”

  Vince glanced at him, genuinely curious.

  “What? I didn’t lie to the sisters. I do donate there.”

  Dominick took his seat and said nothing.

  Vince had always been like this—familiar, and never fully known.

  “Whatever,” Dominick said at last. “That was Emilio’s order. What about mine?”

  “I arranged the payment for the agitators,” Vince replied. “Untraceable. Same with the labor leagues. They already had speeches written—just needed a reason to stop being afraid. Money handles that.”

  “Good,” Dominick said. “Papers are also handled from my side.”

  Vince paused, studying him.

  “I thought you hated this. Wars. Riots. Noise.”

  “I still do,” Dominick said evenly. “But I didn’t start it. The Dons did—and they won’t stop. Emilio already smells something. I’d rather not give him more. I'm just... trying to benefit from this. Not stopping it. Not finishing it. Just... riding along with it.”

  "Making the crowd bigger is not 'riding along', Domidick."

  "Just the crowd in front of the police headquarters. All I need is just enough pressure on the blue coats and eventually the nobles."

  "And what if the rest of the chaos reaches your wealth?"

  Dominick slid his glasses back on.

  “It already did. Just like the Dons, I am losing money because of this. That's why I will protect what matters. Few businesses and places must be untouched.”

  Vince clicked his tongue.

  “Like this street?”

  “Yes. Alex and Dante could get caught in it. I need them.”

  Vince smiled.

  “Oh. You sweet, worried father.”

  “Shut up.”

  Vince laughed softly.

  “Relax. You showed your face. That’s enough. Just now I ran into a couple of thugs whispering 'Oh man! the Undertaker—I saw him! I saw him! Better be careful of this street!'”

  Dominick looked at him.

  “No one out there is angry at you,” Vince continued. “They don’t riot at legends. They riot at uniforms and faces.”

  Dominick exhaled through his nose.

  “The people don’t know who to hate or what they want. Three quarters of them are screaming at the wrong men.”

  Vince blinked, narrowing his eyes. Half-annoyed, half-tired.

  “You don’t want the city to burn,” he said. “But you want the nobles nervous enough to pick up the phone. That’s a thin line, Dom.”

  “I know,” Dominick replied. “Starting a fire is easy. Putting it out is doable.”

  He looked up.

  “Fueling it while keeping it contained? ...That’s the difficult part.”

  "Well..." Vince stood up. "I understand the Dons' decision. But you, Dom? You're reaching... I'm not fond of the road you're taking."

  "Door's right there, Vince. Always has been for you." Dominick's answer came instantly.

  "I don't care what happens to me, brother." Vince said, heading towards the door. "Just warning you."

  Without waiting for answer, he exited and left the door of the office open.

  A silent vow that he is coming back no matter what.