OO1 - Lost Boy

15 Years Ago, Age 9

Lorenzo Romano:

My house possesses the same scent of a hospital from the amount of steriliser used to mop blood and guts from the floors. The medical equipment is out for easy access in the knowledge that men like us were never safe.

Living a life of nothing but death torture and loss, you tend to forget you are not invincible. That you still bleed. That you are still human.

My father never let that be known about his sons, showing them to the world as nothing but something to run from and never look in the eye.

I was never treated like a human, more so a rabid killing machine, and that was the life men like me were born into. No choice-- No escape.

I had spent most of my nights staring at the lavish trimmings on my ceiling, wondering if I was anything more than a monster.

Abruptly, I was awoken by a loud crash and shattering of glass coming from downstairs. My eyes peeled open. I didn't think to react, thinking my father had probably shattered a glass at my mother again.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes as I heard the sounding clumping of footsteps downstairs, unfamiliar footsteps. 

I felt my heartbeat increase in my chest, a lump forming in my throat which I swallowed firmly instantly. 

looking out the tall window peering towards new york, or the massive gates in place of the view, I tiptoed towards the door, freezing as I heard a bundle of voices I didn't recognise, accents I couldn't identify. 

I cautiously opened my door, walking across the hardwood floors slowly. 

As I peered over the balcony that overlooked the marble entrance, where my coat sat hung messily on the rack, I quickly made out 4 men, speaking Russian. The red mafia. Russians.

I stumbled back as yelling began, gunshots going off that stung my ears like a plaguing disease. Ringing pierced through my ear drums like a god-damn echo that wouldn't stop. 

I heard my father yelling, firing back. 

I took in a shaking breath, running to my room. I fell to my knees in front of my dresser, pulling the drawer open where my gun sat. Killing machine, this was what i had been made for.

My father forced me into army training when I was only Five. We were beaten bloody daily if we were an inch out of line– I knew how to kill.

I ran to the balcony, seeing the men all pointed in one direction. I gulped down the lump in my throat. 

I had seen death all my life, I was surrounded by it. It was who I was and all I will ever be in this life. Nothing but a grim reaper. But I had never killed before. 

I lowered my gun slightly as they kept shouting unclear sentences to whom I assume was my father. I paused, contemplating not doing anything. 

My father was evil, pure evil. All I've ever seen him do was abuse and rape my mother. He made sure my brother, Marco, and I would grow up the monsters that we were born. We were beaten bloody if shown any sign of emotion and shot in the leg if we cried. We started training when we were 5. My brother was still only 7, I was 9. But we had seen, heard and experienced things that no sane person would imagine.

I swallowed, clearing my throat. This would prove myself, and show my father I was not useless. 

I raised my gun, aiming and holding it as steadily as I could in my shaking hands, just as I was Taught. 

I aimed, firing a bullet straight into the skull of one, then another. The sound of the bullet hitting their flesh and shattering their bones as blood splattered around them, the completely ashen look in their eyes before they collapsed. 

The other two shot their heads at me. I was frozen. I just killed someone, and I didn't feel anything. 

I quickly shook my head, shooting another bullet straight into the stomach of one. He groaned, collapsing. 

The last one yelled, raising his gun towards the towering balcony where I stood. His gun fired, the explosion sounding in my ears.

The bullet punched its way through my side, causing my eyes to widen at the sudden stinging sensation.

I covered the sharp pain with my hand, quickly aware of warm, crimson liquid gushing out of the gaping hole in my side.

I didn't hesitate to move out of the way, shooting the last one. He collapsed as the bullet went straight into his forehead, eyes wide with utter death before his limp body fell. 

My eyes burned, threatening tears from the amount of aggregate pain I was writhing in, but I stood stoic, watching the aftermath of what I had just done, trying my hardest to feel something, but nothing came of it. Not a sliver of remorse or regret. 

I gripped my stomach in pain as I watched blood pooling onto the floor before me, a pile of bodies on top, their lifeless faces oozing with blood as the bullet hole remained in the middle of one's forehead. 

Blood was splattered on the white marble walls, painting them as if they were art. Sick, twisted, hell-binding art. 

I stood completely still, stoic, gripping my stomach as my injury began to take its toll.

I eventually collapsed from the pain, coughing and heaving from the new feeling of a bullet inside me. Heavy footsteps travelled up the stairs. 

I peeled my eyes open to see my father, looking down at me, livid. 

"You fucking idiot! You weren't supposed to kill them! We needed them for fucking questioning." He spat, lifting me by my collar. 

Are you kidding? I saved his goddamn life. 

He pushed me against the wall, slapping me across the face with a loud hissing sound. My face stung, tingling in pain but I was in too much agony to care, not like I could argue with him either way. 

I grumbled, pulling my hand away, and looking at the velvet-red stain on my shirt. 

Father quickly dialled someone, putting the phone up to his ear as he remained completely stoic. 

"Doc, Lorenzo's been shot. Get here quickly." He spat. 

I looked towards the hall, panting in agony, my head thrown back with my brown waves tousled up, slicked back with cold sweat. 

I saw my brother, mouth open as he stared at me.

My father looked back at me, grabbing my face. 

"Man up boy. It's a graze. you'll be fucking fine." He grumbled before pacing back down the stairs. 

I panted, groaning, looking at the amount of blood spilling onto my hands. I felt a cold sweat begin from the amount of pain in my side, and a wave of nausea hit me. 

I was in agony, and he left. 

Marco walked steadily, treading lightly as he approached me. 

He stood, towering above me. A small smirk appeared on his lips.

"Does this mean I'll be Capo now?" He laughed, squatting down. 

My face grew dark, that was all he truly cared about. 

"Enzo?" My mother screamed from downstairs. 

I shot my cold expression from Marco to the stairs. 

"Up here, mamma," I grumbled, shifting in discomfort, trying to ignore Marco and his sick comment. He was just like a father. 

She glided up the stairs gracefully, looking down at me with horror. Her big, deep blue eyes- the same ones she had gifted me, widened in fear, tears filling them. 

I dropped the gun in my hand, not wanting her to see.

"Oh mio Dio, Enzo!" She squealed, running over to me. Tears spilt from her eyes.

"Don't cry, mamma. He will hit you." I whispered out, trying to muffle her excessive whimpers of complete horror.

"Don't you dare worry about me, Enzo. Is the doctor on his way? c'è così tanto sangue!" She whispered shakily, holding onto my stomach. I winced, it stung like hell. 

"Yes, mamma. Father said it's only a graze." I coaxed, moving her hand. 

"I don't care what it is, Enzo." She got out, whisper-yelling. She looked at Marco, complete worry in her deep blue eyes. 

"Are you ok, mio Amore?" She whispered frantically between tears, cupping his face as she stroked his cheek with the pad of her thumb. 

"I'm fine, mother." He quickly replied, standing up, and brushing off her tender touch. 

He quickly walked to his room with no further words. The door opened, making me grip my gun tightly in my hold.

"Lorenzo!" The doc shouted, his voice echoing against the marble. 

I relaxed slightly, still gripping the gun. I would never let a gun leave my hand from now on. I looked towards my mother, she looked relieved. 

"Mamma, your bruise is showing. Go quickly." I groaned, trying to push her towards my room for her to hide. 

"Enzo-" she tried. 

"He'll hurt you even more, mamma," I whispered, gripping her hand that held my stomach. 

A tear fell down her cheek as she stood up, kissing my forehead. Her nightgown was soaked in blood, my blood, as she hurried into my room, closing the door behind her. 

My mother was all I had in this cruel world, I needed to protect her.

✧༺♥༻∞

"And do you swear on your life to protect the famiglia through death and despair, through blood and ash? through failure and success?" My father croaked, holding the blade between his two hands. 

I watched as it shone sunlight against it as he twirled it around. I kept my eyes narrow, standing completely stoic. 

"On my blood, I swear." I sighed, eyes caught on the blade.

I examined the carved wooden handle, an intricate pattern that almost resembled lace. 

Warily, I opened my hand out, palm facing upwards. 

I swallowed down harshly, my mouth dry as my father held out the blade for me to take. 

I didn't bother to hesitate- there was no hesitating to injure as a made man. 

My father solely believed, despite me not being of age, that a man can not both kill and not be coronated. 

Ignoring my aching side, still wrapped in cloth and held together with stitched-up thread, I brought the silver blade to my palm. 

I didn't make a sound or facial expression as I stoically watched the flesh peel back in my hand as the blade dragged across my palm.

It took a minute to render what I had just done, but nothing. I didn't feel a thing.

I swallowed as velvet-red liquid oozed out of my palm excessively. I simply placed the blade onto the bench as cheers rang in my ears. 

I didn't move as blood poured, rolling off of my palm from the flooding amount, cascading onto the concrete floor. 

The warm, stinging feeling was unsettling, but I couldn't care. I was the first made man before the age of 15.

My head turned behind my father, eyes meeting Marcos. He looked beyond raged. His lips pursed with a frown, jaw clenched tightly, barely controlled seething through his teeth. 

My mother held his shoulders, I could recognise her pale white hands, silver rings and long nails anywhere. 

I let my eyes travel up, still cold and emotionless. Her bruise was covered with makeup. I watched a tear roll down her cheek in horror as she watched her 9-year-old son become a made man. She forced her gaze away, begging not to see. 

The blurred pain was almost a sick reward, a medal men twice my age wouldn't be able to carry.

I looked back to my father, who was grinning slyly, chuckling as he clapped with everyone else. I blinked down at my hand, letting a small smirk appear.

I am Lorenzo Romano, and I am the fucking devil.