Two

Two months later. Florence, Italy.

The wine didn't help.

Neither did the old stone buildings.

The cobblestone streets.

Or the way the Italian sun dipped lazily over the Arno River every evening like it had nothing better to do.

Orange and gold.

He hated how beautiful it was.

He felt itchy.

Like something inside him wouldn't sit still.

Tony still felt the blood on his hands.

Even after three showers a day.

Even after two months.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Even when fucking beautiful Italian women.

All his injuries had healed—save for his knuckles, always split and raw from punching walls.

But the guilt?

That didn't scar over as easily.

Florence was supposed to be a getaway.

A much needed break.

A temporary vanishing act—arranged by the six ghosts he used to call his team.

Calvin had been the one to book the hotel.

Olivia made the itinerary.

Peter picked restaurants.

And the other three?

They promised they’d bring in the ‘fun’.

All planned and done before the operation that turned into a goddamn massacre.

Still, he came.

As if honoring their vacation plans would somehow mean they weren't dead.

But he had never felt more alone.

And their deaths lingered—like cigarette smoke in old curtains.

From the third night on since he got here, until now, he drank too much.

Have sex too much.

As if each vice could drown away all the sorrow or atleast mute the guilt for a while.

Tony stood on the hotel's small balcony now.

Overlooking the warm and lively street.

A half empty bottle of wine dangling from one hand.

He wore an orange Hawaiian shirt, white shorts and cheap sandals—the kind that screamed ‘tourist’.

His black hair was a mess—like a thousand hands had run through it.

His other hand was gripping the wrought iron railing, supporting the full weight of a man barely holding it together.

Below—the cobbled street buzzed faintly with life.

Distant chatter.

The occasional scooter’s rumble—the city’s eternal hum.

But up where he is, was silent. 

Quiet.

Too quiet.

And his mind felt colder than the scattered marble statues standing silently—judging him from below.

Like ghosts from centuries past.

He even named them.

The statues.

Of course he fucking did.

The woman with a pot was Marsha.

The child that seems like praying was Henry.

And the one missing the nose?

That was John.

Tony squinted at them, eyes glazed and dry.

“Cheers Marsha, Henry and John,” he muttered. 

Half raising the half bottle of wine in salute.

“Go on, judge me like everyone else is!”

The statues said nothing of course.

Just stood there.

Watched him in stone silence.

“Ha-ha,” he chuckled. “Stoned silence. Now that’s fucking funny.”

Then he took another swig.

“Hah..”

And then—his eyes saw him.

Two establishments away below.

Crossing the street towards a bar.

Long, curly brown hair.

A bit tall.

Delicate build.

Wearing a white long sleeved shirt, tucked into faded blue jeans.

Brown boots.

A long necklace swinging gently as he walked, catching the last orange glint of sun.

‘Is he a model having a photography session?’

No.

Not quite.

The streets are free from those bulky bullshit they used in photography.

He had seen those setups before.

And he looked.. skittish.

Not confident.

Eyes darting everywhere.

Until they landed on Tony.

Even though it's very brief.

And lasted only a second—

He saw them.

Violet eyes.

A one in a million eyes.

So fucking pretty.

He knew he should’ve looked away.

Should’ve gone inside and finished his wine.

Instead, Tony dropped the bottle.

Grabbed his room keys.

And followed the boy with the violet eyes.

He moved with urgency.

**

Angel’s POV

He hated this city.

Not because it was ugly—it was anything but that.

On the contrary..

This.. city of Florence was too beautiful.

Too golden.

Too poetic for the kind of life he wants to live.

And poetry?

It can’t save you from the mafia.

Angel chewed his lips.

He wants to go back to America.

Period.

Angel’s legs moved fast.

His head was down but vigilant.

Hands tucked into the long sleeves of his white stretchable shirt.

His boots tapped against the cobblestone with urgency.

His long necklace swayed slightly with every step.

Eyes darting.

‘Where are they?’

The Luchese had a habit of sending men who looked like they stepped out of a funeral.

Black suits.

Pale eyes on dark sunglasses.

The smell of cigars and gun powder and the quiet violence they exude.

Ten days ago, he’d still been in boarding school.

Angel was an exchange student.

And he was living his life to the fullest.

The USA was a country of freedom!

Then one night, he got a call from his mother.

Saying he has to go back home.

Back in italy.

His father had a heart attack.

And they are afraid he won't live for another week.

Bound by duty as a son and not as love, he immediately flies back.

Only to find out, his father is well and healthy.

Although yes, he’ll die in a week.

The Luchese family was collecting his father's debt.

And the business that he was so proud of?

The restaurant he built with his blood and sweat?

It was on the verge of ruin.

With no way to pay and no way to get another loan, his father sold him off to the Luchese.

His last resort.

The Luchese mafia family is known for their high quality boots business.

They all know it's just a front.

They are dealing with arms dealing in the back.

‘And they use me to pay off their debt to the old geezer?’

The perverted family head?

Known for his penchant with young men?

He shivered.

‘No way in hell!’

So, last week, he ran away from home when no one was looking.

The Luchese head was still abroad.

Getting a surgery.

His men had failed to guard him, saying Angel won't go anywhere.

They’re lax.

Too lax.

Because they knew that Angel’s father had taken his passport, and hid it.

And they knew Florence like the back of their hand.

And now, Angel Dolci found himself hopping from one hotel to the next.

And just a few days later.

His money was running out.

He had cards, yes.

But he was afraid to use it.

Afraid that a single swipe would alert them and tell them his location.

‘I’m getting paranoid. Those goddamn mafias!’

But his guts and instinct has saved him before. 

More than once.

So he knows enough to listen to it.

He can feel the hair on his back raised.

Grounding him back to his reality.

They were here.

He could feel it.

Ever since his father and mother sold him off like a blood soaked IOU, Angel had been waiting for the knock on his hotel room’s door.

Waiting for the taxi to go somewhere he didn't say.

A gun once he opened his eyes.

It was all cliche.

And now..

Here he was..

Running.

He’d rather die than to go back to his family with his own two feet.

He turned a corner and saw it.

The bar.

He knew that bar.

Small, unassuming.

Always played bad american music.

But it had an escape route.

His violet eyes sharpened.

Giving a look around his surroundings.

Then he crossed the street.

Unknowingly—

In the far small balcony above him—a man dressed in an orange Hawaiian shirt was watching him with a hint of interest.

And that shit is about to go down.

**