On our way, we stopped in Rome for a day. That evening, as we walked near the Trevi Fountain, we saw an unexpected sight.A man, filthy and dressed in rags, was on his knees, begging from tourists. A deep, jagged scar ran from his left eye to the corner of his mouth, giving him a terrifying appearance.I didn’t recognize him at first. But when he looked up, I saw his eyes, and I knew instantly.Dante.In just three months, he had been reduced to this. Not only was his face destroyed, but it looked like his leg had been broken again. He limped more severely than ever.He saw us, too, and his eyes filled with a familiar, burning hatred.“Vincent! Isabella!” He struggled to his feet and staggered toward us. “It was you! You did this to me!”Tourists scattered, frightened by his shouting. Vincent stepped in front of me, his eyes cold as he looked at the man who was once his “son.”“Dante, how did this happen to you?” I asked. I felt no pity, only a morbid curiosity.“It’s your fault!” he s
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