Chapter 5 Rain And Reckoning

• Rain hammered the narrow Naples alley, a relentless drumbeat against the crumbling brick walls. Fourteen-year-old Santino pressed his back into the cold stone, his knife trembling in his grip.
• Three days he’d watched the apartment from the shadows. Three days since he’d seen that man drag a sobbing child inside, the kid’s cries were swallowed by the storm. His heart thudded against his ribs, but his jaw tightened with resolve.
• “Are you sure about this?” Marco whispered, his voice shaky as rainwater streamed from his chin. His eyes darted toward the flickering streetlight at the alley’s end as Santino nodded, his dark eyes narrowing. “I’m sure.”
• “Cops will” Marco started, his voice barely audible over the downpour. “Cops don’t come here,” Santino cut in, his knuckles whitening around the knife handle. “Nobody does. Not for us.”
• The apartment door creaked open, and their target stumbled out, swaying like a broken mast. The man fumbled with his zipper, muttering curses, his breath a cloud of cheap wine in the damp air.
• Santino recognized him instantly from the neighborhood warnings, the man who lured kids with candy and left them scarred. A predator in their slums.“Now,” Santino whispered, his voice a low growl.
• They moved like street cats, silent despite the splashing puddles, their sneakers slick with mud. The man didn’t notice until Santino was three feet away, the knife glinting faintly in the rain.
• “The fuck you want?” the man slurred, squinting through the downpour, his lips curling into a sneer. Santino’s voice steadied, cutting through the storm. “You hurt children.”
• The man barked a laugh, staggering forward. “Get lost before I hurt you too, boy. Scram!”
• Marco lingered behind, his breath shallow, but Santino stepped closer, undeterred. “Not anymore,” he said, his tone flat but dangerous.
• The man lunged, a clumsy swipe with a meaty fist. Santino sidestepped just as his father had taught him years ago and swung the knife in a swift arc.
• The blade bit into the man’s forearm, slicing through flesh. Blood welled up, dark against the rain-soaked sleeve. The man howled, clutching the wound.
• “Little shit!” he roared, charging again, rage fueling his drunken stagger.
• This time, Santino held his ground. He gripped the knife with both hands, thrusting it straight out as the man barreled toward him. The steel sank into the man’s stomach with a sickening squelch, like punching wet sand. The man’s momentum carried him forward, impaling himself deeper. His eyes bulged, mouth gaping in silent shock.
• Santino twisted the blade, another brutal lesson from his father echoing in his mind. The man crumpled to his knees, then pitched face-first into a puddle, the water rippling red around him. Rain diluted the blood, washing it toward the gutter in thin streams.
• Marco stumbled to the corner and retched, the sound mixing with the storm. Santino stood motionless, staring at the body. His hands, slick with blood, trembled as the rain cleansed them. He felt nothing, no triumph, no guilt, just a hollow void where emotions should have been. His chest tightened, but his face remained a mask.
• He knelt beside the corpse, wiping the knife on the man’s jacket before slipping it back into his belt. No prints, no evidence that was the rule.
• His fingers brushed the man’s wallet, and he tugged it free. Inside, beneath crumpled bills stained with wine, was a faded photo.
• A younger version of the dead man grinned at the camera, his arm slung around another’s shoulders. Santino’s breath hitched as he turned it over, squinting at the scrawled ink.
• Me and Ben Leandro, Napoli ‘89.
• Ben Leandro his father’s name. The man who’d raised him with a firm hand and a sharper blade, until that daylight murder stripped him away.
• Santino’s gaze darted back to the photo. His father smiled there, a rare softness in his eyes, his arm wrapped around the man Santino had just killed. The rain seemed to slow, each dropping a hammer on his skull.
• “Marco,” Santino rasped, his voice cracking. “Who was this guy to my father?”
• Marco wiped his mouth, pale as the moon. “I—I don’t know, Santino. Just a name from the old days, maybe. They ran together once, before your dad went straight or tried to.”
• Santino’s mind raced. His father had never spoken of old partners, only of enemies. Yet here was proof of something deeper: a bond, a betrayal? The photo slipped from his fingers, landing in the bloody puddle, the ink blurring under the rain.
• A shadow moved at the alley’s mouth. Footsteps splashed closer, deliberate and heavy as Santino spun, knife back in hand, as a figure emerged from the storm a tall man in a long coat, face obscured by a hood. In his gloved hand, he held a gun, its barrel gleaming.
• “You shouldn’t have done that, boy,” the stranger said, his voice low and gravelly. “Leone’s debts don’t die with him.”
• Before Santino could react, a gunshot cracked through the rain, and Marco screamed. Santino ducked, heart pounding, as the alley erupted into chaos. The stranger advanced, and Santino realized this wasn’t just about the man he’d killed. It was about the secrets his father left behind.