Chapter 3 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 marble statues standing silently—judging him from below.
• Like ghosts from centuries past.
• He even named them.
• The statues.
• Of course he 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 funny.”
• Then he took another swig.
• “Hah..”
• And then—his eyes saw him.
• Crossing the street towards the 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 moved fast.
• His head was down.
• 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 pay me off 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 his 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.
• Just days later.
• His money was running out.
• Afraid to use his cards.
• 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 the 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 small balcony above him—a man dressed in a Hawaiian shirt was watching him with a hint of interest.
• And that shit is about to go down.
• **