Marco Ludicinni savored the almost polluted air New York could offer — some could even call it a unique fetish of his. He had the choice to shut the windshield up but chose not to for his own pleasure, he wasn't going to do it just to please anybody, especially… Christopher, that filthy cunt sitting upon the passenger seat with his disgusted face visible through the rear-view mirror, hardly hidden through a pleasing tone used to fawn over him, and the complaints of this retard of a driver through his mumbles… No, these weren't enough to bring about the end of his joyous mood.
The day offered the best news earlier in the morning, their underboss gunned down by who-knows-who, and with his father-in-law, the boss, informing him of his increase in stature. Fuck! He exhaled in pleasure, as he thought once more of their exchange. It was all worth it, marrying that whore of a woman, his boss' daughter in exchange for wealth and power— Though, wealth was something his family already had in abundance, holding onto it, however, is a different story since his father seems keen on not sharing the majority of it to his only son.
"Would ya' look at that," remarked Christopher, whistling at the female with long blonde hair on the billboard plastered above a high-rise building. "Ain't she a catch?"
"Fuck off, will ya? That's my sister you're talkin' about."
"A waste she'd be marrying that sneezy cunt, boss. All he got is —"
"Billions. Something you and I would be dreaming to have only in a million years." Marco cut him off right there, not too pleased in continuing the conversation or anything related to that sister of his. At first, it was a British man with dubious origins and a year later, she gets knocked up by that bastard, Unmarried. He sneered religiously at that notion, then he laughed inwardly as he had done more sinful things than her. Then now, with all the fame and wealth Hollywood had brought to her, she had fetched a hell of a catch. Nonetheless, he and his father had disagreed upon her insistence in marrying the man, much more, a jewish businessman… how could she ever think of forming a family again, especially since she never had been much of a mother to her son.
His arse had grown attached to his seat at the time they arrived in Manhattan, high-rise buildings clustered densely together welcomed their sights and soon a smooth voice from the radio took over the whole car.
"We'll have Manhattan, the Bronx and Staten Island too
It's lovely going through the zoo
It's very fancy on old Delancey Street, you know
The subway charms us so, when balmy breezes blow to and fro"
"Always a good song to listen to when in Manhattan, eh." Indeed, it was. But his sunken arse grew to be too uncomfortable for him to continue appreciating the song. Their car stopped in front of a large gated school, and he got out the sooner he was able to along with Christopher to finally feel some blood on his arse. "Go fetch the boy, I'll be waitin here." He ordered.
The man grunted but relented, and did as he was told. Soon after, he returned. "Gone."
"What d' you mean, gone?"
"I mean it. I asked around and a teach saw the boy dragging his mate around with twos of his friends, made quite a commotion, she said."
Marco could feel a headache coming from what this entailed, yet a smirk couldn't resist painting his lips. Similar to him and his grandfather, a full-blooded Ludicinni, through and through. He could even hear the muttering of Christopher as they entered the car. "The boy's mean to the bones, might have been born for this kind of life. What say you, boss?"
"What says you? You retard. The boy's got a betta' future than this." He fantasized. "Might be a politician sum'day, even."
"With a billionaire stepfather, and an uncle who's soon to be the boss, I don't doubt." The driver chimed, replacing that smirk of his to a wide grin… Really, the boy's got everything in place for him, yeah no doubt he could be anything he wants.
"Best we get on findin' the boy, and fast. Lest my sister comes running her mouth again when we return to that blasted mansion of hers." Marco complained, finding it very unpleasant to have his older sister shouting at him whenever she finds the chance to. God be the witness, the only good thing that came out of her was her son, and his father would back that claim, the man loves that boy better than his own children. "You better win that fight, Nico, or it won't just be your mother I'd get a mouthful from."
All the notions pointing to a fight— it was a given. His nephew bringing two other boys and dragging one boy even? That means a one-sided beating, and that means something had happened to irk the boy in some way. They would cruise through streets after streets, checking the alleyways for the boys. It wasn't after half an hour did they see two boys standing in between an alleyway, the boys looked very much alike, they were Twins. Their eyes meanly scanned around the street and sometimes, they would look behind them and a tinge of fear and amusement flashed by their faces.
"Look at him, got a mini-crew or some sort," said Christopher, amused. "Probably a good beatings' in order, lookin' at their faces."
"It better be." Marco slammed the car door shut, arranging his clothes and that hard thing tucked onto his pants.
"Better not be using that on a kid, boss."
"You make me an idiot or some sort? Kid's probably beaten black n' blue already, be a waste to threaten him with this."
Hopefully not so much as black and blue. He approached the alley with Christopher in tow, and he was forced to stop his tracks when the twins blocked the path. "Ain't your business, mister." One of them spoke threateningly, while one had his hands on his pocket, seemingly clutching something sharp in it. The two were larger than most kids he had seen, towering average teenagers even— yet, he and Christopher laughed loudly at their childish threat. This wasn't something his stature deals with, it was his made man's job to do so.
"You sure your nephew ain't going for a criminal life? Looks like he got two loyal made-man already, boss." Christopher japed, then he approached menacingly. "You two fat fucks best let us through or you ain't even be able to stick it in me with whatever shit you got in your pockets." His intimidation didn't work, however, a little show of his metallic friend made the two little shits back away deeper into the alley. "Now, you little shits betta' listen. My boss and I… we mean no harm — what the fuck."
His reaction by far did not mean any exaggeration, even Marco found his jaw hanging from the scene that befell them. Damn… The sound of fist bumping heavily into flesh resonated throughout the alleyway, and it was louder than the trash can's lid crashing onto the ground as a boy came crashing onto it. There in front of them stood a black-haired boy, looking very pleased as he stared at his fallen foe, his white polo marred with a smear of blood, and his leather shoes damped on the wet ground. A black hue tinged the corner of the boy's ocean-blue eyes, a tinge of red on his prominent cheekbones, and a small cut on the bottom of his lips. It must have been a hard fight… Luckily, there weren't any signs of a broken bone on the boy's aquiline nose.
He approached slowly… One step, two, three… "Uncle Marco?" The boy called, surprised.
"Your mother's been looking for you, Nico, and from the looks of it— you'll have an earful tonight." He eyed the boy's foe on the ground, and was surprised at the state of the kid. Bloody and battered was understating it, the boy looked like he was on his last breath. "Fucking hell, this'd be a mess to clean up." He bent down and grasped the kid's neck, trying to feel for a pulse, while his eyes scanned the chest to see if there were signs of breathing. Breathing and a pulse… fuck!
Knowing that the beaten kid was alive, his attention turned to his nephew who was standing guiltily against the wall. One of the fat twins handed Nicholas a cigarette, and the boy placed it onto his mouth. When the pocket light almost lit—
"Don't go lightin' that cigar up. Remember, you almost killed this punk." He warned.
"He was putting on a goddamn fight. I had to… else I look weak to them."
"Don't be talkin' bout looking weak n' stuff with me, you almost whacked someon' in the middle of the day." He stared menacingly at his nephew, dragging his hands down on his face in disappointment. "That's fuckin' stupid, boy. I'm very disappointed in you."
There was no further conversation between them after that, leaving one of Marco's men to handle the rest. A heavy silence stretched between the two of them, enduring even as they reached the outskirts of a wealthy, vibrant neighborhood—so starkly different from the cityscape they'd just left behind. The silence was something the boy could hardly bear, especially at his young age.
"I'm…" he began weakly, his voice hesitant, tinged with reluctance. "Sorry for troubling you, uncle."
But Marco didn't respond, his gaze fixed firmly on the boy, as though measuring the sincerity in his words. Though he didn't want his nephew to become a pushover, Marco couldn't ignore the growing concern he felt. The way the boy was handling things was starting to worry him. There was a line Marco never wanted his nephew to cross—a line he himself had crossed far too young, all for the sake of family.
"I won't tell your mother," he said firmly. "But I don't want to see you fight like you're gonna kill someone, eh?" He pointed a stern finger at the boy. "This life, it's not for you. You got the future—somethin' better than anybody 'round here, capisce?"
The boy gave a reluctant nod, yet behind that small gesture simmered a flicker of defiance, unnoticed by all but burning quietly in his gaze.
…
Minutes later, their car approached a high stone wall enclosing a vast stretch of manicured lawn. At its center stood an ornate black gate, wrought with intricate patterns that shimmered subtly under the afternoon light. The driver gave a sharp honk, and moments later, a brightly-uniformed guard emerged from a small post. His expression lit up with recognition as the side window slid down.
"Good afternoon, sir," he said, addressing Marco with respectful warmth. Then, turning to the boy, he added with a courteous nod, "Good afternoon, young master."
"Has the celebration begun?" Marco inquired.
"Not yet, sir," the guard replied with a smile. "The madam and sir are awaiting the young master's arrival before making the formal announcement."
"Perfect timing," Marco said. "Carry on."
With a soft mechanical murmur, the wrought-iron gates gracefully unfurled, permitting the vehicle to glide forward like a shadow upon silk. The drive curved elegantly through the heart of the estate, flanked on either side by pristine hedgerows and marble statues bathed in golden light. Ahead, the grand mansion emerged in full splendor—a towering edifice of alabaster white, rising with an air of timeless majesty. Its classical architecture whispered of generations steeped in affluence, dignity, and a heritage too proud to speak aloud.
As they drew nearer, the roadside revealed a gathering of luxury—sleek, gleaming automobiles lined discreetly along the lane, each one a rare gem that common eyes might glimpse only in magazines or dreams.
At last, the car eased to a stop beneath the porte-cochère, where a woman stood poised and waiting. She was statuesque, her golden hair swept into an elegant chignon, her aquiline nose lending her the air of someone born to command drawing rooms and charity galas alike.
"You've finally arrived, my dear boy!" she exclaimed, her voice warm and theatrical as Marco and the boy stepped out. "Your mother has been waiting with her drinks in anticipation."
But then, her expression faltered. Her eyes widened as they swept over the boy's face. "Dio mio—what happened!?"
Marco waved a hand dismissively. "You know boys," he said, with a wry chuckle. "No time for dramatics—just see to it he's presentable."
"Well then, let us be quick," she said, reaching out to take the boy's hand.
With delicate insistence, she led him through the threshold, up a polished staircase, and into a lavish dressing suite. The room was a hive of motion—stylists fluttered from guest to guest like hummingbirds, powder and perfume lingering in the air like whispers. Gowns shimmered, shoes clicked, laughter rose in practiced tones.
The boy exhaled quietly, casting his gaze over the flurry of finery with thinly veiled fascination