Chapter 11 - Just Physics

Giovanni’s fingers crumpled the note in his fist. Rage flooded him. His voice cracked through the quiet bar.

“Is that why you never gave me a chance?”

Lucia’s face was pale. “W-What?”

Tommaso stepped between them, protective. “Hey! Calm down. What the hell is going on?”

Giovanni’s voice shook. “After all that talk—that you wouldn’t get involved with men like us? Acting all innocent ?”

Lucia’s eyes shimmered. “I only met him once—Robert—I thought these were from you—!”

But Giovanni wasn’t listening. His hands twitched near his coat pocket. His chest heaved. He didn’t even show her the message inside the envelope.

And then—

The door slammed open again.

Robert.

He stormed inside, the note in his hand, half-mad, half-afraid, gun drawn halfway with the other hand—not quite aimed, not quite holstered. His intention, maybe, had been to bring Giovanni in. Question him. Deliver him to the Don, demand an explanation for the note he intercepted from Dante.

Giovanni’s hand moved before his mind did. The gun came all the way up. Not a threat. A defense. Fueled by jealousy, by betrayal, by the image of flowers in her hands with another man’s name.

Robert flinched. No time to explain. He raised his own weapon fully now, instinct smothering reason. Not a warning. A reaction.

Like oil finding fire,

like alkali meeting water,

One action fed the other—Robert’s initiative made Giovanni sharper. Giovanni’s fire made Robert faster.

No talk.

No questions.

Just two loaded lives moving closer to ruin, breath by breath.

Just motion.

Just reaction.

Just fate.

Alex saw both men freeze, weapons out, breaths short—eyes wild with betrayal.

And then—

The gunfire was deafening.

“Alex, duck!” Tommaso shouted.

Alex threw himself behind the counter just as Tommaso tackled Lucia to the ground, shielding her.

Shots tore through the room—glass shattered—wood splintered.

Giovanni staggered back, bleeding from the liver and leg. His aim steadied for one last shot. It struck true.

Robert fell, eyes wide, blood blooming at his temple. Dead before he hit the floor.

Giovanni dropped next. Alive. Barely.

Lucia screamed. Tommaso held her tight.

Two men—one dead and the other bleeding. Blood on the floor.

Over nothing.

Over everything.

it wasn’t vengeance.
It wasn’t justice.
It was physics.

Alex looked up from behind the bar, chest heaving. His hands shook. He couldn’t move.

And all he’d done was sweep a floor. Clean chairs. Tell Dominick what he saw.

And Dominick? He wasn’t even there.
He hadn’t told them what to do.
He hadn’t whispered kill.

He’d only let jealousy bloom in one man’s heart.
Only let suspicion take root in the other’s mind.
Only nudged them—quietly, distantly—with two false truths. One bouquet. One note.

The rest? They did themselves.

They drew the guns.
They made the choices.
They pulled the triggers.

And somehow, that was the most terrifying part for Alex,

the only one who figured out what really happened behind the scenes.

__

A few days passed.

Giovanni barely survived the shooting and was hospitalized.

Alex continued working in the bar under Dominick orders. He worked hard. No one suspected him — not even Giovanni.

The bartender Tommaso recovered the note from Robert’s corpse after the incident and gave it to Don Enzo Marcetti.

And Giovanni, now desperate and isolated, started pointing fingers without proof at anyone who started frequenting the bar, suspecting all of this might be a setup — and the suspects were.

Alex.

And around twenty other new customers.

All of whom had started coming to the bar over the last few days.

All, seemingly, to see Lucia.

Tommaso and Lucia stood by Alex. Protected him. Defended his loyalty, his discipline, his seriousness in his work.

And Giovanni had no evidence against anyone.

No allies left.

No strength.

So the verdict came swiftly.

Giovanni was executed.

For betrayal. For the death of the future heir. For killing a comrade who was about to expose him.

Or for nothing.

He had served the family for years. But that didn’t matter now.

One by one, many other enforcers began to desert.

Giovanni, the most loyal and oldest enforcer in the family is believed to betray them… and even if he denied it till the end, he got executed and his loyalty didn’t matter.

Some fled.

Some turned.

The Marcettis began to lose whatever grip they had.

And every time Alex looked at Lucia now, he saw only a shadow behind her eyes. The light that once flickered there — playful, untouchable — was gone.

One quiet afternoon, their eyes met across the bar. Lucia smiled. Bitterly.

And Alex realized he would never forget that moment.

Because there was no triumph in her face.

Only a hollow ache. A distant grief.

And a woman who had watched two men bleed for her — and had lost something neither bullet could ever reach.

Tommaso was locking up when he caught the end of their exchange.

“You two go ahead,” he said, voice firm and final. “I’ll close up.”

Neither of them argued.

As the door creaked shut behind the others, Tommaso turned to Lucia. He studied her face for a moment — too pale under the gaslight, the shadows too heavy beneath her eyes.

“Your name came up that day,” he said at last. “But everyone knows you. From home to the bar and back. So don’t worry.” His voice gentled. “I’ve got your back.”

Lucia gave a small nod. “Thank you, Mr. Tommaso. I know that.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pressed something into her hand.

She looked down, brows knitting. “But... the first of the month isn’t here yet.”

Tommaso shrugged, as if brushing away the formality. “Just take it.”

A sigh escaped him — long, tired, full of things unsaid. “I wish I could do more.”

Lucia looked up at him, eyes shining with a quiet mix of sorrow and gratitude.

Tommaso stepped a little closer. His voice dropped lower. “I wish you could find work somewhere else... not in a bar. That’s not your place.”

He hesitated. “Everyone sees a beautiful woman. I see a tired girl trying to survive. When your mother gets better... leave. Go anywhere but here. Understand?”

Tears welled up, unspilled, in Lucia’s eyes.

From behind, Alex stepped forward softly. “Can I walk you home?”

Lucia turned, and something eased in her face — the faintest smile, brittle but sincere. “Sure, Alex.”

She turned back to Tommaso and reached for his hand, clasping it briefly in both of hers.

“Thank you, Mr. Tommaso. You’ve always looked after me.”

A beat passed, then she added quietly, “But this is my place.”

—

Outside, the night had settled into a hush. The lamps along the street glowed faintly through a light veil of fog, and the city’s noise had slipped into murmurs — a cart rattling in the distance, the echo of laughter far away. Alex leaned against the chipped brick wall, watching Lucia tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

They stood like that for a while, just breathing the same silence.

“Mr. Tommaso’s a good man, huh?” Alex asked.

Lucia nodded. “Yes. A father figure. He treated me fairly.”

“I like him too,” Alex said quietly.

He hesitated, then pressed on. “Lucia…”

She looked at him, curious, patient.

“How... do you feel about that day?”

Lucia looked away. Her fingers went to the edge of her sleeve, tugging slightly. She didn’t answer at first.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “Two men died. That’s not something you celebrate.”

Her voice softened.

“I met Robert once… he was young. It hurt, seeing him die like that. He was polite with me.”

She hesitated.

“I knew Giovanni. And I was scared of him. Of his line of work. I didn’t love him—not really. But I think… maybe if I’d given him a chance, listened more, looked past the fear…”
She swallowed.
“…Maybe none of this would’ve happened.”

Her voice softened to a near-whisper

“What makes me anxious… and angry at myself” she said, “is the relief I feel… that they’re gone. Those two men working for the mob are gone—and I feel safer.”

Alex said nothing.

“Tell me,” she asked, turning to him, “is that horrible of me?”

Still, he was silent — not in judgment, but in reverence. As if breaking the silence too soon might shatter something delicate.

Lucia’s shoulders dropped slightly.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to you, a kid.”

But Alex shook his head. “No. I asked you.”

She smiled. “Alex... you’re a sweet kid. Stay like this, alright?”

She reached out, brushing her fingers against his arm — a gesture light as breath.

“Don’t you dare change,” she said. “Not the way you care. Not that soft heart.”

He returned the smile, sheepish, heartened.

“I promise you.”

He paused, then met her eyes again, gentler this time.

“You too, Lucia.”

She blinked. “Me?”

Alex smiled again, a little shy. “Don’t lose that spark you had before. The one that made you... you.”

He glanced down, embarrassed. “Sorry. That probably sounded awkward.”

Lucia chuckled softly, the sound small but real. “Got it,” she said. “We have a deal.”

And for a moment, beneath the gaslight and drifting fog, the world held still — two quiet souls sharing a promise neither would say aloud, but both would remember.

___

The office was quiet, wrapped in the hush of dusk. Beyond the tall windows, the city dimmed under fog and smoke. Inside, the lamplight glowed amber over the wood and paper, gilding the shadows.

Dominick sat with his hands steepled, watching Alex.

“Anything suspicious, Alex?”

The boy hesitated. His eyes dropped to the worn floorboards, and his voice came soft, half-swallowed.

“N… No. No one suspects me.”

Dante, lounging in the chair across him, grinned and gave a low chuckle of relief. “Good. Told you you’d be fine.”

But Dominick didn’t smile. He watched the boy longer than necessary—quietly, curiously. He saw the tension in his shoulders, the reluctance behind the answer. His voice, when it came, was gentler than expected.

“How do you feel?”

Alex didn’t answer.

A beat passed. Then Dante piped up, legs swinging casually. “Boss, can I ask you something?”

Dominick didn’t take his eyes off Alex. “What is it, Dante?”

“Why didn’t you have the lady seduce one of them? I mean—it felt like a good plan.”

Alex turned, sharply. He glared at Dante. But Dante, unfazed, returned a crooked grin. Dominick saw the entire exchange—and said nothing, for a moment.

Then he leaned back in his chair, almost fond.

“She’s famous enough to be watched, and likely accustomed to being followed. If we offered a cure for her mother in exchange for seduction? I don’t know how she’d react, but I believe she’d refuse.”

“She is desperate, but honorable. With her beauty, she could have gotten more than enough money with something like prostitution. Instead she kept her soul and worked close to her mother.”

He leaned forward slightly, folding one leg over the other.

“I admire her,” he said simply. “I hope she ends up with a good man. One who sees the struggle. Not just the surface.”

Alex’s jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed, his fists clenched tight in his lap.

Dominick saw it. And his tone darkened.

“Alex.”

The boy flinched.

Dominick turned fully toward him. Not a glance. A full stare—quiet, level, almost calm.

“What is that look?”

“N… Nothing.”

“Lucia is unharmed,” Dominick said, voice like iron velvet. “No civilians are grieving tonight.”

A pause.

“So.”

“Why are you making that face?”

Even Dante looked away, the humor drained from his smirk.

“You did something good for Lucia,” Dominick said.

“You saved her from a dangerous man. Good job.”

His hand lifted. The air felt colder.

“But don’t forget why you’re here.”

A long silence.

Alex did remember the real reason he is here. To obey. To help Dominick so the Dons are convinced he is an asset and keep backing off the hunt on his parents.

Dominick drew out two leather pouches from the drawer, each heavy with coin. He slid one across the desk toward Dante, the other toward Alex.

Dante snatched his up without hesitation, the grin already on his face.
“Thanks, boss,” he said, tying the strings with a practiced hand.

Alex didn’t move. His fists remained clenched at his sides, his gaze fixed on the worn wood between them. He didn’t so much as glance at the pouch.

Dominick watched him.

A drop of sweat traced the side of Alex’s face. His chest rose with each quick, quiet breath. Still, he said nothing. Still, he refused to touch the money.

The silence stretched.

At last, Alex gave a small shake of the head. Not defiant. Not proud. Just uncomfortable and scared.

Dominick leaned back. He reached for the untouched pouch and slipped it back into his drawer.
“I’ll pay some other way,” he said evenly, almost amused. “I knew you wouldn’t take this.”

Then, after a beat, colder:
“Dismissed.”

The two errand boys walked into their room in silence, boots muffled by the worn wooden floor. The door shut behind them with a quiet click. Two beds waited in the dim light.

Dante moved first. He yawned, slow and unbothered, as if nothing happened. He dropped onto his bed without care, arms folded behind his head.

Alex followed more slowly. His steps were heavy, like something clung to his back—something he couldn’t shake. The room felt colder tonight. Dominick’s voice still echoed in his head.

His promise to Lucia who lost something in her, the haunting image of Robert and Giovanni aiming their guns against each other over a note and a bouquet. The things he'd seen, the role he’d played, the success that tasted like ash. None of this left his mind.

He sat on the edge of his bed, hands clenched, gaze fixed on the floor.

Without a word, they both lay down.

“Dante,” Alex said.

“Yes?”

“Don’t talk like that again.”

Dante turned, looking at him with a softened expression, but said nothing.

He knew Alex wouldn’t like how the plan would unfold. But still, a part of him mourned.

The innocent boy’s joy over a pouch of coins earned from a hard day of work wasn’t there tonight.

And with that, they went to sleep.

____

Somewhere else in the commons, the alley reeked of rot and forgotten things—half-split crates, torn trash bags, a rusted pipe hissing faintly somewhere nearby. Against the far wall, a boy no older than nine stood defiant. Wiry, sharp-eyed. Theodore, nicknamed Pinch.

He faced four older boys—thirteen, maybe fourteen. Their hands were half-clenched. Their smirks curled just enough to betray unease beneath their bluster.

“C’mon, rat,” one of them sneered. “Hand over what you got.”

“We’re just gonna check your pockets,” said another. “Real polite.”

Pinch didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His lip curled instead into a crooked little smile. Then he whistled—low and sharp.

The sound cut through the alley.

Everything paused.

And then—footsteps.

Measured. Echoing. From both ends of the alley, figures emerged from the shadows. Four in all. No words. Just the sound of heels on broken ground.

Tonno and Zack one side.

Lino and Mira on the other.

Their presence said enough. The boys standing over Pinch stilled, slowly realizing they weren’t the hunters anymore.

Tonno stepped forward first—fourteen, massive for his age, all shoulders and fists. He cracked his neck with a sound like splintering ice. One of the bullies panicked and swung wide. Tonno caught the boy’s arm mid-air, twisted it, and hurled him sideways like dead weight. The crash of flesh into garbage rang out like thunder.

Lino, twelve, followed at a leisurely pace. Another boy lunged at him, wild with fear.

“Hey, who is that?” Lino asked lightly, glancing behind the boy.

Reflex won over thought—the bully looked.

In that instant, Lino darted forward, drove a sharp knee into his gut, and clipped the back of his head with a slap on the way down.

“Seriously?” Lino sighed, shaking his head. “Every time.”

The third boy hesitated. His eyes met Mira’s—just for a moment.
“…A girl?”

She was thirteen. Wore a flat cap, loose jacket, shirt and trousers, boots laced tight—dressed head to toe like a boy. Short messy red hair. Green eyes.
She stood apart, silent. Her cap shadowed her face. Hands tucked into her jacket pockets. Casual.
Unreadable.

He scoffed.
“What’s this?” he barked. “They brought their sister?”

And then he charged.

Mira raised her chin. Her eyes caught the dying light—sharp and unflinching. In a breath, she moved. Feet shifted. Stance locked. Hands up.

A boxer’s stance. Controlled. Clean.
But not one punch thrown yet.

He swung hard—sloppy, full of force, throwing his whole weight behind it.

Mira stepped in with her lead foot.

No swing.

No windup.

Just a short, sudden snap of her left arm.

The punch barely traveled. Her body hardly moved.

But it landed—fast and sharp. Right between his eyes.
Then came a second, just as crisp.

He blinked. Head popped back. Stumbled.

What just happened?

He had no idea what that was—a jab. A straight-line punch. No drama. Just speed.
It beat his wild swing to the mark—twice.

Confused fury overtook him. He came again, angrier now, swinging wider than before. Sloppier.
Mira slipped to the side like smoke—fluid, relaxed.

And then her hook came in—a tight arc to his temple.

He dropped.

She didn’t move.

No smile. No scowl. Just a flicker in her eyes.

Disappointment.

She'd hoped he’d be better.

“…Weak,” she muttered. Flat. Almost to herself.

The final boy froze. Sweat glistened on his brow. Before him stood another kid their age, Zack.

He said nothing at first. Just walked. Calm. Measured. His gaze was flat, pale, and unreadable—like the eyes of a snake studying a twitching mouse.

The boy’s knees locked.

Zack stopped just short of him.

“You,” he said softly.

He waited. Then added, almost sweetly:

The number of seconds you last…

is the number of teeth you get to keep.

’Okay?

The smile that followed wasn’t kind.

The bully screamed, dropping everything in his hands. He turned and ran, stumbling over himself, scrambling for daylight.

“It’s them!” he howled. “The Wolves gang! We should’ve known—!”

His words faded as the others fled, feet thundering out of the alley.

Silence returned.

Pinch brushed dust from his sleeve, grinning wide.

“Took you long enough,” he said. “Thought I’d have to bite someone.”

Tonno gave a small grunt. “Don’t worry. No one touches you.”

“You’re lucky we like you, little man,” Lino added with a smirk.

Mira glanced at Pinch, the corner of her mouth curling faintly. “Next time,” she said, “whistle earlier. I’m sick of these weaklings everywhere.”

Zack didn’t smile. His voice was low and certain.

“Last time I am warning my prey. I will start counting fractures after this.” he said.

And like that, they turned. No celebration. No threats. No lingering. The gang faded into the alleys they’d come from—shadows swallowed by shadows, slipping back into the bones of the city.

They hadn’t met Alex yet. But the city had already set the pieces in motion. Sooner or later, their paths would cross—and when they did, something would break.

Or begin.