Matteo Vitiello POV:
The ceiling of the basement apartment dripped a steady rhythm of filthy, brown water into a rusted bucket. The walls were thick with black mold, and the air smelled of cheap vodka and stale urine.
I woke up on a mattress that had lost its springs a decade ago. A sickening, sharp pain shot through my right leg. I gasped, my hand flying down to grab my calf, only to grasp empty air.
The phantom pain was a relentless, invisible saw cutting through nerves that no longer existed. My leg had been amputated below the knee months ago, but the ghost of it tortured me every single morning.
I dragged my trembling hand over my face, feeling the thick, greasy beard covering my hollow cheeks. I reached for the nightstand, knocking over an empty vodka bottle, and grabbed the plastic pill bottle.
I shook it. Empty.
"Fuck!" I roared, hurling the bottle against the concrete wall. It shattered into cheap orange plastic shards. The Outfit had cut off my medical accounts. I couldn't even afford aspirin, let alone the painkillers I desperately needed.
From the corner of the dark room, a whimper echoed.
Luca was curled up under a moth-eaten blanket. His eyes, once sharp and arrogant, were now wide and vacant. The brain damage had reduced my brother to a five-year-old. He clutched a filthy, missing-eyed teddy bear to his chest, trembling at the sound of my shout.
"Hungry," Luca mumbled, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth. "Want candy."
The anger drained out of me, leaving only a suffocating pit of despair. I strapped my cheap, chafing prosthetic leg to my stump, biting back a groan of agony, and hauled myself into the rusted wheelchair.
I rolled over to the small refrigerator. Inside was half a carton of expired milk and a rock-hard heel of bread. I tore the bread into chunks, soaked it in the sour milk until it was mush, and handed the bowl to Luca.
Luca dug his unwashed fingers into the mush and shoved it into his mouth. He giggled, holding out his dirty teddy bear to me as if offering a trade.
I turned my head away, unable to look at him. I wheeled myself toward the bathroom. A cracked mirror hung over the sink. I stared at the pathetic, broken man in the glass.
Behind me, the static-filled television flickered to life. A local news channel was covering a charity gala in New York.
The camera panned across a red carpet. And there she was.
Elena.
She wore a breathtaking emerald gown, her head held high, radiating absolute power and grace. Dante Moretti stood beside her, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back. She smiled at him, a look of pure, unadulterated love.
My chest caved in. I couldn't breathe. I remembered sitting in a run-down apartment just like this one, years ago, when she had been exiled. She had cooked me a bowl of cheap noodles, smiling at me with that same warmth. And I had knocked the bowl out of her hands. I had called her worthless.
A choked, pathetic sob ripped from my throat. Tears spilled over my eyelashes, cutting tracks through the grime on my face. I gripped the wheels of my chair, my knuckles turning white.
"Candy!" Luca whined loudly, pointing at the TV.
I wiped my face with the back of my filthy sleeve. I opened the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out three crumpled dollar bills—the last of our government welfare money.
I pushed my wheelchair out of the basement and into the freezing Chicago rain. The streets of the South Side were rivers of mud and garbage. Every rotation of my wheels splashed freezing sludge onto my pants.
I made it to the corner bodega. The owner, a man who used to bow when I walked in, sneered at me. When I bought the candy bar, he didn't hand me the change. He dropped the coins onto the dirty floor.
I swallowed my pride, leaning precariously over the side of the chair to pick up the pennies.
When I wheeled back outside, clutching the candy bar, three men blocked the alleyway leading to my apartment. They had dyed hair and cheap leather jackets.
I recognized the leader. He was a low-level street thug. Years ago, Luca had broken three of his ribs just for looking at him wrong.
The thug smiled, pulling a switchblade from his pocket. He kicked the front wheel of my chair hard.
I lost my balance and tumbled out of the chair, crashing face-first into the freezing mud. The candy bar flew from my hand.
Luca, who had followed me outside, saw the candy fall. He cried out and crawled into the mud to grab it.
The thug stepped forward and brought his heavy boot down hard on Luca’s hand. Luca shrieked in pain.
"Stop!" I screamed, trying to push myself up. But without my leg, I slipped in the mud, collapsing helplessly.
The thugs laughed. The leader knelt down, grabbed me by my greasy hair, and pressed the cold steel of the switchblade against my throat.
"Look at the mighty Vitiellos," the thug spat. "You're not even Outfit trash anymore. You die here, the rats eat you, and nobody cares."
I looked up at the gray, raining sky. The cold blade dug into my skin, drawing a bead of blood. I didn't feel fear. I felt nothing but a crushing, absolute exhaustion.
I closed my eyes, letting my head fall back into the mud.
"Just do it. End this hell."
