Matteo Vitiello POV:
The thug stared down at me, his switchblade pressing into my throat. When he saw the absolute, dead resignation in my eyes, his cruel smile widened. He pulled the knife away and clicked it shut.
"Dying is too easy for you," he sneered.
He stood up and drove the heel of his boot directly into the center of my back. He ground his foot down, burying my face deep into the freezing, filthy puddle. Mud and foul water forced their way up my nose. I choked, thrashing my arms, but he weighed too much.
"Hey, look at this," one of the other thugs laughed.
He kicked my right pant leg. The fabric rode up, exposing the cheap, plastic and metal joint of my prosthetic leg.
My heart seized. Panic, sharp and blinding, finally pierced through my apathy. That leg was the only thing keeping me somewhat human. Without it, I was just a torso dragging along the ground.
"No!" I roared, twisting violently in the mud. I clawed at the thug's ankles. "Don't touch it! Leave it alone!"
"Hold him down," the leader laughed.
Two thugs grabbed my arms, pinning me face-down in the sludge. The leader knelt beside my right stump. He grabbed the cheap velcro and leather straps that secured the socket to my severed thigh. He didn't unbuckle them. He yanked brutally.
The friction tore the fragile, newly healed skin around my stump. I screamed, a raw, throat-shredding sound, as the plastic socket was ripped completely off my body.
The leader stood up, holding my leg like a morbid trophy. He tossed it in the air a few times, mocking me, before turning toward the end of the alley.
With a loud grunt, he hurled the prosthetic leg. It sailed through the rain and crashed heavily into a massive, overflowing green dumpster, burying itself under rotting food and garbage.
"No... please..." I sobbed, dragging my body through the mud with my elbows, leaving a trail of blood from my torn stump. I reached my hand toward the dumpster, my fingers digging desperately into the wet pavement. I couldn't move fast enough. I was completely, utterly helpless.
Seeing me crawling like a crushed insect, Luca became terrified. He let out a high-pitched, hysterical wail and lunged toward me.
"Shut up, retard," the leader barked. He swung his leg back and kicked Luca squarely in the stomach.
Luca flew backward, slamming hard against the brick wall. He collapsed into the trash, vomiting a stream of sour milk and stomach acid.
A surge of adrenaline, fueled by pure, desperate instinct, flooded my veins. I pushed off the ground with both arms, throwing my mutilated body across the alley, and threw myself over Luca.
The thugs descended on us. Heavy boots rained down on my ribs, my spine, the back of my skull.
I curled into a tight ball, shielding Luca’s head beneath my chest. I didn't scream. I just took the impacts, feeling my ribs crack under the assault.
As a boot slammed into the side of my face, my vision flashed white. In that blinding light, a memory surfaced. I was sixteen, standing in a pristine Chicago garden. I was holding a young, terrified Elena by the shoulders, swearing to her that I would always protect her.
The irony was so sharp it physically cut me. I had promised to protect the girl I loved, and instead, I had destroyed her. Now, I was being beaten to death in a slum, using my broken body to protect the brother who had ruined everything.
Blood poured from my nose, mixing with the mud and tears on my face. I looked down at Luca, who was shivering and crying beneath me. I felt a profound, absurd tragedy.
Suddenly, the wail of police sirens pierced the storm. Red and blue lights flashed against the wet brick walls.
"Cops. Let's go," the leader hissed. He reached down, snatched the three crumpled dollar bills from my pocket, and the three of them scrambled over the chain-link fence, vanishing into the rain.
A Chicago Police cruiser idled at the mouth of the alley. Two officers in heavy yellow raincoats stepped out, shining their heavy Maglites into the dark. It wasn't a rescue. A neighbor had simply complained about the noise.
The beam of light hit my bloody face.
One officer walked over, pinching his nose against the smell. He didn't draw his weapon. He didn't call for an ambulance. He just nudged my shoulder with his black nightstick.
"You dead, buddy?" the cop asked, his voice dripping with apathy. "If you're not, drag your ass out of here. We're not doing paperwork for gang trash tonight."
I slowly lifted my head. My face was a swollen, unrecognizable mask of gore. The cop looked at my missing leg, looked at Luca drooling in the trash, and turned away in disgust. They walked back to their cruiser and drove off, leaving us to the rats.
The alley was dead silent, save for the relentless downpour.
I looked at the empty space where my leg used to be. I looked at the dumpster that held my dignity. I looked at Luca, who was sucking his thumb and crying for candy.
The last pillar of my sanity snapped.
I threw my head back, facing the black, weeping sky. I opened my bloody mouth and let out a scream of pure, unadulterated agony. It was a howl that tore from the very bottom of my soul, echoing off the brick walls, drowning out the thunder.
I clutched Luca to my chest, my tears running hot over my freezing skin. Through the blinding pain, a single, obsessive thought locked into my shattered mind.
"New York..." I whispered, my voice a broken rasp. "I must go to New York."
