Matteo Vitiello POV:
The overwhelming stench of cheap bleach and unwashed bodies filled the crowded hallway of the Chicago public hospital.
I sat on a chipped plastic chair, my chest caving in as a violent coughing fit seized my body. I doubled over, hacking until my throat tore. I spat a thick wad of blood-streaked phlegm onto the dirty linoleum floor between my boots.
The homeless man sitting next to me shot me a look of pure disgust. He covered his nose with his grimy jacket and slid his chair a few feet away.
I wiped the blood from my lips with the back of my hand. I looked down. Luca was squatting at my feet, happily spinning an empty, discarded pill bottle on the floor. He was completely oblivious to the disgusted stares of the people around us.
The door to the clinic opened. An exhausted African American doctor in a wrinkled white coat stepped out. He looked at his clipboard and called out the fake name I had registered under.
I placed my hands on my thighs and forced my body upward. My prosthetic leg groaned under my weight. I limped heavily into the cramped examination room, dragging my dead foot behind me.
The doctor didn't even look up. He tossed a thin stack of lab results onto the metal desk.
"Terminal liver cancer," the doctor said, his voice completely mechanical. "The cancer cells have fully metastasized to your surrounding organs. You have three months, maybe less. I suggest you look into a state-funded hospice center."
My pupils shrank to pinpricks. My dry, cracked lips trembled, but my vocal cords refused to produce a single sound.
I didn't ask about treatments. I didn't ask about the pain. I slowly turned my head and looked through the crack in the door. Luca was still sitting in the hallway, giggling as the plastic bottle spun in circles. A wave of suffocating, paralyzing panic crashed over me. The fear of my own death was nothing compared to the absolute terror of leaving a child-brained Luca alone in this hell.
I stumbled out of the hospital. The freezing Chicago wind hit my face, nearly knocking me backward.
I grabbed Luca’s hand and dragged him toward the South Side. We stopped in front of a rundown, neon-lit pool hall. This used to be a secondary base for one of my old mafia lieutenants.
I pushed the heavy door open. The thick smell of cheap tobacco and stale beer hit my face. A group of low-level street thugs were sitting around a poker table, tossing dirty bills into a pile.
One of the thugs, a massive man with a scarred cheek, looked up. His eyes widened in shock for a second before twisting into a cruel, mocking sneer. He recognized me. He used to kiss my ring.
I let go of Luca’s hand. I hunched my shoulders, stripping away the last microscopic shred of my dignity. I limped toward the table.
"Please," I rasped, my voice sounding like grinding stones. "Take my brother. Just let him sweep the floors. Feed him."
The scarred thug stood up. He pulled his leg back and kicked me squarely in the chest.
"Fuck off," he spat. "You're a dead dog. New York put a kill order on you. Anyone who touches you gets a bullet in the head from the Moretti family."
I hit the floor hard. The straps of my cheap prosthetic snapped, and the plastic leg detached, sliding across the dirty floorboards. I was completely crippled. But I scrambled forward on my bleeding knees and threw my arms around the thug’s heavy work boot, clinging to it desperately.
"Please!" I begged, tears streaming down my scarred face. "He doesn't know anything! Just keep him alive!"
The thug looked down at me with absolute revulsion. He hacked up a ball of thick phlegm and spat it directly onto my ruined face.
Luca shrieked. Seeing me on the floor, he charged forward with his fists raised, trying to bite the thug’s leg.
The thug didn't hesitate. He swung his massive hand and backhanded Luca across the face. The impact lifted Luca off his feet. He crashed headfirst into the sharp wooden edge of the pool table. A deep gash opened on his forehead, and blood poured down his face.
I let out a raw, deafening roar. I tried to drag myself across the floor to protect him, but two other thugs grabbed my arms and pinned my face to the sticky floorboards.
The owner of the pool hall stepped out from the back room. He held a baseball bat. "Throw this trash out. If they come back, call the cops and report a break-in."
They dragged me by my collar and threw me out the back door. I landed face-first in a pile of rotting garbage in the alley. Luca was thrown out right after me.
Snow began to fall from the dark, grey sky.
I dragged my useless body through the trash until I reached Luca. I pressed my freezing, trembling hands against the bleeding gash on his forehead. Hot blood soaked my palms.
Luca cried loudly, wrapping his arms tight around my neck. "Hurts! Brother, it hurts!"
I looked up at the falling snow. My life was draining away into the frozen concrete. I realized with absolute clarity that no one in this city, no one in this world, would dare take us in.
A black hole of despair swallowed my mind. My eyes hardened into a state of total, reckless madness.
I reached into the pocket of my coat and pulled out a crumpled ten-dollar bill. It was everything I had left.
I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted copper. I had to do it. I had to shatter my soul into dust.
"Only her... only she can keep him alive."
