Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

NERO.

1974.

It was a Sicilian night. A little boy came into the world, not crying or squirming once he first inhaled and exhaled, filling his precious lungs with fresh air. Instead, he opened his red eyes and stared at the doctor who held him, wriggling his tiny toes and fingers. His white hair fascinated the nurses, but his parents were worried. One said he must have a harmless skin condition, nothing they should worry about.

Chiara was astonished, holding her newborn in her arms while caressing his delicate face with her fingertips. The baby cooed, leaning into the touch while looking directly into his mother's eyes. Dario sat by the edge of the hospital bed, watching his wife and son with interest and hesitancy.

— He's so tiny. — Chiara muttered, seeing how the boy's nose wrinkled when the blanket wrapped around him brushed against his cheek. — Dario, he's so tiny...

— Yes, he is. The doctor said it's common for a newborn to be birthed so tiny, even though he's healthy. — Dario nodded, thoroughly inspecting his wife's expression. Chiara cried during the delivery, but her tears dried up in the moment she held their newborn in her arms. — Have you thought of a name yet? I still don't understand why you didn't choose a name once we found it was a boy like any other mother would.

— I knew I'd have to look into his eyes to know his name. And I know now. — Chiara whispered, pressing her lips against the baby's fuzzy and soft head. — Nero. Nero Bianco.

— Nero? — Dario frowned, watching as Chiara smiled at the baby and held him close like a wolf nuzzling its cub. — Why?

— He's calling for it. I can see it in his eyes. — Chiara responded, beckoning Dario to approach and admire their son. — Come closer, and you'll see...

Dario invested in studies about pregnancy once he found out his wife was expecting a baby. Mood swings, strange behavior, and other changes were expected. Still, he often struggled to understand Chiara's reasonings or attitudes. Instead of arguing, he approached her and gently pulled the blanket aside, looking into his son's face.

Nero was tiny. Chiara carried him for 9 months, but he could be easily mistaken for a premature baby. Dario poked his cheek with his index, making his son side-eye him and grunt like a baby would do before pouring their little hearts out. However, the newborn became comfortable in his mother's arms again and closed his eyes.

— Oh. Nero already has an attitude. — Dario smirked, a rare sight of the stoic man that only his wife (and son) could behold. Chiara smiled at him, happy to see her husband smile. She couldn't remember the last time he saw his teeth, maybe when he bit his lips to stop himself from screaming at his boss during a phone call 5 days ago. — Nero... That will do.

[...]

1976.

The quality of the Bianco family's lives plummeted. The political, economic, and social problems that threatened to ruin Italy suddenly erupted on a large scale, drastically changing the lives of almost every citizen in the lower classes. The inflation ruined many lives, and mass firings spread across the country. Chiara was lucky enough to be born into a middle-class family. However, Dario's job alone could no longer maintain their lifestyle. Not with Nero in the picture.

With a heavy heart, Chiara agreed to find a job to aid her husband, sorrowfully denying her son her breast milk so he wouldn't stop her from leaving the house for long periods. Nero reacted better than expected, even though he was 2 years old. He also rejected his pacifier, so Dario (against his wife's protests) fed his son tea and porridge to keep his stomach full and his heart soothed. Surprisingly, nothing happened to their healthy, red-eyed baby.

Nero was a weird toddler with no discussion. He never cried, not even when he hurt himself, and rarely asked to be held. In fact, he spent most of his day sitting by himself in the crib while staring at the walls or ceilings. Plush toys or blankets didn't spark his curiosity. Instead, he'd reach for dangerous things like forks or knives within his reach, toying with them between his fat fingers until his parents whisked him to safety once again.

He learned to walk, talk, and read very early. Dario held him on his lap while watching the news as Chiara prepared soup in the kitchen. As the opening theme to "Telegiornale 1" started, the man heard a soft hum from his son's tiny body. He was a quiet kid, skipping the annoying phase in which toddlers questioned everyone and everything. Somehow, Nero seemed to know it all.

— Democrazia Cristiana.  — Nero uttered, cocking his head to the side and squinting his red eyes, his white lashes resting against his soft cheeks. — 14,209,512 votes.

Dario tensed, clenching his fists against the couch. He refused to look into his son's eyes and turned off the TV before grabbing Nero by his overalls as if he were a shopping bag. He not-so-gently put his son on his highchair and sat on the opposite side, avoiding Chiara's gaze as she served him his food. She then strode across the table and put the bib on her son, kissing his forehead.

— There you go, Nero. — Chiara cooed, not noticing how uneasy Dario looked across the table. His hazel eyes observed Nero, noting how pacific and baby-like he seemed to be with his wife. He even let her fix his bib, offering her a tooth-rotting sweet look at her. — Are you hungry, angioletto?

— Yes, madre. — Nero nodded, the way he called his mother making Dario clench his jaw. Sometimes, his son reminded him of a middle-aged man. Something his wife absolutely adored. — I am hungry, yes.

As Chiara returned to the stove to serve her son's food, Dario and the toddler made eye contact. Nero dismissively fidgeted with his fingers, staring into his father's eyes like a white rabbit with red eyes. However, he had no such aura as a rabbit. His father could almost swear his son was an albino alligator in disguise, ready to strike and snap anytime soon. He loved his son, but his bells constantly rang near the kid.

A plate filled with porridge diverted the toddler's attention. Nero grabbed the spoon with the gracefulness of a swan, admiring his botched reflection on the cutlery before letting out a huff. A shadow of a smirk appeared on his thin lips, but nothing more than that. It was enough to make Chiara smile at him and pet his head, but Dario wasn't convinced. He munched on his toast, staring holes into his son's face and watching him eat like an average toddler would.

[...]

Sicilian summer, at last. Occasionally, Dario would drive her wife to the countryside to visit her in-laws, but their visits were sparse. Now, they had Nero, who needed to bond with his family. Chiara's family provided emotional and financial support to his father, who had lost his parents and had no other relatives. Chiara's family provided emotional (and monetary) support to them since he had lost his parents and had no other relatives. It wasn't something he'd proudly admit, but beggars can't be choosers.

The 1967 Alfa Romeo 1750 GT Veloce,  a marriage gift from his father-in-law, drove slowly. It was acquired when the couple wasn't feeding a third mouth belonging to an unnerving child with red eyes and white hair, so it had no appropriate gadgets to transport a baby. Chiara held Nero against the seat, closely watching him as they drove over bumps or sudden stops. The toddler seemed uninterested in the scenery outside, choosing to fixate on Dario without blinking.

Dario was sweating, gripping the steering wheel as he took deep breaths. Chiara interpreted his stress as his normal driving behavior, as he shared many traits with her father regarding their temper. She had shielded herself from those outbursts even before she first bled, but Nero seemed to have no fear of anger ever since he was born. He barely reacted when his father yelled at him for breaking his favorite ashtray days ago, instead kneeling on the floor, lowering his head in humbleness, muttering an apology, and walking into his mother's loving arms without looking back.

— Are you okay? — Chiara asked. Dario initially ignored her, presuming she was talking to their toddler. Nero then gently nudged his side and caused him to snap his head towards him and then his wife. He saw concern in her blue eyes. — You seem nervous.

— I think I had too much coffee in the morning. — Dario croaked, turning his attention to the road once again. The path started to look familiar, pulling the strings of his memories as he saw the large property at the end of the road. — It's making me dizzy.

— You can rest in my old room once we get there, okay? — Chiara chirped, reaching to stroke her husband's arm. Unlike he did with Nero, Dario reacted to the touch with a discreet smile. She then rubbed her toddler's fat belly, petting him like she'd pet a wild animal. — Are you excited to meet your nonna, Nero?

— No. — Nero uttered, not hesitating once. Chiara and Dario exchanged a slightly concerned look before the woman pulled her son to her lap, holding him close. — Why couldn't she come to see us before? I don't know her.

— She's... old, mio amato. Very old. When people are old, they can't move around much. — Chiara sucked in her breath, trying to make the concept of approaching death as innocent and subtle enough for a 2-year-old toddler. Nero noticed her hesitance, looking up at her with his piercing stare. — That's why she couldn't come. And, as you know, me and your father need to work every day, just like you go every day to daycare. We can't visit your nonna, my mother, always.

— I see. Nonna is old. Very old. — Nero nodded as his mother's words settled into his toddler mind. He then slowly turned his head at Dario, cocking his head to the side and mimicking Chiara's tone. — Where is my nonna, your mother?

— She's dead. — Dario blurted out, his emotional scar crossing the invisible line that separates children from the inevitable fate of realizing their loved ones will perish one day. Chiara frowned, not happy about her husband's lack of sense. — When people get too old or ill, they die.

— Is that so? — Nero inquired, this time searching for his mother's answer. Chiara glared daggers at Dario, showing her dissatisfaction with him and staring back at her son. — My nonna, your mother, will die? You said she is old.

— ...eventually. — Chiara begrudgingly croaked, her eyes burning with the sudden need to shed tears. She quickly recomposes and smiles at Nero, forcing him to stare ahead by roughly turning him away. — Look, we're here!

The countryside villa had a modern appearance, even though it was supposed to be a farm. A disconnected section had barns and plantations but nothing else. The front garden was well tended to, but something caught Chiara's attention as she stepped out of the car, Dario staying behind with their son.

— A swing? — Chiara frowned, turning around to stare at her husband. Dario cocked an eyebrow as if he didn't understand what was wrong. — I came here briefly last week, and it wasn't here.

— Maybe your parents got it installed in the meantime. — Dario shrugged, holding Nero in his arms as he parked the car and came closer to Chiara. — You know, for our little son.

— They're old, Dario. My father uses a wheelchair. My mother barely walks anymore. She drags her feet like they weigh tons of- — Chiara stopped talking after realizing she had let her feelings take over her senses. She shook her head, sighing audibly and avoiding Dario's judgemental gaze in shame. — I'm sorry.

— I was implying your parents hired someone for the task. As they always do. — Dario pursed his lips, awkwardly petting Chiara's lower back like she'd do to Nero's head. Maybe he saw his wife much like his son, aside from the part he didn't think there was something wrong with her. — Why don't we get inside and talk to them?

Chiara nodded, walking past the unfamiliar swing and dragging herself upstairs to ring the doorbell. Nero squirmed to get down as he noticed the one-attraction playground, but his father held him tighter. The toddler growled softly against Dario's chest in dissatisfaction, making his heart race. The door swung open, causing the family to freeze.

— Eudocia. — Chiara grumbled, her jaw clenching and her bottom teeth protruding as she stared at the woman before her with genuine surprise (and annoyance). Eudocia looked over her shoulder, nodding at Dario and briefly admiring the toddler. She visibly winced at the sight of Nero as if he had a plague. Of course, his mother didn't miss the distasteful look at her beloved son. — Where is our mother?

— Inside. — Eudocia uttered, still visibly shaken by the sight of a child with red eyes, white hair, and a cadaveric stare. Dario himself stared at his son like this, yet the way his sister-in-law looked at Nero offended him. Noticing she stared for too long, the blonde woman nodded at him. — Dario.

— Eudocia. — Dario returned the dry greeting, walking past the open door and putting Nero forward in his arms like a farmer offering a customer his most prized pumpkin. — This is Nero.

— Uh... Hi, Nero. — Eudocia stepped back in response to the sudden proximity with Nero, offering him a fake smile. The toddler narrowed his eyes, spurring further her unwillingness. She didn't like the way he looked at her. — I'm your aunt.  Zietta  Eudocia.

—  Buongiorno, zietta Eudocia. I am Nero Bianco. — Nero introduced himself. Eudocia looked shocked, glancing at her in-law for reassurance. Dario did nothing but nod, already used to his 2-year-old son's rich vocabulary. — I have oculocutaneous albinism.

— Oh... Good...? — Eudocia gulped, silently begging Dario to help her. He put Nero down, causing him to immediately walk down the hallway to follow his mother's voice. — Why is he-

— I don't think you have the right to question my son's appearance and behavior when you're here after 2 years away. I know you're up to no good by showing up out of nowhere right when your sister decided to visit with Nero. — Dario interrupted Eudocia, dismissing her rant with a wave of hand. She pursed her lips in annoyance and stopped talking, much like Chiara. — Why don't you stop wasting your parents' time and tell them what you need this time instead of pretending to be a loving daughter, sister, and aunt?

Again, much like her younger sister, Eudocia opened and closed her mouth repeatedly before huffing and strutting down the hallway, her heels violently clicking against the rug. Dario sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before following his sister-in-law towards the kitchen. He couldn't hear any more conversation as he reached the kitchen, bumping into a frozen Nero by the threshold.

— I have told you a million times not to stop in your tracks in the middle of the way where adults are- — Dario scolded his son, immediately falling silent as Nero looked up at him. It was the first time he had seen a genuine emotion on his son's face as he hid behind his leg, peeking from behind it. Following the toddler's gaze, the man quirked his eyebrows up. — Oh.

Chiara looked startled as she stared at the toddler eating chips from the ground before he got scooped by a funky-looking man and slapped across the cheek, shrieking and running to his grandmother's arms. Alfonsina grunted while pulling the crying toddler to her chest, patting his back while chastising a mute Eudocia with an inaudible mutter. As always, Bartolomeo stared out the window while smoking a cigar and letting the women present deal with the situation.

— Dario. — Alfonsina inhaled deeply, forcing herself to smile at her son-in-law even though she had a sobbing baby in her arms, gripping her collar with the strength of an elephant. — It's good to see you.

—  Suocera. — Dario faked the same emotion, scooping up an uneasy Nero from the ground and bringing him closer to Alfonsina. — It's good to see you.

Both adults look at each other, silently offering comfort in that chaotic situation. Alfonsina again grunts as she puts the toddler down, and Dario forces a still-fearful Nero to do the same. They look scared for different reasons. While his son looks at him for reassurance, the other baby keeps his head down while sobbing.

Nero eyed his father, quirking his eyebrows much like him. Dario returned the gesture, glancing at the crying baby before them and discreetly bumping his knee into the back of his son's head, making his tiny body tumble forward and closer to his cousin. It's the first time his son made a sound that is not of displeasure or faked happiness. He yelped like a dog getting kicked, immediately stepping back. Chiara cleared her throat, approaching her son and patting his head like. He dodges her hand, to her surprise.

— Nero, I need you to take your cousin outside so the adults can talk. Can you do it for me? — Chiara smiled through obvious pain, although Nero couldn't tell how hard his mother wanted to cry and flee that house at such a young age. — Play with him on the swing, cocco di mamma. You and him are the same age.

Like a Pavlovian response to Chiara's encouragement to play together, the weeping toddler grabbed Nero's hand and gripped it, seeking comfort from his peer. The redhead gulped, ready to intervene — the last kid who suddenly grabbed her son's hand ended up missing half of his earlobe on a freaky, unexplainable accident with a stapler. However, her baby's red eyes scanned his cousin before dragging him down the hallway without looking back, the boy's sobs dying in the distance.

As they reached the porch, Nero sat by the first step and quietly stared at the road ahead. His cousin sat beside him, sniffling while trying to wipe his tears away with his forearm. The other toddler noticed his bruised arms and legs, filled with purple bruises, burns, and cuts. However, he didn't say a thing.

— I'm scared. — The toddler whimpered, his cut bottom lip quivering as he tried to calm himself by rocking back and forth. — I want my nonna...

Nero stared at his crying cousin, furrowing his white brows at the sight of him in distress. He usually dismissed any other crying baby whenever he met one anywhere, yet something felt different about his relative. He remembered how Dario often petted his head with annoyance whenever he behaved weirdly; he did the same to the other toddler, causing him to turn at him.

— Don't hurt me... — The toddler muttered, wiping the snot and tears from his face again with the sleeve of his worn-out shirt. — Please...

— Why would I? — Nero responded, studying his cousin's face. They were the same age, but his relative was nothing like him. He never had to ask someone not to hurt him. — Who hurt you?

— Papa did... — His cousin burst out in tears again, covering his face with his tiny hands while ugly sobbing. Nero shifted, genuinely uncomfortable with such a raw display of emotion. — Mamma dice che sono un cattivo ragazzo...

Nero rarely heard he was a bad boy. Dario had it rough in his childhood but never hit him, instead going for grunts, accusatory fingers, and harsh words. Chiara would rather die than not spoil her golden boy, so his wrongdoings rarely got penalized by her. He was a prodigy toddler, yet the concept of violence toward a kid was foreign to him. He couldn't imagine his parents harming him that way. Why would they? What could a boy so tiny like him do to deserve such treatment?

Naturally, he held a comforting hand towards his cousin, watching as the boy peeked behind his fat fingers and lowered his hands to reveal his swollen, red face. Like an alien learning to mimic human emotions, Nero offered him a timid smile and a handshake, remembering Dario's etiquette on greeting how to greet another man. Except he was still a little man. A little man who never made a friend before.

— This is not true. Madre once told me that only children and animals go to Heaven because they are pure. I don't know what or where Heaven is, but she said it's in the sky. — Nero said with his monotone, soon-to-be baritone voice. — I am Nero Bianco. I have oculocutaneous albinism.

His cousin went for a hug, like every other toddler — Nero was an exception, one of the few toddlers in the world with enough personality and capacity to understand and reject social cues or impositions. He stood his ground on not hugging strangers but felt he could let it slide this time.

— I'm Luka. I'm a baby. — Luka muttered, clinging to Nero like a flea. He was significantly smaller than his cousin, probably because he was malnourished and mistreated by his parents. — I want to go on the swing, but papa hurts me when I hurt myself on the playground...

— I'll push you. Madre taught me how to swing. — Nero said while pulling Luka by the wrist, making the boy yelp. He lifted his thumb after realizing it pressed one of his cousin's bruises before dragging him near the swing. — You won't fall.

Luka's legs looked like twigs, balancing his tiny body as he struggled to sit on the swing. Nero held the cords after realizing his cousin didn't have a bulging belly like him. Did his mother kiss his fat belly and playfully threaten to cook him for Christmas? He pondered the option of regretting not laughing or engaging in Chiara's shenanigans until a sniffle from his cousin whisked him away from his distant thoughts, gently pressing his small hands against his shoulder blades and pushing his back.

Nero noticed how his cousin gripped the swing, fearing a fall that would result in another beating from his father. He remembered how Chiara berated Dario for pushing him too fast and instead guided him to do it gently. The boy treated Luka like his parents treated him, hearing a soft chuckle in response. His cousin kicked his feet excitedly, his blonde hair flowing with the wind every time he swung up.

Eudocia left the house with her husband by the backdoor, and Luka didn't even recognize their van disappearing into the highway to never be seen again. As Nero looked away from his laughing cousin for a second, he saw Chiara sobbing in Afonsina's arms. He and Dario shared a look of concern before the toddler averted his gaze to keep entertaining his new (and only) friend.

[...]

1982.

Luka started living with his grandparents in the countryside the same year Eudocia abandoned her son to flee the country with her gambler boyfriend. He missed them a lot at the beginning and cried every night until his body forced him to fall asleep, not understanding why his parents left. Afonsina struggled to make her grandson feel loved, and he eventually warmed up to her and accepted his new life in the countryside.

Dario and Chiara decided they'd fend for themselves after Luka became a responsibility of the family, deciding to ease the burden by using only their money to balance their household. With the decreasing economy, however, raising their son became harder. Nero started school and had many extracurricular activities due to his parents' work schedule, barely seeing them except after 7 PM. During dinner, he'd hear about his parents' financial concerns and health issues like background noise. It became an occurrence.

The couple decided to send Nero to the countryside during vacations to work extra hard as he played with Luka at their grandparents' place under their caring watch — at least Afonsina's caring watch. Dario and Chiara would later learn this distance would be a problem during their son's adolescence, even though they sacrificed their relationship for his current well-being. Loving parents prioritize the present over the future when caring for their children.

Nero didn't complain, of course. He'd rather be with Luka and play around the cornfield, pet the cows, fight for the controller, or stare at the starry sky after eating a warm meal. He hated the constant fights because of the decreasing money, the microwaved food, the dark bags under his parents' eyes, the dismissive hums whenever he went through the trouble of sharing his day in school, and all the times he was the last kid waiting to be picked up. At some point, Dario and Chiara became a distant memory, prone to be forgotten.

He decided to formally move in with his grandparents. Dario initially objected, not wanting his son to be another burden to his in-laws (and not wanting to admit he failed to be a present father to his son to the point he, at the age of 8, wanted to move out). However, Chiara tearfully supported her son's decision when she realized she and her husband weren't giving Nero the attention and love he needed.

It hurt for Chiara to see Nero smile as they parked the car in front of her parents' house, running towards Luka with his luggage under his arms as if he were going to a summer camp. Dario refused to look at his son or leave the car, having said goodbye with a simple nod. He dealt with the situation like someone refusing to believe a loved one died, pretending not to care so as not to crumble.

—  Angioletto. — Chiara cleared her throat, causing Nero to look at her. She had tears sliding down her cheeks, not caring to hide her sorrow. Her son looked indifferent, but the woman knew it was deserved. That's how she and her husband looked at him over the past years. — I want you to know that you'll always have a place to call home with me and your father... And you can always come back if you want to...

— I know. — Nero nodded, looking at his feet in discomfort. He had seen Chiara crying before and usually offered her a single pat on the back. The boy didn't feel comfortable doing it anymore. Instead, he waited for her to recompose before continuing. — Thank you, madre. Nonna said you can call every night at 9 PM before I go to bed.

— Of course. You have to keep a routine. Sleep makes you grow strong... — Chiara smiled through her tears, reaching for Nero's head and caressing him like she used to. Her heart ached as her son fixed his messy hair, glaring at her. Now she knew why Dario felt so uneasy when their son looked at him. — If you ever have problems, don't hesitate to call...

— I believe nonna and Luka can help me if something ever happens. — Another punch to the stomach. Chiara was trembling and sobbing, so Alfonsina intruded on the conversation to grab Nero's luggage and handed them to Luka, forcing him inside and closing the door to give mother and son privacy. — I will enroll in a new school, but Luka will be my classmate. I'm not worried.

— You were always so independent... Such a good boy... — Chiara squinted her eyes as fat tears slid down her rosy cheeks, cradling her son's face in her trembling hands. Nero averted her gaze and backed away. She was transported to the maternity 8 years ago when her son still looked her in the eyes and leaned into her touch. — I'm sorry, Nero... For failing you...

Nero stood there in silence, monitoring his crying mother. He stepped forward and awkwardly circled Chiara's waist, pressing his head against her. It rested against her clavicle. He pressed his forehead against her knees when he was still a toddler, clinging to her leg as she prepared his nightly porridge and thought of a new story to read him. He never paid attention but actively complained whenever she broke their routine. Eventually, he stopped complaining.

Dario watched his wife and son from a distance and shed a tear. He hated to see himself on his son. Nero was his carbon copy and would eventually become a man like him. It concerned him much. Chiara said a few words to her son and embraced him one last time before entering the car, begging her husband to drive away. He looked at the boy one last time, watching him jump into Luka's arms as soon as Alfonsina opened the door. For a moment, he envied a kid.

Chiara's sobbing was distracting, and she looked distraught. Dario last saw her cry that sorrowfully when her older brother died 3 years before Nero was born, and he had never seen her like that before that unfortunate event. To see her grieving over their living son felt like a massive failure as a husband and father.

As he parted his lips to utter lies to comfort his wife, a random kid jumped out of a bush and ran into the highway, causing Dario to shout and swerve the car in an attempt to avoid hitting them. Chiara shrieked as the vehicle hit a nearby tree, her body violently shaking as she clutched the seatbelt over her chest. It hurt. It hurt. She didn't even check the kid that her husband almost ran over, throwing a fit as she kicked everywhere and pulled her own hair.

— Nero! Nero!!! I want my son! — Chiara yelled, her delicate hands clenching into fists and hitting everything they could. Dario tried holding her, noticing how their wedding ring made a noticeable scratch on the window. — Bring back my baby!

Dario fought against his tears and his wife's wrath, unbuckling his seatbelt. A punch thrown at him sliced his left cheek, but he still pulled Chiara to his chest and let her take her anger out on him. Her angry screams turned into broken sobs again, and she wept, digging her nails into her husband's arms and screaming against his chest. The kid returned to their parents, who held their hands and pulled them back to safety while scolding them for running into the highway. 

Nero and Luka watched the distant city lights by the roof a few miles away, sharing a soda can. The older boy noticed how his cousin seemed pensive, fidgeting with his shirt. His shoulder was soaked with Chiara's tears, forcing him to take it off out of discomfort.

— How is the big city? — Luka inquired, taking a swig from the carbonated drink before handing it to Nero. — I don't remember much. I was too young when I lived there, and it wasn't one of the best experiences.

— It's bland. It feels like... Eating unseasoned meat. People will like it because it's meat, but it lacks something. — Nero mused, resting his head against his arms as he stared at the stars showing up at far. — It's lonely and complicated. I had no one to play with me. All the kids were like me.

— Should this be a bad thing? — Luka frowned, unfamiliar with the concept of gloom Nero had already grasped at such a young age. Surprisingly, considering his cousin was abandoned before he could even learn how to spell his name. — I thought you liked me. We are like each other.

— That isn't true. We're different. You're happier. — Nero shook his head, glancing at Luka and sighing. — You change me. I felt more miserable with the other kids. They're all alone, too. Their parents also don't play with them or don't ask about their days.

Luka stayed silent for a while, assimilating the information given to him. He admired Chiara and Dario, so it was news to know they were neglecting Nero — even though it was nowhere near the copious amount of abuse he went under at such a young age. He frowned, clicking his tongue.

 — Maybe some adults shouldn't have children. — Luka grumbled, looking at Nero's situation using his parameters of neglect. — But don't worry. You have me, nonna, and nonno. Forever.

— Forever doesn't exist, and you know it. Don't forget what nonno told us. Everything shrivels and dies. This is unchangeable, unnegotiable, and inevitable. — Nero pronounced unnecessarily coldly, causing Luka to click his tongue again. A habit of his when annoyed, his cousin had learned. — It doesn't mean finite things aren't worth it. Don't be upset that everything has an end. Be happy everything has a start.

— I know a slice of cake won't last forever, but I'll still be sad when the cake ends. — Luka retorted, causing Nero to roll his eyes. — Whatever. I still want to say I'll be here forever. I can still come back after I "shrivel and die." as nonno told us.

Although Luka's tone is resentful and snarky, Nero doesn't blame him. He offers the rest of their shared soda and closes his eyes, grabbing his shirt and putting it back on as the summer drizzle starts falling on his skin. The boy closed his eyes and sighed again, clenching his jaw and feeling an urge to disappear. He doesn't know why. As hypocrite as it was, he felt upset as he heard his nonno's words leaving his cousin's mouth. It felt cooler when he said things about death, not his cheerful friend.

[...]

1988.

Alfonsina aged more as the years passed, her grandchildren noted. Bartolomeo felt more like a potato than a person, his wheelchair stationary on the front porch from the early morning to the downing of the sun without moving an inch. His cigars were long forgotten at this point. Nero and Luka made better use of them, anyway. They were on their own, bracing themselves for the day they'd have to bury their grandparents in the backyard and pretend they were grown enough to live alone.

Nero looked healthier than ever, darkening a few tones, becoming a mountain of muscles, gaining interesting scars in unconventional places, and learning more things than he would ever learn in the big city. His brute appearance and blunt personality pushed the locals away, but he didn't care. He had Luka.

Luka blossomed into a charming, amazing teenager. He was good at everything, had many friends, and got everything he wanted from the locals, who adored him. Still, his best friend and favorite companion was his cousin. No one could beat his presence. They were soulmates, brothers from another mother.

Chiara stopped calling Nero after a while, but not because she forgot about him. As he and Dario fell ill from the terrible, workaholic life they led after the boy left, they decided it was best to shield their son from the fact they were a step away from committing suicide in their ridiculously compact new apartment. Their beloved old house was occupied by someone else now, someone wealthier than them.

Not that Nero cared. He had considered himself a fatherless, motherless child the moment his parents hit the road with their sorrows. His home lacked the warmth a child needed long before his decision. He decided to be the one to end that torture instead of ending up like many other children who are kicked out or mistreated by their parents when they get tired of pretending to be a happy family before their kids do.

Many kids suffer with their parents, much like Luka. Nero had many memories of when he came to visit as a toddler and saw his cousin scream and cry whenever the lights went off, remembering the moments his father locked him in dark rooms after hitting him with everything within his reach to make him think about how much of a bad boy he was for tripping on a slipper and accidentally knocking down a vase.

Now, both being 14, Luka was fearless and confident. He still had remains of the whiny, traumatized child he once was, but Nero's presence and constant reassurance of never leaving him helped to ease his fears. They ended up mending each other's wounds. Yet, the city boy thought of his family once in a while at the same frequency that he thought about the little frog he almost brought home as a pet once but decided not to.

Nero didn't change much. His puberty worsened his antisocial and dismissive behavior toward others, causing him to close himself to anyone who wasn't his family. His grades were impressive. His performance in sports was flawless. His social skills, however, were inexistent. Anyone aside from Luka who tried to initiate a conversation with him would leave frustrated.

— I don't need more friends. I don't have the skills and the will to maintain multiple relationships. — That's what Nero said to the school counselor after a concerning answer to a test caused him to be called to the office. — Luka is my friend, and that's enough. My grandparents are there for me, too. I'm fine living like this.

The counselor angered Nero by questioning him about what he would do without them. A cretin question that caused him to storm out of the room, bumping into Luka on his way out. His cousin pursed his lips, trying to make any excuse to pretend he wasn't spying on the conversation.

— Are you okay? — Luka asked, causing Nero to roll his eyes in annoyance. At that point, they knew each other well enough to know when things weren't okay. — Sorry. It's a mere formality.

— Please, don't say this. I've had enough of this pesky phrase to hint at the stupid words preceding it. — Nero barked, not realizing how hurt Luka looked for a split second before the blonde pulled him by the waist, gluing their midsections side by side. — Sorry. I didn't mean to lash out at you. I'm... I'm just starting to question if everyone is right. I'm wondering if I'm really harming myself by denying people entry into my life.

Puberty brought to Nero something he never felt (or allowed himself to feel) before; emotions. He questioned himself too much and hated it. His coldness and certainty were gone. Anger became his new refuge, and he often reacted violently toward others because of trivial things like classmates making repetitive sounds with their pens or people cutting the line in front of him. It was his new way to shield himself. Thankfully, Luka was his anchor, keeping him balanced and preventing him from sinking.

— It's okay to be alone because you enjoy your company. It's not good to be alone because you distrust everyone and everything, though. — Luka said to Nero, holding his face in his hands. He didn't need to get on his tiptoes to do so now that he was grown, but his cousin was still taller. — I may be the coolest guy you've ever met, but it doesn't mean there won't be other people worthy of your trust and friendship.

— Not in this town. — Nero grumbled, as prideful as always. Luka smirked, petting his head like he was a wild animal. — This school is filled with idiots.

— Maybe not here, but somewhere. After all, we won't live here forever. — The not-so-subtle reminder of adult life approaching made Nero wince. It was Luka's unconscious payback for every time his cousin rubbed in his face that they would be gone someday. — Believe me, you'll look back someday and feel proud of yourself, surrounded by the people you love and cherish.

— I already am. — Nero lifted his eyebrows and slightly widened his eyes to make his point, showing Luka he wanted the conversation to be over. — Now... I thought you had a big game tomorrow. Shouldn't you be heading home to train some more instead of lecturing me about a far-distant future in which you and I won't be living together anymore? I would want a story about how my cousin won an incredible game at the local soccer field and won us a lot of money to spend on things we'd never spend on as adults to tell my future new friends.

— I don't think so. — Luka smirked, playfulness showing on his face as he slapped Nero's butt to annoy him before walking down the hallway. He turned around one last time, raising his tone to send a last message to his cousin. — I think you should make your own stories to tell your future new friends!

Nero didn't respond. If he could rewind, he'd promise to make a new story for the both of them by training with him on the school field and sending him to bed after sharing a soda on the roof of their grandparents' house as they did for years. Instead, the teenager flipped Luka off and walked away, not bothering to say a last "see you later" to him. He would regret that forever.

That was the last time he saw Luka alive. Nero had an annoying habit of disappearing for hours, spending his time hidden inside the local library in a spot he found out barely no one used. He stopped calling it secret because the locals would surely spot a 5,9ft albinism-suffering teenager walking down the hallways with a bunch of books under his arms. He stood there for hours until someone interrupted him.

He had seen that girl twice, and both with Luka. She had freckles all over her face and a curly, ginger hair. She reminded her of someone Nero had already forgotten about, voice and time spent together included. His cousin has called her something like Angelina, but she was too irrelevant to be remarkable to him. That is, until that day.

Angelina came running into the library, fixing her large glasses on her delicate face while gripping Nero's arm. He looked at her with disgust as his dislike for strangers touching him grew with the years. He noticed the girl trembled and sobbed, her thin limbs swallowed by the oversized shirt she wore. It was Luka's. He wouldn't question his cousin's early sexual life, not when his high-school sweetheart clung to his arm while trying to speak to him so desperately.

— L-Luka, he's- He's...! — Angelina babbled, her green eyes wide and pupils tiny like two mosquito bites. Nero frowned, immediately picking up the cue about something happening with his cousin. — Your house...! He's-

— Spit it out, cagna! — Nero slapped Angelina across the face, making the girl yelp. A few patrons glared at the duo with concern because of the boy's fame preceding his name. — What happened to Luka?!

— He's bleeding, he's bleeding on the ground! — Angelina shrieked, crying harder and clinging to her slapped cheek as Nero stared at her in shock. — Your nonna told me to come get you because Luka is bleeding!

Luka is bleeding. Nero stood still, finally noticing the copious amount of blood on Angelina's hands and on his forearm. He turned his back on the girl and ran, taking a few books down with his as he forcefully made his way out of the library, dragging or taking down everything and everyone who stood in his path. His cousin's girlfriend stayed behind, trying to follow suit.

Nero ran as fast as he could, putting his years of athleticism to good use as he paced across the town, ignoring his burning lungs and aching heart. The psychological and emotional pain of imagining the worst scenarios about Luka was worse than the mere physical discomfort he experienced in his body. Meters became centimeters. Minutes became seconds. And every one of them counted.

By far, he could see the neighbors crowded around a car, some holding baseball bats and rocks. A smaller crowd centered around a spot near the car, seemingly watching over something. His grandparents' house's door was open, with strangers walking inside. Someone screamed to call an ambulance for his grandmother. Nero stopped in his tracks, staring at the chaotic scenario from afar with wide eyes.

His family. His real family. His real house. What was that chaos? Why was everyone there? Was it real? Should he pinch himself and wait for Luka to get to his feet, laughing at him and calling it all a joke? Nothing made sense. As Nero stumbled toward the crowd, the locals recognized him and opened the way. They pitied him. It could be seen in their eyes.

A trauma sticks to one forever, consciously or not. It'll manifest somehow and find its way to wreck whoever it falls upon. No amount of time can erase a solid image, a raw feeling, or harsh words. Not in a million years would Nero ever forget the sight of Luka's corpse lying on the concrete, splayed like the botched scarecrows they'd make to decorate the cornfields.

— Luka... — Nero first muttered, clenching his jaw and approaching his cousin. He nudged his leg with his feet, ignoring the bone poking out of the skin of his bent knee. — Luka, this isn't funny. Come on now.

A bewildered neighbor tried to stop Nero from kicking the corpse again, getting a punch to the stomach. The man tripped and fell on his but, causing the others to gasp and step back. The teenager growled like a beast protecting its prey from scavengers before throwing himself to his knees, hooking his arms under Luka's body to lift him. His blonde hair was red, slicked back with blood.

— Don't test me, you fucking pest! I told you to get up! — Nero roared and jerked his cousin's corpse, letting loose the dirty mouth he harbored in secret from his grandparents. Luka didn't respond, and a copious amount of organs and blood started to pour out from his ripped-open stomach, disturbed by the violence. — Don't ignore me, cazzo!

The adults watched the brutality without intervening, silently agreeing to let Nero have his moment. After all, Luka was dead. Broken limbs, punctuated organs, and an exploded stomach were things not even the strongest of the boys could survive. The group holding the drunk driver in place to ensure he wouldn't escape pretended not to see, preserving their minds from that horrific scene.

— Luka, please... — Nero whispered, like a mother talking to her child throwing a tantrum in front of the guests. — Please, please. Fucking please. Open your damn eyes.

Those near the boys could swear they saw black tears sliding down Nero's cheeks. His red eyes darkened for a split second, and he screamed at the sky, a cry ripping his throat filled with sorrow and regret. A group of birds flew across the scene as the teenager broke down in tears, shamelessly sobbing while cradling Luka's corpse.

— Please, no! Luka! Luka!!! Oh, God! No! — Nero shrieked, his voice going up a few octaves as he wept. He could very much feel the raw sensation of Luka's internal organs spilling into his lap but ignored it. They'd soon take him away from him to put him inside a black sack and then under the cold dirt. — I'm sorry, Luka! I'm sorry for not making you stay! Merda! Stay with me, Luka! You're all I have!

The most resilient men shed tears with him that evening. The police arrested the suspect on the spot, and the ambulance absconded with Alfonsina and Angelina, who had been hit by the car (although her boyfriend's body shielded her). The officers tried to convince Nero to let go of Luka, but he resisted. Like a wounded animal, he crouched near the body and glared at the cops with rage. His cousin's split head rested under his palm, his brains spilling out like the soda cans they would spill while fighting each other on their grandmother's couch.

— Son, this isn't it. I know it's hard for you because you're young... But we need to take him. — A man with a funny mustache trying reasoning with Nero, who growled at him. — Don't you think he deserves to be treated right one last time? To have a deserving burial, to let you and your family grieve him properly? Look at you, boy...

— Shut up, you motherfucker! You know nothing! — Nero barked, clenching his free hand in a fist as he pondered if punching a cop was worth it. — What good does it do to let you stuff Luka in a bag and bury him?!

— Because this is how life works, son. Those who die need to be buried. Those who live need to move on. — The cop responded. Little did he know, his words resonated with Nero forever. — It hurts me to see two young boys like this. But you want justice, don't you?

Nero sniffled at his words, immediately nodding. His rage was directed towards the driver, whose face he hadn't seen close enough, or else he'd have killed him already. His choice to drink and drive took the life of Luka, a promising boy with much to live on. Now, he was a pile of bones and flesh bleeding out on the road, like a raccoon who was soon to be scrapped off the concrete.

— Luka is the key to justice, son. With him, we can help you and your family. Many criminals walk out freely, but not this. — The officer continued, noticing Nero's hesitancy slowly die. A name tag on his chest read "Nicoletti" in a minimalist font. — Not if you cooperate.

Letting go of Luka's corpse was the hardest decision he had ever made and would ever do in his whole life. As his arms gently set his cousin down, Nero caressed his face one last time as the officers swarmed the corpse and subtly pushed him back, shielding him. But he had seen it all. He looked at himself, seeing the blood and pieces of organs staining his school uniform. School uniform. They wore their school uniforms.

Nero cried again, covering his face much like Luka did when they first met in that very place. He sobbed loudly, rubbing his eyes and accidentally spreading blood everywhere. The boy clung to his own shirt like a toddler trying to comfort themselves, doubling forward and puking on the road. He cried more, walking into his house with the aid of a woman whom he had never seen before but who held him like he was her son.

More women appeared and forced him onto the couch, muttering words he couldn't comprehend in such a state. They held him down and cleaned his face, caressing his hair and cheeks while cooing at him like they'd do to a baby. Those touches felt too much. They felt horrible. Nero wanted to scream and shove them away, force them out, and lock himself in his room.

Instead, Nero allowed himself to cry and be comforted by those strangers because he was still just a boy. Those women had sons and daughters his age. Luka's age. They wanted to comfort him and care for him. If his cousin were there, he'd tease him for being the focus for countless women, but he wasn't there. He was being scrapped off the ground and carefully inserted into a black bag like a puzzle. His young face received a last gust of drizzle before the bag was zipped shut.

[...]

1992.

Luka's funeral was crowded, much like expected. Not only was he very loved and cherished by the locals, but his death was the first of a youngling in years at their community. Many wept for him one last time, bringing flower crowns to decorate his casket. Friends and relatives reunited, sharing heartfelt but bittersweet stories about their late acquaintance.

As expected, his parents didn't show up. In fact, they were forbidden by Alfonsina, who vowed to shame them in public if they dared to appear and pretend to cry for a son they mistreated and then left behind for 12 years. Their image mattered more than Luka's memory, so Eudocia took her mother's threat seriously and instead chose to keep her distance.

Dario and Chiara forced themselves to attend the funeral, regardless of how painful it would be. They tried reapproaching Nero after Luka's death to no avail, as their son closed himself once again after letting his vulnerable side exposed for a few moments. He acted colder than ever toward his parents, refusing to disclose his feelings or about the ordeal. Thankfully, Alfonsina welcomed her daughter and son-in-law more than her grandson.

Chiara begged her son to go home with her, promising she'd quit her job and care for him 24/7. She was met with bluntness, as Nero reminded her of how absent she and Dario were to him when he needed them the most and how nothing would change, as they were only trying to reach for him out of remorse. His father intervened before the discussion escalated and left the invitation on the air, dragging his wife away before she made the funeral about herself and their dysfunctional family. Luka didn't deserve that disrespect.

Nero would also find out that was the last time he would ever see his parents in the future. Seemingly right or irrelevant decisions were responsible for spiraling his future self into a deed so deep he would only escape by dying. But there was no place for remorse in the future. Instead, he would have to learn to live with guilt and regret forever.

Many friends and relatives gave speeches to honor Luka's memory, saying their last goodbyes. Angelina cried the most, suffering with survivor's guilt. She had a sprained ankle and a few bruises but had no other injuries. Her boyfriend, however, lay in a closed casket before her. She pressed her forehead against the coffin and wept, causing her relatives to gently drag her away.

A group of men helped ease the coffin into the hole the gravedigger dug, the rectangle shifting side to side as they tried to find a way to make it fit. Nero clung to his grandmother's arm, resting his head against her bony shoulder. Alfonsina used to hold him in her arms years ago, and now his humongous frame engulfed her. She caressed her grandson's hair, feeling him tremble against his body.

— Don't let them do it, nonna. Please. — Nero muttered, his bottom lip quivering. He had stopped crying a few days ago, yet his fragility returned as soon as he realized he'd never see Luka again. — It's cold and lonely down there... Luka hates the dark...

—  Piccolo. — Alfonsina croaked, ignoring that Nero wasn't her tiny grandson anymore. Her tears were dry by now. Bartolomeo sat beside them like a corpse, loudly breathing while staring at Luka's casket. — Let Luka rest. Please.

Alfolsina's response angered her grandson. The anger died down as soon as he realized he had considered snapping at the woman who raised Luka, probably the one suffering more than everyone else at the funeral. Nero felt ashamed of himself for even considering directing his anger toward a granny with a deadbeat husband and two grandchildren to care for.

He shed his last tears as Luka's casket went inside the hole, and the gravedigger covered the dark wood with dirt. Nero acted like an average grieving teenager a final time and hid his face on Alfonsina's shoulder, pretending not to feel her tears dripping into the crown of his head. It would be better this way. They still had an extensive trial to endure.

Luka's case was emotionally exhausting. Many locals were summoned to the court to testify against Settimio Rizzo, the drunk driver who ran over him and Angelina. As always, the man pleaded not guilty, claiming he had been going under severe stress lately after a rocky divorce. He still got sentenced to 6 years in prison, a bland penalty in Nero's opinion. Alfonsina, who was severely depressed, accepted the chance to see her grandson's murderer punished, even if it meant so little, as it brought her peace.

Days, weeks, months, and years went on. The traumatic experience initially disrupted the peaceful life of the community. However, over time, people seemed to have forgotten about it. Angelina got herself a new boyfriend. Luka's old classmates found new aces to idolize. Alfolsina donated or burned her grandson's possessions in a pyre. Nero was the only one who couldn't move on, stuck in painful memories.

He spent the first year crying every night, refusing to eat or talk to anyone for days until his grandmother begged him to come out of his room. After realizing that Luka was becoming a distant memory for everyone, Nero isolated himself from the world. He swore to never show his emotions to anyone again. The teenager shared his deepest feelings with the community, but they seemed to have forgotten about his cousin's existence. He'd never forget or forgive.

Nero became an adult 4 years after Luka's death, a bittersweet gift. His mind traveled back to the last time they spoke when his cousin foretold they wouldn't grow up together from that day on. He often caught himself wondering if he knew he was going to die that day, like a premonition. His cousin was so calm and collected, the opposite of a teenager who knew they were going to die soon.

He didn't feel like celebrating. Nero stopped celebrating his birthdays after Luka's death, as he only had him as a friend and saw no reason to make his grandmother go through the trouble of baking a cake neither she, Bartolomeo, nor her grandson could eat. He'd get knitted gifts from his grandmother and a handshake from his grandfather before retreating to his bedroom for the rest of the day. That was his annual routine.

Settimio was released from prison for good behavior a few weeks after his birthday. Nero couldn't believe his eyes as he saw the man responsible for taking Luka's life walking freely on the town's square, living his life as if he wasn't a murderer. His blood boiled. Causing a young boy's death meant nothing to the law, apparently.

Nero couldn't accept it. He started to plan his vengeance step by step, observing Settimio's schedule and following his traces. Every detail was taken into consideration, even those deemed as trivial. In 1 month, he had a date, a gun, and a plan. He'd murder Settimio and make his own justice, as the law failed him and his family. His plan was flawless and detailed.

His things were packed, and the letter explaining what he did and why he would never return was carefully placed in the living room, where his grandparents could see it. Nero climbed out of the window in the dead of the night, holding a heavy backpack with his belongings as he descended to the soft grass. He looked at the long-forgotten swing and pushed it one last time, inhaling deeply before setting on his goal. There was no time to reminisce in pain. Not anymore.

His steps were quiet and quick, feather-like soles hitting the concrete floor as he walked across the dark city with a place in mind. Nicoletti had provided him with a Beretta M1951 smuggled from the Italian Armed Forces, turning a blind eye to Nero's murderous intent and covering up for his wrongdoing. In fact, he was the reason why no one could track Settimio's murderer.

As expected, the back door was unlocked. A drunkard like him made no effort to protect his house, leaving every passage open so he could stumble inside without struggling after getting wasted on the night. Nero fixed his gloves and gently pushed the door, sticking his head inside to check the perimeter while holding the gun.

— What are you doing here, brat?

A bottle to the back of his head. Nero groaned as glass exploded on his nape, cutting his skin and disorienting him. Settimio opened the door, and the boy collapsed into the glass shards, clinging to his gun while grunting in pain. The house owner grabbed him by the throat, lifting him from the ground.

— What do you think you're doing in my house? — Settimio grunted, punching Nero in the stomach. The young man coughed up blood, baring his red teeth to the ex-criminal. — You... You're that strange boy...

Settimio immediately went for Nero's gun, causing him to flinch and squirm. The men wrestled for the pistol, with the drunkard getting the upper hand. However, the gun went off by accident, the firing startling both until they saw more blood.

Settimio hollered and clutched his wounded thigh, leaving his head and back unprotected. The boy hit his nape with the butt of his pistol, kicking him to the ground. The criminal tried fighting back, but Nero stepped on his leg to keep him down. His screams didn't deter him.

— 4 years ago, you took everything from me. You destroyed my life, killed my dreams, and ruined my family. Because of you, I'm destined to live alone forever. — Nero uttered every word with anger seeping from his trembling lips, holding his gun to Settimio's forehead. — I won't have mercy on you. I won't allow you to die a peaceful and quick death.

His gloved hand picked up an empty bottle from the ground, analyzing the object before smashing it on the ground. Nero picked up the shards and held them in his palm, lowering himself near Settimio's face while menacingly pointing the gun to his forehead. He saw fear in the man's eyes and loved it.

— Luka can't eat anymore from where he is. I've heard only children and animals go to Heaven, but I don't think Heaven is perfect. How can a place without your loved ones and everything you cherish be perfect? — Nero mused, discarding the smaller bottle fragments and quirking an eyebrow at Settimio. — But men like us are forced to stay. To live. To express. To feel.

Settimio understood the assignment but refused to obey. Nero clicked his tongue in displeasure and pressed his sole against the bullet wound, making the man holler and squirm. It was the cue he needed to shove the glass shards into his mouth, covering it with his gloved palm. His prey grunted and huffed, his nostrils flaring as pain filled his eyes.

— You don't know how it feels to hold the person you love the most in your arms, dead and cold. Their eyes never open. Their hands never move. Their lips never part. It's a never-ending doom. Your mind freezes, stuck on the day you held them for the last time. — Nero growled, rejoicing to hear Settimio chewing the glass shards. Blood oozed from between his gloved fingers. — Consider yourself lucky, Settimio. Dying is a privilege. I must say, however, I don't know whatever will be your destiny in the afterlife. There's only one thing I'm sure of.

Nero removed his hand from the man's mouth, hearing a choked cry. He crushed more of the glass in his hand before forcing Settimio to eat again, holding his mouth shut while toying with the pistol in his free hand. He could have ended the ordeal sooner but needed to make it last long enough for that monster to suffer for killing Luka.

— Men like you won't ever find rest and solace. No entity in this damned world and any other will allow you to atone for your wrongdoings. You'll be forever haunted by the ghosts of your mistakes. That's the onus of leading a life like yours. — Nero spat, uttering words that would return to bite him back in the ass later. Settimio gurgled, probably choking on the mix of saliva, blood, and glass inside his mouth. — No one will see me... But I'll be there... And anyone who dares to get in my way will get crushed. I no longer believe in the law of men... I'll make my own laws from now on.

Another handful of glass shards. Settimio was barely conscious when Nero checked the time and shot him in the head, finishing the job. He discarded the gloves and gun before leaving the house, ignoring the fact he was bleeding. He made his way back, walking past his grandparents' house and admiring it one last time. Not saying goodbye became a habit of his.

A lady stared at him in shock, and she was on her right; a 6,4ft boy with red eyes, white hair, holding a large backpack, and bleeding profusely from his head waiting for the bus was a sight to behold. Nero looked forward with an apathetic expression, cracking his knuckles while tapping his foot. He didn't mind the lady stepping away from him and avoiding his gaze.

The bus stopped before them, and Nero checked the paper in his hand, reading it and glancing back. He could see the sun in the distance, its rays emanating from behind the mountains to shine upon the town. The woman boarded the bus, spying on the boy by the window. He didn't budge, and the bus left.

Moments later, a 1986 Ferrari Mondial 3.2 Cabriolet pulled up at the bus stop. The man on the wheel nodded at him and extended his hand, causing Nero to hand him the paper. He inspected it behind his sunglasses and nodded again, beckoning the young boy to come closer.

— What is your name, boy? — The stranger asked, handing Nero a handkerchief to clean his nape. — Your real name.

— Nero. — Nero responded, not wincing as he dabbed the wound to clean it. — Nero Bianco.

— You're already dead. — The stranger snorted, shaking his head and staring at the boy. Nero couldn't see his eyes but knew it. — Let me ask again. What is your name, boy? Your real name.

Nero remained silent, staring at the man before him while considering his words. He was an acquaintance of Nicoletti — and someone who wasn't supposed to be friends with an officer. The cop got him a getaway drive to Napoli, the price of leaving Sicilia with a clean criminal record. He didn't know why the cop helped him commit a crime and walk free.

— Risotto. — Nero suddenly uttered, raising his eyebrows and clenching his jaw to look confident. The stranger lowered his sunglasses, showing his green eyes and pearly white teeth. — Risotto Nero.

— That's better. It's not good, but better. — The man nodded, starting the car and fixing his sunglasses. — Why Risotto?

— It doesn't matter. — Nero replied, eyeing the stranger and analyzing his figure. He had tanned skin and short ginger hair resembling a carrot, with a few scars adorning his muscular arms. — What is your name?

— It doesn't matter. — The stranger retorted, giving Nero a cynical smile as he drove away. — Call me Alby.

— ...that's not your real name.

— And Risotto is not your real name.

Nero fell silent, slightly annoyed by his companion's energetic and sarcastic tone. He sighed and rested his head against the seat, closing his eyes as the car drove away from everything he knew and loved. Alby had driven away countless kids like him, some younger or older, and they always looked back. Not him, though. He was something else.

[...]

1996.

Nero arrived in Napoli with only his belongings, a small amount of money he earned from part-time jobs in the countryside, and his trusty gun. Alby drove him for almost a day, making a few stops to feed and rest. They reached the city after the sunset, allowing the young man to have the first taste of the rest of his life as a nocturne worker.

The wind blew, making him narrow his eyes and lower his face. Alby parked the car before a fishy-looking building and whistled a peculiar tune. Suddenly, a bunch of keys flew across the window and landed on Nero's head, startling and harming him.

— What was that? — Nero grunted, rubbing where the keys hit him and looking up. Alby immediately pushed his head down again, clicking his tongue in admonishment. — What's happening?

— You're too questioning for your own good, Risotto. By now, you should've learned your first and most important lesson. — Alby patted Nero's back as if he were a pet. It reminded him of someone he couldn't remember anymore. — Don't ever let people see who you are. Literally and figuratively. Showing your wound to a wolf won't make it pity you. It'll make it pounce on you.

Nero learned another lesson that night; to never expect Alby to answer his questions or spoil him. He was dropped in front of another strange building, with prostitutes and drug dealers walking on the adjacent streets like worker ants. His anti-hero and driver told him he'd come to check on him once every 2 weeks and then left, not bothering to bid him a proper goodbye or help him unpack.

The building had 3 stores and reminded him of the vacant buildings he saw in his younger days while taking a stroll with his parents. He couldn't recall his parents' names or faces, but the thought of them crossed his mind for the first time after so long. Nero last saw Dario and Chiara during Luka's funeral, but that was it. Their voices, personalities, and sweet memories felt blurred.

Nero used one of the keys to unlock the door on the second floor, where Alby instructed him to go. His mentor would later tell him the middle store of a short building would always be the best to live in, as it was high enough to hide from the lower dangers and short enough to jump from if the threat was coming from above.

The apartment was in dire condition, as expected. It barely resembled a place where people lived, reminding him more of captivity. Nero dropped his backpack and inspected the vicinity, reaching the end of his new place after 10 steps. It had a compact living room with a kitchen connected to it, a bathroom, and (probably) a bedroom.

The couches were filled with cobwebs and dirt, and the walls were peeled. One of the two windows was boarded due to a broken panel, but the other didn't budge when Nero tried to open it. There was a television, and it worked, surprisingly. The kitchen was greasy and smelly, with roaches and spiders everywhere. He located the source of the stench, a bunch of rotten food inside the unused fridge.

The bathroom reeked of everything, including human feces and blood. Nero could swear a corpse, at some point, was stored in there. The toilet and bathtub were unusable, but the sink flowed clean water. It looked clean, at least. Grabbing the pistol from his waist, he kicked the bedroom door open.

Thankfully, there was no corpse or enemy in sight inside his bedroom. Nero turned on the lights and inspected the room, seeing its poor complexion. It had only a wardrobe and a Queen-sized bed as furniture. Raggedy curtains and a shattered mirror served as decoration, nothing else. He felt tiny again, engulfed by the largest tiny room he had ever been in.

By the end of the week, he had managed to make it look less of a purgatory and more of a place to call his. The fridge was beyond repair, and he needed to unclog his toilet, but things were starting to feel better than when he first arrived. Nero could replace and buy house gadgets with his funds, but a question remained. How would he earn more money?

During his first year, he tried earning his bread honestly. He did favors to the elderly and single women in the vicinities, but it would earn him just enough for the week. Alby checked on him often and gifted him a few things to his place, but he kept his promise to make a man out of Nero by letting him fend for himself.

The neighborhood was trashy and dangerous. It wasn't rare for Nero to fall asleep hearing sirens and gunshots in the distance (or near enough for him to sleep on the floor to avoid catching a stray bullet between his eyes). Drug dealers and prostitutes surrounded him, interested in the new catch — boys his age were easy to persuade and leech off, but he was something else.

Alby taught him how to drive and address his wounds because he knew someone like the boy would eventually be forced to stay under the radar, with no needless documents like a driver's license or health care plan to link his old self to his new identity. Nero also learned to properly shoot, so anyone who tried to invade his apartment would be in great danger.

During his 19th birthday, Alby showed up with a cake and a journal. Nero never told him his birthday date, yet his mentor seemed to do research behind his back. It scared him. The middle-aged man elbowed his way inside and put the cake on the coffee table they bargained for in a thrift shop, sitting on the couch and patting the vacant spot beside him.

— Come here, boy. We need to talk. — Alby said while fishing a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting it up, and blowing smoke out of his nostrils. — You're 19. That means you've been a man for a year.

Nero was getting less talkative as the months passed. He used to speak whenever he offered his services to his neighbors. However, the rising violence scared away everyone around him. The only contact with outsiders he had was Alby's periodic visits, causing him to develop a hard shell. His mentor couldn't say he wasn't pleased with the change, but it gave him no pride.

— I won't be here forever. What I do for a living is none of your business, but I've assumed the role of your mentor ever since you arrived. I owe Nicoletti, that bastard. — Alby grunted, offering Nero his cigarette. His eyes told the boy he had no room to refuse, so he took a long drag and went through a coughing fit. Another displeased click of the tongue. — You're the first and last apprentice I have. You've been around here long enough to know the ropes of a dog's life. It's time to become a real man.

Alby tossed the journal at him and retrieved the cigarette, waiting for the boy to open it. Nero flicked the pages and read it, seeing countless numbers, addresses, and names. He glared at his mentor, who seemed to expect his confusion.

— These are all the contacts you'll need to rise on the hitmen underworld, Risotto. — Alby pointed at the journal with his chin, staring into Nero's eyes to seek any trace of fear or hesitancy; it was his last test as a mentor. As expected, his junior didn't disappoint him. — My departure has been announced. People know you're my apprentice, so expect to receive your first job in a few days.

Nero never asked what Alby did for a living, although he correctly deduced he dealt with dirty business. His mentor had new scars and bruises every time they met, but they never spoke over them. Instead, they did what they had to do. Finding out the man was a hitman all along wasn't as satisfying as he expected, but getting to know an occult side of his role model still pleased him.

— Are you retiring? — Nero inquired, closing the journal. Alby rolled his eyes, but his apprentice ignored his clear sign of discomfort. — Where are you going?

— I thought you were past the phase you did pesky questions, boy. — Alby bared his teeth, taking a long drag before crushing the cigarette between his callused fingers. Nero knew that was the beginning of their end; he finally learned to identify when he would never see someone again. — You'll get the hang of it. Murdering a person is no different than slaughtering a pig. And these little piggies did things to deserve sleeping with the fishes.

The concept of remorse had died to him when he tortured and murdered Settimio, a day he would never forget. He no longer believed in a world in which dying meant sadness. Dying signified failure and those who failed deserved punishment. Nero would act as an agent of death, cleaning the streets of failures.

— I won't need my car. You can keep it. A vehicle with a cold plate is the best for an unlicensed driver. — Alby shrugged, tossing the keys on the table without looking at Nero. — You'll make better use of it, anyway.

Nostalgy flooded the boy, and he was transported back to when he entered that Ferrari and left everything behind to protect his grandparents. Alby never let him eat inside the car and cared for it like it was his child. Now, the vehicle belonged to Nero. And, until an unfortunate event in the future, it'd be his working vehicle.

If Nero knew a few thugs would gun down Alby 2 hours after he left his apartment, he would have shaken his hand before he left. Instead, he nodded at his mentor, who nodded back at him and told him to contact the last person in the journal if he could get any impressive deals in 2 months. They hated goodbyes. Tears and hugs are needless; they only mean another reason to weep once it's all over.

His first kills were impressive. Nero was skilled with knives and other blades, so he discarded his beloved pistol. It became an object of adoration to honor his mentor and Nicoletti's influence in his life, and he framed the Beretta M1951 on his freshly painted wall. He did as told and contacted the man on the last page 2 months after he became a hitman, not imagining it would be another turning point in his life.

[...]

Nero first saw Polpo in person in 1995, years after they first contacted each other. The man, who claimed to be a leader figure in the local mafia, told him he'd call him again after he spent at least 2 years as an independent hitman to prove his worth. The mafioso said Alby had personally recommended him, hence why he received a direct way of contact.

Nero had learned more about his senior after his departure. Many clients shared information about his old mentor, which he pieced together to understand the person who guided him for so long. Alby emigrated to Italy years ago and left his family behind due to debts in his early 20s, becoming a hitman for income. After getting his skin saved by Nicoletti, a cop who lost his hopes in the law, they started a small business aiding young and troubled runaways to have a fresh start.

He happened to be one of these troubled younglings. Alby had been complaining about needing a substitute as he aged and lost his vigor when Nicoletti informed him of an individual with shapeable potential; a local boy who lost his cousin in a gruesome accident and could snap at any moment. When Settimio got released from prison, the cop wisely aided Nero to escape, knowing his friend would find the perfect apprentice in him.

Had he ever bumped into Nicoletti or Alby, Nero would thank them. He kept them in his prayers whenever he executed a target, recalling his mentor's words while coldly disposing of anyone he was paid to kill. Unlike many on the illegal path, he never questioned his morals about murdering for money. There was no place for someone like him in society, not without causing harm to innocents. 

He said it in the past: men like him won't find rest and solace. No entity in this damned world and any other will allow him to atone for his wrongdoings. He'll be forever haunted by the ghosts of his mistakes. That's the onus of leading a life like his. Nero knew he was deep in the deed, so he would at least do what he had to without remorse.

When his body count began to rise, he was summoned by Polpo. He had forgotten the "deadline" imposed upon him, having focused too much on improving himself and making his name remarkable among Napoli. Nero wore his best clothes and went to the prison.

He found it amusing that he was being inspected as if he was about to commit a crime to enter the spacious and luxurious cell of a mafioso who had broken countless rules and laws to obtain privileges such as a feast and a large bed. Polpo sat by the large glass, looking at him like a father would look at their child. Ironically, the capo also had unique eyes.

— Risotto Nero... — Polpo grinned, cocking his head to the side. — What is your real name, boy?

— ... — Nero narrowed his eyes, wondering if Polpo thought he was stupid. He would never fall for the same trick again. — Risotto Nero.

Polpo laughed, a hearty laugh like that of an old smoker. It reminded him of the rare moments his grandfather laughed with him and Luka. Nero crossed his arms, silently dismissing his soon-to-be superior's attempt to make a joke.

— Albano trained you well... — Polpo shook his head, clearing his throat. — You see, Risotto... Many men your age show up thinking they're big and mean, but not so many join our organization. I believe in your potential and am confident you'll earn your Passione badge when you return to this place.

The lighter was handed to him like a precious toy, and Polpo dismissed him after giving clear instructions. Nero didn't even bother to hide the object, and the guards didn't pretend to care. He walked out holding the object in hand, observing the blue and orange flame dancing before his eyes.

He found it challenging to keep the lighter on and didn't know the extent of Polpo's powers, so relighting the flame and pretending it never died if anything happened was appealing. Nero dared to light a cigarette on the flame and indulged in some midnight smoking, fighting his drowsiness with nicotine.

He didn't realize he had fallen asleep on the couch until his cigarette burned his fingers, causing him to jolt awake and wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth. A light source inside the dark apartment caught Nero's attention. He turned around and noticed the fallen lighter, which had ignited a fire that consumed his carpet.

Nero rushed to the kitchen while trying to force his brain to function properly, filling a pan with water from the sink before rushing back to the living room and pouring the liquid onto the flame. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face in distress, failing to notice the looming shadow behind his back. The hitman picked up the lighter and relit it, grunting as he saw the permanent stain on the floor.

— You failed the test, Risotto Nero. — Polpo's rough voice startled Nero, causing him to turn around. A man as big as him would never sneak out of prison in the middle of the night to terrorize someone. — There are two paths that you can follow. The first path is for the chosen ones who will live... And the other! The path of death!

A humanoid creature stood in the hallway, its face reminding him of a Venetian carnival mask. No words could describe its appearance. Nero felt fear after so long, freezing on the spot. Without the fire, the creature disappeared and grabbed him by the back of his neck, lifting him off the ground. As the creature opened its mouth, an arrow popped out and pierced the hitman's left shoulder blade.

Nero groaned, pain rippling through his body as the creature tossed him to the ground and retreated to the shadows when he managed to pull the curtains and let the light from the lamp post outside illuminate the living room. He had gone through countless painful experiences throughout his career, but something felt different this time.

He crawled on the ground, growling and huffing. His heart raced, and he sweated, clinging to the carpet below his hands as he doubled forward, fighting the urge to puke. His shoulder blade pulsed and seared like it was burnt by the butt of a cigarette. The creature watched him from afar, its alien-like eyes piercing his soul. Many familiar faces popped into his mind as he started to hallucinate, shuddering like a stray dog in the cold rain.

His eyes felt heavy, as if his eyelids weighed tons, and he tried to reach for his knife on the coffee table. Under the creature's watch, Nero extended his hand before collapsing, hitting the ground with a loud thud. The mysterious being watched him, waiting like a guard dog. It was patient, not moving an inch.

Nero gasped for air as he woke up hurriedly, his eyes shooting open as he sat straight. Regret fell upon him, and he grunted, rubbing his sore shoulder blade as he recalled the creepy occurrence at midnight. Much to his surprise, the lighter was carefully placed on the coffee table, its flame dancing again. The hitman frowned, picking it up before walking towards the bathroom.

As he lowered himself to wash his face, something seemed different. After carefully setting aside the lighter, he wiped himself with a towel and observed his reflection in the mirror. It took Nero a few moments to realize that his eyes were completely black, with two small red dots swimming in the darkness. As if his appearance couldn't get more peculiar.

Whatever that being did to him, he wasn't the same anymore. It had to do with Polpo. It had to be a trick of his. Nero hastily threw on whatever clothes he could find in his closet before heading to the prison with the lit lighter; he was granted access with just a single glare. The capo seemed to wait for him, offering a meek smile.

— Your strength... Your soul is unique, Risotto. The Arrow has chosen you. — Polpo mused, opening his arms as if he wished to hug Nero. The hitman handed the lighter, watching as the same creature who attacked him last night retrieved it for the capo. — Don't worry. Black Sabbath won't harm you now that it recognizes your grandiosity. Congratulations, Risotto Nero. You're now part of Passione.

The golden badge was handed to him through the compartment on the glass, shining like a star. Polpo watched with interest as the newbie carefully scooped up the badge and inspected it, holding it tight. Nero glanced at his superior just like he looked at his elders in the past, respectfully bowing at him before leaving. He needed time to process his thoughts.

[...]

Nero harbored a deep resentment towards his new boss, whom he knew nothing about. He was forbidden to accept any kills outside Passione's agenda or have any alternative source of income, so his earnings depended on the organization. However, his boss offered him ridiculous compensation for each kill and kept the hitmen under his thumb to prevent them from becoming a threat. He was poorer than ever after he joined the mafia.

Thankfully, he was still on Polpo's good side during his first year in the organization. He was summoned into his cell once again and was told he had permission to form a hitman team as long as he recruited Passione members only. Nero knew he'd take ages to form a team, as assassins were known to be discreet and elusive.

While Nero contemplated where to find recruits, he continued working hard as a solo hitman. This time, he was given a target hiding on the outskirts of Napoli, a fishy mafioso who deserted Passione after trying to betray his teammates. The hitman hit the road with Alby's beloved car, slightly more damaged than it used to be under his previous owner's care.

Metallica became a part of his job sooner than he expected. 5 months after his entrance in Passione, he had a close call with a particularly dangerous target and almost failed. That's when his Stand manifested, making the man before him explode in a cloud of blood and blades. From that day on, he mastered his skills and became a valuable asset to the organization.

It was 1996. 4 years since Nero left Sicilia and a year since he joined Passione. Much like with Luka's death, he had gotten over his turbulent past. Instead, he embraced his new life, choosing the day he got a Stand as the day he rebirth as Risotto Nero. Nero Bianco was no more. He tapped the steering wheel as he drove over the deserted highway, not a worry in his head.

He pulled up to the address and left the car, using his ability to become invisible and sneak into the dilapidated house. He heard a commotion inside and frowned as he couldn't recall hearing of a second person inhabiting the target's hiding spot. Nero crept down the hallway, leaning against the door frame as he observed the scene unfolding.

The deserter fought with all his might, tossing pans and knives towards a tall figure on the opposite side of the kitchen. The blonde in a suit looked calm and collected, holding a cigarette in his lips while observing the target. The humanoid creature behind him deflected all the objects like a ninja, protecting its User. Nero tried counting all the eyes and tubes that creature had, grimacing at the sight.

Suddenly, the stranger lunged forward, and his Stand let out a greenish mist that filled the room. Nero watched in shock as the target shriveled like a dried persimmon, collapsing on the floor like a tree log. He didn't have to come closer to realize the man was dead. The elegant blonde prodded the corpse with his foot, blowing smoke into the air.

Nero didn't realize he was, too, being affected by the mysterious Stand until he looked at his palms, noticing how wrinkly and malnourished they looked. He let out a surprised grunt, causing the blonde to snap his head towards the doorframe and summon his Stand again.

— Who is there? — The blonde growled, his blue eyes shining with determination and coldness. — Show yourself!

The humanoid torso released its mist, making Nero's skin wrinkle and dry. The hitman's invisibility started fading, revealing his spot, so he reached a hand towards the stranger. He saw as blades emerged from the blonde's chest right where his heart lay, hearing his pained grunt as they both fell to the floor.

Relief filled his lungs as Nero saw the enemy Stand disappear, his skin becoming healthy and young again. The hitman got to his feet and approached the stranger, who clutched his wounded chest while baring his teeth. He had a prominent overbite, a remarkable trace of his.

— Who are you? — Nero inquired, watching as the stranger tried grabbing one of the blades on the floor. He then made pins pop out of his hand, causing him to growl and retreat. — This man was on Passione's hitlist, and I was sent to dispose of him. Why are you here?

— Y-You motherfucker... Who do you think you are, huh?! — The blonde barked, spitting blood at Nero's feet while glaring daggers at him. — Don't make me laugh! I was assigned to this kill by Polpo!

— This can't be right because I was the one assigned by Polpo. — Nero narrowed his eyes, unamused by the tasteless joke the stranger was pulling on him. — You must be misinformed. What is your codename?

— Why the hell would I introduce myself to someone who snooped around during my mission and tried to kill me?! — The blonde seemed more concerned about his suit than Nero's presence, huffing in annoyance. — What is your name? Newbies are constantly fucking up and getting in their senior's way...

— Risotto Nero. — Nero uttered, offering a helping hand to the stranger. The blonde scoffed, getting up by himself (even though he struggled to keep still with so much blood oozing out of his chest). — What about yours?

— It's none of your business. I asked your name so I can report you to Polpo over your incompetence. You could have cost me the mission! — The blonde barked, looking at the dead target and then at Nero. — And don't even think about trying to get credit over this. I killed him.

Before Nero could respond, the shriveled deserter sprang back to life, startling the hitmen. He picked up a device from his pocket and pressed a button, causing an alarm to go off. They heard the sound of the doors locking; the blonde rolled his eyes, not entertaining the botched plan, and directly touched the target with his hand. The newbie watched as his senior turned the man into ashes, impressed by it.

— Will you stay and see what happens, or will you help me find a way out? — The stranger snapped his fingers before Nero's face, clicking his tongue in displease. — The name is Prosciutto.

That wasn't his real name, of course. He observed as Prosciutto examined the now-covered windows, attempting to break the glass by punching it. Nero approached and carefully pushed him out of the way, earning a sharp glare. However, he had a plan. The industrial refrigerator started trembling, making weird sounds before it slid over the floor.

The device was thrown against the wall, causing it to break and creating a new exit. Prosciutto stared at the hole in shock, the sunlight invading the kitchen as Nero walked out of the destroyed room like it was another average day for him. The blonde followed suit, seeing the mysterious junior standing before the refrigerator. It landed on a car, probably his.

— I freed us. Unfortunately, my vehicle was damaged in the process, and I will need a ride back home. — Nero said in a monotone tone, not showing emotion over his wrecked car. Prosciutto eyed him in disbelief, wondering if he was insane or shameless. — As a senior, you must be familiar with returning a favor, even for a junior.

Prosciutto was flabbergasted, staring at the remains of his junior's car while his words sunk in. He shook his head and pulled another cigarette from his pocket, not before glaring at Nero and huffing. Later on, the hitman would learn that's how his soon-to-be second-in-command showed amusement.

— You better be worth my time, Risotto. I hate wasting my time with mammoni. — Prosciutto grunted, guiding Nero toward the spot where he parked his car. — Oh, and you owe me a new suit.

The 1996 Alfa Romeo Nuvola stood out on the deserted road, shiny and stunning as every branded car. Prosciutto took the wheel as Nero sat on the passenger seat, discreetly evaluating the vehicle with his eyes. It reeked of cigarettes, just like his new acquaintance, but looked in prime condition. The senior noted his glare, letting another huff out.

— It's a concept car. Supposed to be a prototype. I personally met the designer and bought it. There is no other like this. — Prosciutto boasted, seemingly proud of himself. Nero deduced he was wealthy by the way he spoke. — I take a risk every time I put this car on the road, but it's worth it.

— ...your heart. — Nero muttered, causing Prosciutto to glare at him for being interrupted and then at his chest. The wound bled profusely, deep and gnarly. — You should be dead.

— ...this is the first and last information about myself I'll disclose to you, but my heart is on the opposite side. — Prosciutto begrudgingly told Nero, eyeing him with anger. — By the way, you better fix this. I refuse to fix your mess.

Nero nodded in response, not resenting the blonde to be rightfully pissed at him over his ruined suit and chest. Prosciutto drove the car back to civilization, occasionally glancing at the stranger in his car as they remained silent all the way back. Unconsciously, both men thought the same thing about each other; what an intriguing man to meet.