CHAPTER 5
1603 Words
The Blood in the Streets and the Loss of a Loved one
Bruno staggered out of the alley, holding his left arm. Blood seeped through his clothes, hot and sticky, creating a dark track on the cracked concrete. His lungs pleaded for air, each breath harsh and irregular, like if the darkness were suffocating him.
Behind him, the moans of the gangsters he'd fought resonated faintly, indicating that he had barely avoided the ambush. However, Bruno understood that survival did not equate to safety. Not in this city. Not against Rafael Cortez and his troops.
The familiar streets of New York felt strange, longer, darker, and alive with danger. Every flickering streetlight resembled an eye watching him. Every sound of tires squealing or glass breaking made him shudder.
A car rolled by, headlights illuminating him, and instinct drove him onto a side street. His sneakers splashed through tiny puddles, sending waves like warnings through the silence. He pressed his back against a cold brick wall and forced himself to breathe calmly.
“They know who I am now. They won’t stop. They’ll never stop,” he muttered.
Bruno tightened his fists and winced as pain raced through his damaged arm. His father's words returned to him, murmured in memory:
“Bruno, music is more than sound. It’s memory. It’s weapon. It’s shield.”
Weapon. Shield.
His attention shifted to the Gloria strapped across his back. Her wooden frame was scratched from tonight's combat, yet she remained intact. Tonight, she had been more than simply a musical instrument; she had also served as a shield, saving his life.
But Gloria carried more than scars. She carried memories. Memories Rafael Cortez wanted erased.
Footsteps resounded— slow, methodical, approaching. Fear gripped Bruno's body as he froze. He didn't hold off on identifying the person. Sneakers smacking against the damp concrete, he sprinted once more, deeper into the city's veins.
The night seemed unending. Yet, when morning broke, light streamed onto the horizon. Bruno's arm throbbed, his clothing were ripped, and tiredness hung on him like chains. But beneath the pain, something else sprang.
Resolve.
“They think they’re hunting me,” he whispered, his voice raw. “But I’ll hunt them back.”
For the first time, Bruno was not simply running. He was preparing.
The next morning, sunlight hit the Sanchez driveway, too bright and brutal. Neighbors had gathered in quiet groups, mouths low and eyes heavy with surprise.
Behind the police tape, a burnt car body smoldered, its blackened metal twisted into bizarre shapes. Smoke continued to rise faintly from its edges, a silent witness to the previous night's bloodshed.
Bruno remained fixed a few steps distant, his body numb. His heart refused to accept what his eyes had already observed.
His father’s death.
Mrs. Delgado, a friendly elderly woman who had known the Sanchez family for years, placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Bruno, mijo," she added softly, "you should not see this. Come in. Allow me to fetch you something to eat”. She said.
But Bruno was unable to move. His eyes remained fixed on the wreckage. His father's final words lingered in his mind—hurried, distracted, yet full of love:
"Be safe, son. We will talk later." These were Mr. Sanchez's precise last remarks.
Little did he realize that "Later" would never arrive.
His kneecaps buckled. For the first time since the ambush, Bruno broke. Tears ran down his cheeks, and painful sobs escaped from his chest. He did not care who saw. He wasn't concerned that Rafael's men were watching.
Bruno’s felt nauseous. His father’s death. The car explosion. The endless questions that never fit together were answered in one frightening remark.
The thugs who attacked him earlier made a statement: “Make it quick like the old man’s car”.
To Bruno they certainly meant every word. It was his old man’s car they were referring to— Mr. Sanchez.
The car explosion was definitely not an accident, he realized.
They had not merely took his father. They had taken away his only remaining parent.
Police spoke to him, using official terms like "targeted attack," "investigation," and "evidence." However, their pledges were hollow. Bruno did not require evidence. He was already aware of who was the culprit.
Rafael Cortez, the Notorious Mafia's leader, was responsible.
The man who had terrorized his family for years. The man who murdered his beloved mother. The man who refused to stop until the Sanchez name was removed.
Bruno sat in the silent house that evening, after the sirens had stopped and the neighbors had gone home. The faint smell of smoke lingered in the air. His father's jacket was still hanging on the coat rack. His watch was still on the table. Bruno could still hear the echo of his laughing in his memory.
The silence pressed in, smothering. Every creak in the home sounded like a ghost. Every shade resembled recollection.
Bruno clutched Gloria to his chest, his forehead pressed against her polished wood.
"I'm sorry, Papá," he said quietly. His voice cracked, as if his throat was resisting the words. "I could not defend you. But I vow, I'll make them pay”, Bruno spoke with tears in his eyes
The silence of the house appeared to listen, with each creak in the walls carrying his vow deeper.
Bruno was not simply grieving that night. He was shifting. His father's death was not the end. It was a spark.
The day of the funeral was clouded with gray skies and thick air. Clouds gathered low, as if heaven mourned alongside him.
Bruno wore black, his face dull and his eyes sunken from lack of sleep.
At the gravesite, he dropped a solitary white rose atop the casket, his hands quivering. When the casket sank into the ground, his chest ached so much that he feared he may collapse.
Around him, there were whispers—neighbors whispering about late Mr. Sanchez, police whispering about "escalating violence," and reporters scrawling notes behind sunglasses. Bruno didn't hear it.
But then his eyes lifted across the mourners.
He saw Catherina.
She stood beside her parents, her eyes fixated on him. Her eyes were filled with grief, not only for his father, but also for him. And their friendship was what kept him steady throughout the storm.
After the service, after most people had left, she approached him.
“I’m so sorry, Bruno,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
He shook his head, a bitter smile forming on his lips. "Sorry won't bring him back." He said.
"I know," she said softly, touching his hand. "But you don't have to go through this alone." She said.
For the first time that week, Bruno allowed someone to hold him while he cried.
Later that afternoon, Bruno sat in a lawyer's office, numb, as the will was read. The room smelled faintly of paper and coffee, far too clean for a youngster whose life had recently been turned to ashes.
His father had left him the house, some modest assets, and, most crucially, the family's pride, Digital Studios, a small but growing music and technology company.
The lawyer adjusted his spectacles and spoke slowly, as if Bruno could break if the words came too quickly.
“Mr. Sanchez, under the terms of your father’s will, you are the legal heir to all assets. However, there are conditions regarding Digital Studios. Until you reach the age of twenty-one, the company will be managed by trustees. Upon your twenty-first birthday, and after completing school, you are required by law to assume the position of Chief Executive Officer.”
Bruno blinked, stunned. “CEO? I’m… I’m still in high school.”
The lawyer offered him a compassionate glance. "Your father believed in preparing for the future. He saw in you the capacity to continue his legacy. He wanted the business to remain in family hands rather than being taken up by corporations."
The weight of the sentences crushed against Bruno's chest like another coffin. He had inherited not only memories and pain, but also responsibilities.
A company. The future. A legacy he didn't ask for. All felt so overwhelming.
Bruno's hand shook when he signed his name. It did not feel like inheritance. It felt like chains.
Catherina was waiting for him outside. She strolled silently with him, her hand brushing against his.
“You’re strong, Bruno. Stronger than you think,” she whispered.
He gave her a hollow smile. “I don’t want to be strong. I just want my dad back.” He said.
She did not argue. She slid her hand into his, and Bruno felt less alone for a moment.
That night, Bruno sat on the balcony, Gloria across his lap. The city stretched before him, glittering with cruel indifference.
He strummed lightly, each note heavy with sorrow. The music was different now—not just sound, but the voice of grief, the voice of rage.
Above him, the stars glittered faintly. He remembered his father’s words;
“Music is the voice of the soul.”
If that was true, then his soul was speaking tonight. And it was making a promise.
Not just to himself. Not just to his father.
To Catherina. To his mother’s memory. To every friend and neighbor the mafia tried to silence.
There would be no more running. No more waiting.
Every note he played from now on would bring him closer to one thing— Rafael Cortez’s destruction.
Because the car that never came home wasn’t just a tragedy.
It was a declaration of war.
- Writer
