His Angelo Della Morte

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, its golden light barely warming the chill that clung to the air. The narrow alley behind Bellini's tavern smelled of rotting food and stale ale, the filth of the city collecting in its forgotten corners. Luciano stepped through the grime, carrying a heavy sack of trash over his shoulder. His body ached from the morning's labor-scrubbing floors, polishing tables, and preparing the bar for the night's inevitable flood of drunken patrons. Every movement sent a dull throb through his ribs, a cruel reminder that cleaning the area wasn't a job for one person. He exhaled through his nose, pushing the pain away. It was just another day. As he lifted the trash to toss it into the heap, a rustling sound caught his ear. Turning his head, he saw two small figures, barely more than shadows in the dim alley. The older of the two, a boy no older than eight, stood protectively in front of his younger companion, a little girl with hollowed cheeks and large, searching eyes. Their clothes were nothing but scraps, their bodies thin, worn by hunger. They were searching through the trash. Luciano's heart twisted. Before they could dig their tiny hands into the filth, he stepped forward. "Wait." The children froze, the boy immediately shielding his sister, his dirt-streaked face twisting in wariness. The girl clutched the boy's tattered sleeve, her wide eyes filled with something that was not quite fear, but neither was it hope. Luciano slowly reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, wrapped bundle piece of dry bread. Stale, hard, barely enough to keep a man full, but it was all he had. It had been meant for his breakfast, his lunch, and his dinner. He knelt, extending it toward them. "Take this instead," he said gently. The children hesitated, as if kindness was something foreign to them. Luciano smiled faintly, soft but weary. "It's clean, I promise." The boy looked at him, searching for deception, for cruelty, for a trick. But he found none. Slowly, cautiously, he took the bread. Luciano reached into his pocket again, fingers closing around the two copper coins he had earned that morning from cleaning the gutter a miserable task that left his hands raw and his stomach empty. He should have saved them for himself, for another meal, another day. Instead, he placed them in the boy's palm. The boy's breath hitched. His fingers curled around the small coins like they were something precious, something sacred. "Use it wisely," Luciano said softly. "For food, not trouble." The girl, silent all this time, suddenly stepped forward and wrapped her thin arms around his waist, burying her face against his damp, dirt-smudged coat. Luciano stiffened in surprise. Then, slowly, he relaxed, his fingers brushing lightly against her hair. "Thank you," she whispered. The boy swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as if fighting the weight of emotions too big for his small body. "We won't forget this," he murmured, voice rough with sincerity. Luciano only smiled. "Go on now," he said, nodding toward the street. "Before someone else finds you here." The boy took his sister's hand, holding onto it tightly as they disappeared into the maze of alleys, their small figures vanishing into the thrumming pulse of the city. Luciano stood there for a moment, staring at the space where they had been. Then, with a quiet sigh, he turned and walked back toward the tavern. His stomach ached with hunger, a reminder that tomorrow would be no different from today. But at least tonight, two children would not go to sleep starving. And that was enough. The tavern reeked of sweat, spilt ale, and the acrid tang of cheap tobacco. It was a place of noise and indulgence, where men and women drowned themselves in vice, laughing without care, drinking without restraint. But for Luciano, it was nothing more than another cage, a place where his existence was nothing but a means to an end. His back ached beneath the strain of the three massive barrels of water he struggled to carry, his slender frame quivering under the weight. His arms burned, muscles screaming for relief, but he dared not stop. He had learned long ago that mercy did not exist within these walls. "Move faster, bastardo!" The bark of his boss, Signore Bellini, rang through the tavern, slicing through the drunken haze of the room. A stout man with a belly full of stolen coins and a heart devoid of warmth, Bellini took particular pleasure in making Luciano's life unbearable. Luciano staggered forward, sweat dripping from his brow, as a wave of laughter erupted around him. The tavern-goers-men and women alike, half-drunk and brimming with cruel amusement- watched him struggle with the delight of spectators at a colosseum. "Look at him!" a man slurred, slamming his mug against the table. "Like a little rat trying to drag a feast bigger than himself!" "Must be that filthy blood of his," a woman sneered, twirling a loose strand of hair. "Bet the mongrel's weak just like his kind." Luciano clenched his teeth, swallowing the rage and humiliation burning in his chest. He had heard it all before. Too many times. He just had to endure it. Step by step, he pushed forward until something caught his foot. A deliberate shift in the air. A sudden obstruction. And then- His body pitched forward. Time slowed as the weight of the barrels dragged him down, his arms flailing to regain balance. But it was useless. He crashed onto the floor, the impact sending pain jolting up his spine. One of the barrels struck the stone ground with a resounding crack, splitting open, water gushing out in an unruly flood. The tavern fell silent for a mere second. Then, an explosion of laughter. "Hah! Stupido!" "Look what you've done, mongrel!" Luciano gasped for breath, dazed, his hands trembling as he tried to push himself up. His soaked clothes clung to his skin, the water seeping into the very fabric of his being another stain to add to his wretched existence. From the corner of his vision, he saw the culprit of his fall- Ignacio Bellini, the boss's son, standing just beside where Luciano had tripped. A smirk curled on the bastard's lips, his dark eyes gleaming with triumph. Luciano knew better than to expect justice. And then- The heavy stomp of boots. Before he could react, a crushing force slammed into his ribs. Pain exploded through his body as Bellini kicked him, the sharp edge of his boot driving into his stomach. Luciano choked on a gasp, curling in on himself as another blow followed. "Useless filth!" Bellini roared, his face red with rage, with disgust. "You ruin my floor, waste my water, and make a damn fool of my establishment?! Stronzo!" Another vicious stomp landed on Luciano's shoulder, pain searing through his bones. The laughter of the crowd had turned to something else now-sick anticipation, a drunken haze of sadistic glee. Luciano did not fight back. He did not beg. He never did. The beatings would end when Bellini decided he had enough. After what felt like an eternity, the man finally huffed and spat on the floor beside Luciano's trembling form. "Get out." Luciano gasped for air, barely able to lift his head. Bellini grabbed him by the collar, yanking him up just enough to shove him toward the door. "Go find another damn barrel and fill it up!" he spat. "If you don't return with one, don't bother coming back at all!" Then, without another word, Luciano was tossed out into the cold, the heavy wooden door slamming behind him. The laughter still echoed in his ears. The bruises still burned on his skin. And the weight in his chest-oh, how it crushed him. It was the weight of a life that had never belonged to him. And as he staggered into the night, the rain mixing with the tears he refused to shed, he knew. Tonight would be the last. The city stretched before him like an endless void, a graveyard of flickering lights swallowed by the abyss of the night. The wind howled through the skeletal branches of winter-stripped trees, carrying whispers of lives that had long since faded, echoes of souls lost to the world's indifference. Luciano stood at the edge of the bridge, his arms wrapped around his trembling frame as the icy wind bit at his skin. He had been cold his whole life should this night be any different? Below him, the river churned like liquid onyx, waiting to claim him in its silent embrace. How poetic, he thought. To slip into the darkness and become nothing. The weight of the world pressed against his chest, suffocating, relentless. For eighteen years, he had carried the burden of a name that did not belong, a face that did not fit, and a body that felt like a cruel mistake in the eyes of those who called themselves superior. Half-Italian, half-Black-wholly unwanted. Society had made its verdict long ago, carving its judgment into his very existence. The whispers, the sneers, the slurs that clung to his skin like a disease he had fought them, endured them. But even the strongest souls had their limits. He had reached his. His breath trembled as he inhaled the sharp scent of rain-soaked stone. The city blurred beneath the sheen of unshed tears, but he refused to cry. The world had never been kind to his sorrow before, why should he gift it his tears now? With one last exhale, he lifted a foot, letting it hover over the edge. Then, the world shifted. A presence. It was not the wind nor the distant hum of traffic. It was something deeper, something that coiled around his soul and held it in place, as if invisible fingers had laced through his ribs and refused to let him fall. "Not yet." The voice was a breath, a whisper of shadows and silk, brushing against his ear as though the night itself had spoken. Cold, yet not cruel. Commanding, yet laced with something perilously close to sorrow. Luciano turned, breath hitching. And there he stood. A man or something more. The stranger's presence swallowed the space around him, cloaked in darkness that seemed not like absence but substance. He was tall, impossibly so, his form draped in a long, flowing coat that fluttered despite the stillness of the air. His face-Luciano's breath caught at the sight of it. Sharp as sculpted marble, yet ethereal in a way that defied reason. His skin was pale, kissed not by life but something beyond it, and his eyes, dear God, his eyes. Abyssal. Not black, but a depth so endless they seemed to devour light itself. And yet, they were not empty. They held something deeper, something ancient. Something... hesitant. "Who are you?" Luciano's voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. The stranger tilted his head, studying him as one might observe a dying star. "I have many names," he murmured. "But you may call me Angelo." "Angelo..." Luciano repeated, tasting the name on his tongue. A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "Fitting. An angel to ferry me to the other side?" A shadow flickered across the man's face. "No." Luciano frowned. "No?" Angelo stepped closer, the air itself bending around him. "It is not your time." Luciano's chest constricted. Anger, sharp and sudden, flared in his veins. "You don't get to decide that." His voice came out hoarse, a whisper against the storm. The man took a step closer, soundless, effortless. Luciano should have felt fear. But all he felt was heat, spreading from where those dark eyes held him captive, slipping into the spaces between his shattered soul. "I decide when a soul departs," the stranger murmured. "And yours is not meant for the void tonight." Luciano clenched his fists. His breath was ragged, his pulse a frantic symphony. "Then take it anyway," he choked out. "End it for me. I don't belong here." Something flickered in those abyssal eyes-something unreadable. A ghost of hesitation. And then, the Angel of Death did something unexpected. He reached out. A gloved hand brushed against Luciano's wrist, fingers grazing skin so cold it sent a shiver through his spine. But the moment they touched- The cold vanished. The rain, the wind, the ice that had wrapped around Luciano's bones-it melted away, leaving behind something unfamiliar. Warmth. His breath hitched, and the stranger's fingers lingered just long enough to send his heart hammering against his ribs. It was not the warmth of the living, but it was not lifeless either. It was something unnatural, something intoxicating. Luciano's knees nearly buckled. "Do you feel that?" the man whispered, the words laced with something dangerous. "You are not numb to the world yet." Luciano swallowed hard, his mind spinning, his body betraying him with its trembling. "Who... are you?" The man's lips curled, just slightly, as if the question itself was amusing. "Like i said, i have been called many names," he murmured. "But you may call me... Angelo." "Angelo," Luciano breathed, tasting the name on his tongue. It felt like a sin, or a prayer, or something in between. Another step, and suddenly, he was close enough that Luciano could see the shadows flickering in those endless eyes, could feel the unnatural pull of him-like gravity, like fate. Luciano's heart slammed against his ribs. "I have watched countless souls fade into the abyss," Angelo continued, his voice quieter now, softer. "And yet, you..." A pause. His fingers ghosted over Luciano's wrist once more. "You are not like the others." Luciano shuddered. "I don't-" His voice cracked, his breath unsteady. "I don't understand." Angelo's gaze bore into him, something unreadable shifting beneath the surface. "Neither do I." The words sent a tremor through Luciano's chest. A silence stretched between them, thick with something heavy, something dangerous. The air pulsed between them like a second heartbeat, and Luciano was suddenly aware of how close they stood. How the cold should have seeped into his bones but didn't. How his body reacted-not with fear, but with something else. Luciano forced himself to tear his gaze away, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. "What happens now?" he whispered. A pause. Angelo's voice was like the night itself when he spoke. "That is up to you." Luciano closed his eyes. For the first time in years, he did not know the answer. Luciano woke to the damp scent of mildew and the faint, acrid sting of soap. His fingers twitched against the cold stone floor, stiff from the hours spent curled in on himself, his body aching from both exhaustion and the lingering bruises Bellini had gifted him the night before. He blinked against the dim light seeping through the cracks in the wooden door, his mind still sluggish, as if trapped in the hazy space between dream and waking. Then, he remembered. The bridge. The Angel. His heart lurched, but when he sat up, there was nothing-no proof that the being he had met was anything more than a fevered hallucination. With a deep breath, he pulled himself up, muscles groaning in protest, and pushed open the door. What met him was wrong. The tavern was full-bodies slumped over tables, drinks half-spilled, the scent of stale alcohol thick in the air. It looked as it always did after a night of drunken revelry, yet something was... off. It was silent. Too silent. Not a single breath, not a murmur, not even the shifting of someone in restless sleep. Luciano stepped forward cautiously, his bare feet brushing against scattered coins that had fallen from limp fingers. His chest tightened. Everyone-every single person-was asleep. Not dead. But under a slumber so deep, so unnatural, that not even the usual snores of overindulgent men filled the air. The air was thick, suffocating, as if the tavern itself was holding its breath. And then- "They're all with enough coin to buy you land in the richest part of the city." A voice, smooth and unshaken, curled through the silence. Luciano turned, and there, just beyond the golden glow of the candlelight, he saw him. Angelo. The Angel of Death stood near the entrance of the bar, his tall figure wreathed in shadow, the flickering lanterns casting long, ghostly shapes across his features. Those abyssal eyes watched him, unblinking, unreadable. "Take it from them," Angelo continued, his voice a quiet command. "No one will know. No one will stop you." Luciano's gaze dropped to the coins littering the ground-more money than he had ever seen in one place, enough to buy food for weeks, months, even escape. His stomach clenched with hunger. His ribs ached with longing. But still- "No." The answer left his lips before he could stop it. Soft, but resolute. Angelo's expression did not change, but something in his stance shifted. A flicker of something... curious. Luciano exhaled sharply and met his gaze, unwavering. "I'm not a thief." His voice was hoarse, but steady. "I would rather starve." A long silence stretched between them. Then, almost imperceptibly, the Angel's head tilted. Not in disappointment. Not in approval. But in question. As if he could not understand the being standing before him. Luciano turned away. His footsteps were light as he moved through the silent bar, careful not to disturb the eerie stillness, though part of him doubted he could wake them even if he tried. He pushed open the tavern doors, stepping into the night. The rain was gone. The air was damp but no longer cold, carrying the lingering scent of wet stone and distant embers. Fire lamps flickered along the street, their glow pooling in uneven puddles of golden light, casting long, wavering shadows that stretched toward the empty alleys. Stray cats prowled near the gutters, their thin bodies weaving between barrels and crates, scavenging for scraps left behind by careless hands. In the distance, the faint echo of the river murmured like a forgotten lullaby. The city was quiet. Too quiet. Luciano walked with no direction, no destination, only the weight of uncertainty pressing against his ribs. He had planned to die. But now, he was here. Alive. And for what? What came next? His fingers curled into fists at his sides, frustration burning in his throat. He should have been gone. This cruel world had never wanted him, had never given him a place to belong. So why was he still here? A soft sound followed him-footsteps, deliberate and soundless. Luciano didn't turn. He already knew who it was. The Angel of Death walked behind him, a silent shadow. Watching. Following. Luciano exhaled through his nose, half in exhaustion, half in quiet surrender. "Are you going to haunt me now?" His voice was quiet, laced with something that was not quite amusement, not quite resignation. Angelo did not answer. But in the hush of the empty streets, where only the dim glow of lanterns bore witness, the air between them pulsed with something unspoken. ‧₊ ❁ཻུ۪۪.;:୭̥.┊🖇 :💌: ꒱ _________________________________________