Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
VIRGILIO
I take a deep breath, the emotional strain of memories pressing down on me. "This isn't the first time Benedetto has pitted me and Dante against each other," I tell her, my voice steady but heavy with the past. Zoe's eyes widen, her worry palpable. I need to reassure her, to keep her from crumbling under the fear that grips her heart.
"When we were younger," I continue, "Benedetto would force us to fight." The words taste bitter on my tongue. "He'd stand there, watching, and I was always too scared to lose because there would be punishment." I can still feel the sting of those punishments, like phantom pains from a life that never truly ended.
In my mind, I see Dante's face, always calm and resolute. He'd let me win, taking the brunt of our father's wrath so I wouldn't have to. But I keep these thoughts hidden; Zoe doesn't need to know this part. She doesn't need more reasons to worry. Instead, I maintain my facade, trying to project confidence and reassurance.
"I always won. I won every time our father ordered us to fight. Dante knows what's best for him," I say softly. "He won't come for me." It's an excuse, a lie meant to soothe her fears and make our plan believable. Dante and I both know what needs to be done to end Benedetto's reign of terror. But Zoe can't suspect anything about our plan.
Zoe listens intently, her eyes searching mine for any sign of deceit. She’s still worried—how could she not be? But my tone seems to have some effect. Her shoulders relax just a fraction, and she nods slowly.
"I just... I'm scared for you," she admits, her voice trembling slightly. "For both of you."
I reach out and take her hand, feeling the warmth of her skin against mine. "I know," I whisper. "But you have to trust me on this. We'll get through it."
She squeezes my hand tightly.
"Stay close," she murmurs.
"I will," I promise.
But deep down, I know I'm lying. I can't let Zoe get hurt. The plan Dante and I have crafted in secret is dangerous, and the last thing I want is for her to be caught in the crossfire.
We sit there in silence for a moment longer, holding onto each other as if that simple touch can ward off the darkness closing in around us. My thoughts race with everything left unsaid—the plan Dante and I have crafted in secret, the dangerous game we're playing with our father's twisted mind—but for now, all that matters is that I have to keep Zoe safe, even if it means deceiving her about the true stakes.
Eventually, she pulls back slightly but doesn't let go of my hand entirely. "Just promise me one thing," she says softly.
"Anything."
"Don't let him break you," she whispers.
I manage a small smile, though it feels more like a grimace. "He won't," I say with conviction. But promises are easy to make when you're trying to shield someone from the harshest truths.
I lie on the hospital bed, bandages wrapping me like a macabre gift. The burns are healing, but each breath I take is a searing pain that courses through my body. The white walls, stark and unfeeling, mock me with their purity.
A single window lets in harsh, fluorescent light, making everything appear more surreal. The air smells faintly of antiseptic, a scent that does nothing to mask the underlying odor of my own scorched flesh. I want to scream, but my throat is too dry; all I manage is a hoarse rasp.
My mind drifts back to the deal struck with Russo’s Camorra. They promised Mom and Dante safe passage, and all it cost was my own freedom. My mother and brother were reported dead in a car accident—such an elegant lie—while I was left behind to become a pawn in this sick game.
The Camorra saw me as useful—a spy embedded within Benedetto's household. Four years of playing double agent. Four years of enduring his wrath without flinching.
The resentment festers like an untreated wound.
They left me behind.
She left me behind.
Mom and her loyal bodyguard, a Russo spy all along, whisked Dante away to safety while I was consigned to hell. I should feel some relief knowing they are alive and well, but instead, I am consumed by anger.
Each throb of pain from my burns is grounding yet infuriating. It pulls me back from the brink of madness but fuels my rage at the same time. How could they? How could she? My own mother abandoned me to that monster.
I clench my fists beneath the sheets, feeling the pull on my tender skin. The pain is a bitter friend now—always there, always reminding me of my betrayal.
The door opens with a creak, and a nurse steps in, her footsteps echoing softly on the tiled floor. She checks my IV drip without looking at me directly—another faceless figure in this antiseptic purgatory.
"How are you feeling today?" she asks, her voice neutral.
I want to laugh at the absurdity of the question but instead manage a gruff "Fine."
She nods mechanically and makes some notes on her clipboard before leaving as quietly as she entered.
Fine. That word means nothing anymore.
My eyes drift to the window again. Somewhere out there, Mom and Dante are living their new lives under different names, free from Benedetto's tyranny, while I'm left here—scarred, bitter, and seething with rage.
I think back to when Dante was just waking up from his coma—those precious few moments before they took him away. He didn’t even recognize me or our mother; he was a blank slate ready for new memories while mine were etched in fire and blood.
I take a deep breath despite the pain it brings and close my eyes against the harsh light flooding into the room. For now, all I have is this rage—it keeps me going when nothing else can.
But someday... someday this anger will have its outlet. For now, I bide my time, each heartbeat another tic closer to that inevitable moment when everything will change.
Until then, I endure.
Because what other choice do I have?
The door creaks open, and I turn my head, the motion sending sharp stabs of pain through my neck. Mom steps in, her face a cocktail of relief and guilt. She approaches cautiously, as if I might lash out at any moment.
"Virgilio," she begins softly, her voice trembling, "it's thanks to you that we're safe now."
I want to scream at her, to unleash the torrent of anger that's been festering inside me. But the pain and exhaustion pin me down. I seethe silently, feeling the rage boil just beneath the surface.
"Dante owes you his life," she continues, her eyes pleading for understanding. "Even if he doesn't know it."
I clench my fists under the thin hospital sheets, the fabric scratching against my raw skin. How dare she stand here and thank me after leaving me to endure Benedetto's wrath alone? The words are trapped in my throat, held back by a pain and bitter resignation.
The door opens again, and Dante walks in. He looks different now—more composed, more confident. My anger begins to subside as I take in his presence. Despite everything, I'm grateful for Dante’s past protection.
“Cesare,” my mother says softly, using his new name. “This is Ettore.”
Cesare’s eyes meet mine, and there’s no recognition in them. He’s a stranger now—a blank slate free from the horrors of our past.
Cesare looks confused, glancing between her and me. “Who is Ettore?” he asks.
Mom takes a deep breath “Cesare, Ettore is your brother. He was in the military for four years. There was an explosion, a terrible one. That's why he's here.”
Cesare’s eyes widen as he looks at me lying in the hospital bed. “An explosion…” he repeats, struggling to process the information.
“Yes,” Mom continues. “His injuries are severe, so the military sent him back home.”
"Ettore… It's good to see you again," he says quietly.
I nod, swallowing hard. "You too," I manage to reply.
Seeing him like this—free from the weight of our past—gives me a strange sense of peace. He’s Cesare now, and he can live a life unburdened by the horrors we faced together. And for that, I'm thankful.
I realize that the best way to convey my gratitude is to keep this secret locked away. This time, I'll be the one to shield my brother.
Dante used to protect me. Even now, the memories of those forced fights with Benedetto linger, haunting my every thought. I see Dante's face—calm, resolute—letting me win every single time. He’d take the blows meant for me, his body absorbing the punishment without a flinch. It was his way of shielding me, his silent way to keep me safe.
As I lie here, staring at my brother, a mix of gratitude, sorrow, and loneliness floods through me. The brother standing before me now doesn’t remember any of it—the shared trauma, the nights we spent whispering plans for escape, the pain that bonded us together. To him, I am Ettore Russo, not Virgilio Messina.
He smiles faintly, and for a brief moment, I catch a glimpse of the brother I once knew—the one who would sacrifice everything for me without hesitation.
Inwardly, I vow to protect Dante from our father’s legacy. I will keep these secrets buried deep within me if it means keeping him safe and unburdened by our past. No one needs to know what really happened; not now, not ever.
He deserves that chance at happiness—a chance neither of us had growing up—and I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure he keeps it.
Even if it means carrying this burden alone forever.