interlude | redemption

the introduction & the cast list.

To accurately and best portray the cast list, these short scene(s) were written in third person.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The camera had begun to record.

And that's when you saw him. The one who led the way for him. For her. Who didn't just lead a generation but was the segway to the next. Michael Davidé Luciano, dressed in one of his finer suits. He stalled, the camera recording his every move as he slowly worked the buttons down on his suit jacket. He shook his shoulders free, folded the jacket neatly across his forearm, and only then did he look up—and into the eyes of the one he knew was watching.

He saw himself in her. He saw the Michael he was before he was Michael. He saw something unique. Something different than Zara. Different than Rosie. Something worse than them both.

Something equally, if not worse, than him.

"I'll remain standing as I deliver this message," Michael declared, "Because you always rise for the king."

Starring:

F A I T H   A N N   C R A W F O R D  
as  
K I N G

He was coming for redemption.

For every pill that he knocked back. For every person that he failed and disappointed. For the one he lost. For himself. For that time in the bathroom where he gripped the countertop so hard his knuckles faded white while he sobbed, desperately searching the reflection for the one he once recognized. The same one he never found. For that time he found himself in a room he didn't recognize with a naked woman whose name he couldn't remember, straddling him as she dangled a ziploc bag of white pills over his head. She had said she would give them to him if he fucked her right. He had, and she did.

No one will ever forget what he did, but neither will they forget the moment he came back.

He had stormed through the front doors and marched past them all. He had heard someone. They reached for his arm in disbelief, trying to understand why and how he was here, home, in California. He had shaken them off. Stormed up the grand stairwell, beelining for the room he knew she was in.

The doors to her temporary bedroom were thrown open violently, the entire room shaking as they hit either wall. Somehow, his voice was louder than the noise the doors made. "Have you lost your fucking mind?"

Her back was to him. She was inserting an earring.

Faith turned around, perplexed at the sound of a voice that seemed awfully familiar. One she hadn't heard in a long time. Her eyebrows flinched into a frown, his name barely making it off the tip of her tongue, "Dominic?"

"I swore my life to this family," He told her, his voice rising with every step he took.

And even though she was being yelled at, she started to smile. He had cut his curls and started fresh with a low fade, giving them the chance to come back fuller, to come back thicker. He had started eating again. But what did it for her was his voice. Something about it had changed when addiction had it's noose around his neck—his pitch, something that she will never be able to describe altering the voice she could once recognize. He sounded like himself again.

"I made an oath to this family." He took another step. "To him."

She could blame the horrific month that they all had on the tears that begun to fall. But she knew that was not the reason for these. He had been wearing a pair of black slacks, a dress shirt, and a vest. The lamps in her room having done their best to shimmer their light off the diamonds in his ears. His anger could be heard and seen. His shoulders tense. His fists clenched. His jaw worked uncomfortably from side to side. But it was the anger in his eyes that had once yielded nothing, hardly even a sign of life, that hit her the hardest.

"The...the fact that you—that nobody had the decency to call me and tell me what happened. That I had to find out from someone, someone—" He motioned a hand behind him, indicating a meaningless individual.

Her palm gathered the tears that ran down her face. "We wanted you to get better—" It was the truth.

"It's Liam!" He shouted, his face darkening as heat rushed to it. He doesn't say anything else. Not for a while. As if that name is all that needs to be said to justify the importance. He whispered it the next time, "It was Liam." And their eyes met. There was so much he wanted to say. He wanted to curse at Faith for not telling him what had happened. To curse at himself for not being there. "I put my hand on the bible and swore my life, Faith."

"Dominic—"

He squeezed his eyes shut, drawing his hands to his face in silent frustration.

"You left rehab?" Faith questioned softly, when he had no intention of speaking again.

His hands drop to his side, and he heaves out an irritated breath. He takes air in and slowly lets it out. One of the first techniques they taught him in that place.

"You're king." He stated softly, two words destined to drift about the already silent room. He said it for himself, not needing to look for confirmation from her. She nodded, anyways. "You're—" He sighed, finally turning towards her. "Don't doubt yourself. Don't second-guess yourself. Don't overthink it. You're going to be an amazing king..."

She anticipated it before it even comes. "But?"

"This world is unforgiving," He told her. "We can do everything we think is right, make the toughest decisions we will ever have to make, yet it isn't always enough. Sometimes our best is not enough. But I took an oath. I swore my life. I swore that I would stand behind any king that took the throne as long as they had the best interest of this family at heart. And you...I would stand behind you."

She wanted to hug him. To pull him close and forget whatever might lie between them. She can tell he remembers yet doesn't all at once. Aware that he made mistakes while he was high, but unable to recall exactly what. She remembered them all, but hopes that with one hug, maybe they can wash them all away—forget it, forgive. Start fresh.

"I don't think there is anyone more fitting for this position," Dominic continued softly, "So please, don't take this personally—but you're not going to isolate me. I'm not going to let you."

He took another step towards her, "Because if this family goes down, I'm going with it."

D O M I N I C   J A M E S   S A N T I A G O   as   C O N S I G L I E R E

He was coming for redemption.

For the one shot he missed.

Unaware that all those years later, it would upend his entire life.

People had been watching him, more closely than usual. Worry etched their features, his silence somewhat disturbing. He would tell them he's fine, but every time he closed his eyes, or the conversation faded, he's taken back to the night he received the phone call. It had been Giovanni, maybe Tatum, he doesn't remember. Carmen had been laughing. They both had been laughing. Too tipsy to remember what they had been laughing about. The phone call sobered him up, and quickly.

He didn't need to pack a bag. He always had one. Ready to go. There had been a flight. A seemingly long drive to the hospital. There had been the waiting room and the lights, the flurry of people who were nervous about their own loved ones. Anxiousness gripped the air. The lights. There were so many lights. And the smell, something mixed with cleaning supplies and sweat. He couldn't remember the last panic attack he had, but the heat that began to rush to his head and the blurring of the lights suggested he would tonight.

It wasn't until the dark-haired woman appeared before him, before Faith, somberly asking for the family of Vincenzo De Santis. An entire section had rose. She had glanced down, apologizing for lack of sterile procedure by not removing the bloodied glove prior. The woman started to speak. No words came out. He found himself stumbling backwards and tugging at his shirt, the pounding of his heart against his chest more notable now than ever.

He had barely made it outside before he threw up.

It had felt like a night that would never end. He couldn't tell you how he willed his body out of the SUV that had driven them back to the Luciano estate. He couldn't tell you how he walked inside. He didn't think he had any energy left, until Faith turned on him.

"I fucking hate you!" She had been standing in the kitchen when she said it. He, in the foyer, a hand pressed against the archway, in support. He had lifted his head because it hadn't sounded like her all. She must not have liked what she saw, his expression having formed one of disbelief. So she said it again, "I fucking hate you," and this time, an innocent empty cup that was left from prior accompanied her words. It had shattered, millimeters from his hand.

He recalls not even having the energy to flinch.

But it had only been the beginning. "You're an assassin for god fucking sake and you couldn't even kill the fucking bitch?" She was standing there, not caring that she was tugging her hair with dried blood on her hands. Her hands waving wildly as she shouted at him, her voice higher than he's ever heard it. Her eyes wider than they've have been. "You're a killer that can't even fucking kill. You're worthless. Because she should be dead—" She had jammed a finger towards the window, towards nothing. Towards Ellie, wherever she had ran off to. "—And he should be here, and they all should fucking be here—"

"Shut up," was all he had to give.

Her attention had snapped back to him, disbelief now being the one her features accepted. "Shut up?" She had whispered. The laugh she fought back was mocking. It was vicious. "Shut up? Is that a threat?" Her hands toss up in a mocking manner. His chest had tightened more. "Even if it was, it's not like it would scare anybody. Since all you do is fucking miss—"

He can't remember the last time he moved faster. He had crossed the kitchen, having closed their distance faster than any other. He grabbed the collar of his shirt, bunched it in his fist, and yanked her to him. He still thinks about it, long past their fight, that there was no fear in her eyes when he had done so. He hadn't even had anything to say, no joke or witty comeback. Silence was all he had, and strength. He had used the latter to send Faith stumbling into the marble island.

He had immediately regretted it, a knot forming in his stomach at the pain that passed over her face. His arms had been partially outstretched in an apology, but he didn't have the energy to reach for her. But she had. And the familiar click of a weapon's safety and the feel of the barrel against his chest, directly over his heart, is another part of that night he hadn't forgotten.

He could hear the others come in behind them, low conversation having hummed around them until they witnessed what was going down in the kitchen. He could hear Carmen gasp. He almost smiled. He loved that sound. He could hear Giovanni say something to Faith. Tatum had pitched in. The two had approached slowly, their footsteps quiet but audible. To him at least. To anyone who was trained to hear them. But Faith never took her eyes off him.

Her voice had lowered, her whisper nearing something oddly gentle. "Don't you ever put your hands on me again." He had glanced down at her, at her weapon pressed against his chest, and at the back of his hand—blood beginning to roll between his fingers from the glass that had hit it. She had followed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but they should be here. He should be here." Faith had tapped the barrel of the gun against his chest. Once, then twice. "I hate you. I think I really hate you, but I need you, Rico."

They hadn't spoken again. And he often worried that his friendship with Faith wouldn't be something he could ever fix. She blamed him while he blamed himself. She had been right. Who was he if he wasn't a killer? He hadn't even had the chance to figure it out.

But what he will never admit—not to anybody—was that a small, nagging part of him wished she had pulled the trigger. Not much difference between a shot aimed at the head or the heart. But she hadn't. She had let them take the gun from her and crumbled in the arms of whichever one caught her, unleashing a sob that will forever haunt him.

He had backed himself against the wall, watching as they dragged Faith away to calm her. He had shut his eyes, the sound of glass crunching underneath Carmen's feet kept him grounded as she had entered the room, torn between comforting him and cleaning up the mess. She chose the mess, and he was glad.

He had slid down the wall, his head in his hands, and he had cried. He had squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself away from a world he felt like he had ruined and found himself in another. A place all too familiar. Rock and concrete crumbled underneath his foot whenever he took a step. Dust still rose into the sky. He realized where he found himself, at the ruins of the Rostov empire—a place where he had lost one friend and abandoned another.

But he could only bring one back with him.

He reared his foot back and kicked up dirt.

And told Fantasma he needed him, one last time.

F E D E R I C O   D E   S A N T I S   
as    F A N T A S M A

and

C A R M E N   E S P E R A N Z A   V E G A

They were coming for redemption.

She began to hate bright lights that night. They've started to bother her more and more lately, the same way they did when a flurry of people she didn't recognize in uniforms she couldn't match wheeled her through the hospital corridor, shouting words she couldn't understand. She had been on her back, on a rolling bed she called it, the hallway lights beaming down on her until she could no longer see.

She remembered the person in white leaning over to Ms. Faith, to her uncle Rico who had come to visit her when she was in the hospital. He had said something about PTSB? Or was it C? D? She doesn't remember. All she knows is that she prefers her room these days, the silence more welcoming than the constant arguing of adults. And because she can keep the lights off, and not as bright as they were in the hallway that night when the bad guys came and hurt her.

She's begun to hate it out there, in the house. She's noticed it all. The tension. The anger. The looks of hatred, or at least she thinks it's hatred—Faith looking at her uncle Rico the same way she looked at brussel sprouts. She knows that look.

She's watched her wound morph into a scar. Right after she left the hospital, her aunt Carmen remained with her—sitting beside her until she fell asleep, bringing her food to make sure she ate, changing the dressing along her stomach to make sure she healed properly. But that was weeks ago and only about a couple hundred times a day does she lift her shirt and glance at the scar that remained.

Tears gathered at the corner of her eyes, and she started to cry. The knock on her door had surprised her, making her gasp, and she squeezed her eyes closed as her bedroom door creaked open. She silently begged the next tear not to fall. It had.

"Are you asleep?" Her visitor had asked.

She squeezed her eyes together more, "I'm on my third dream."

They entered the room and shut the door behind them, trapping the light outside. She tried to shut her eyes tighter, to breathe as if she really was sleeping. But when she felt her visitor stop at the side of her bed, she realized she could no longer fake it. She had lost another tear.

"You're crying," They had said, their own voice a mixture of pain and hurt. She felt them bend down and the mattress shifted as they rested their elbows along the side of it, their faces close. She had felt their finger caress her cheek, having removed any evidence of her pain. "Why are you crying?"

She had opened her mouth to respond, but only a sob had followed. Her breathing had quickened as she tried to explain, "I didn't want you to leave me." She had shuddered at the thought, her eyes still squeezed shut. She was certain that when she opened them, her visitor would be gone—another person who had left her too soon, too early—only now, another figment of her imagination. "I begged you not to leave me. I snuck out of my room, and I went into his—yours and I begged you not to leave me."

"I know," they had said.

She almost felt anger at that. She felt that a lot, lately. "How do you know?" She took the chance, and she opened her eyes, determined that when she did, she would be alone.

But she wasn't.

"Sweetheart," Vincenzo had said softly, "Why do you think I'm still here?"

V I N C E N Z O   D E   S A N T I S   
as    K I N G   O F   D E T R O I T

"You heard me?" She had breathed out softly.

"Every single time," He assured her. Vincenzo shifted on his knees and had leaned toward her, shifting his expression into one that always made her laugh. She did tonight, like she always had. But when he grew serious, she did, too.

"What are you thinking about?" She asked him.

"Your uncle Rico is deferring the throne, temporarily, until this mess is over." He had told her. "He asked that I take his spot. I agreed."

She had let out a light gasp. "You're going to be king again?"

"I was always king, isn't that what you taught me?"

"It was," She had said.

Vincenzo leans closer, his voice low. "And as you know, a king always has someone who they trust more than anyone else to talk to and confide in. Someone who helps them make decisions. Like your uncle Dom was to Liam. Like what he is now, to Faith. And I was thinking about who I wanted to appoint as mine. So, I was wondering, would you like to be my right hand?"

It would be the first time in a long time that she had smiled. "But why me?"

Vincenzo thought about it for a second, his eyes never leaving her. "Because one day, I won't be king anymore. One day, Federico might decide that this is something he no longer wants to do." He had hesitated, not having yet told her about her relation to Gabriel. "And if Federico decides that, and you are old enough, then it's possible the throne will fall to you."

She had shot up in bed and thrown her arms around him. "You mean one day I might be a real king?" He had groaned in pain, and she pulled away, muttering an apology.

Vincenzo had steadied her, his hands on her hips as he laughed. "You already are a real king, but yes."

"Like, a real, real king, like you and Michael?"

"Better," He had promised.

R O S A L I E   M A R I E   D E S A N T I S    as    H I S   C O N S I G L I E R E
(IN TRAINING)

He was coming for redemption.

But first, he had to drown.

And that's what he did as his head slipped below the surface of the water, his body sunken to the bottom. He was starting to love swimming as much as he loved gymnastics. It was the way the world stilled for him whenever he found himself in the air, twisting his body in a way nobody else can. It was the way his thoughts were forced into muffled silence whenever he pulled his head underwater.

He never considered himself an adrenaline junkie, a term he had heard his father throw out to his mother about him on occasion. He had always been one of the most daring assassins in the OA. He was game, even if that meant jumping off the edge of a building without hesitation, his arms folding across his chest as he rotated backwards in the air, straightened out, and drew his legs together—landing in the deep pool hundreds of feet below. A dive, if judged, worth the highest point.

He had once heard his mom tell his dad that she wished he had a fear factor. That there were only so many times she could see her baby dangling over the edge of the tallest building or the steepest cliff, risking his life with a smile plastered on his young face, not an ounce of fear in his eyes.

He wondered if she would be happy now, knowing he chose to drown rather than to fly.

His dad was the one who introduced him to swimming. He was young, really young, the memories of his first times in the water foggy and distant. His dad had told him how important it was to be versatile as an assassin, emphasizing that acclimating himself to water early could one day save his life. He remembered their training. The way his dad would count to ten seconds, and he would resurface, gasping for air. They did it time and time again, until ten seconds turned into twenty. Twenty went to thirty. He had slapped the water at forty seconds, wondering in frustration when he would be old enough to hold his breath for a full minute.

"When you get older," His dad had told him. "You will grow, and so will your lungs. Keep practicing."

He had, and even today, he does.

He had left California the day after Christmas and moved across the country with his parents, to a suburb just outside the city of Boston, Massachusetts. They had registered him over the winter break and sent him off to start school as a Freshman with a new backpack and pencils the second it had hit January. It had only been a month and he had already made friends—most of them Seniors.

He had learned that he wouldn't be able to join the gymnastics team this spring but was guided in the direction of the coach and told to come to the school's sports games to watch and learn their routines. He had, and as the school emptied on that late Friday night, he had managed to stumble into his most prized find yet. The pool.

And that was where he met her. He wouldn't consider her elderly, but she was certainly old enough to be his mom—and probably even his brothers, too. She had introduced herself as the swimming coach and pointed to her office, which sat nestled in the corner of the indoor poor arena, stickers decorating the inside of her glass, giving her a full view of the space. She was the first person he spoke too. Really spoke too, and she had listened as he told her how he had moved to California. How he had lost a close friend. He hadn't told her the real reason—changing the story slightly by saying it was a gun he shouldn't have had that killed him, and how he felt like it was his fault. She listened. He cried. And she said whenever he wanted, he was allowed to swim—and visit her, if he needed to talk.

His head breached the surface of the water, and he shook it, his curls releasing the excess water that held them down. The chlorine burned his nose as water rolled down his face, dripping off the tips of his dark eyelashes. Her office was dark that day, the presence of his newly acquainted friend, missed. He had turned away from where she would usually sit and when his lungs stopped burning, he dragged himself back under, again.

But this time he didn't just sink. He swam. His focus on increasing the amount of time he can starve his body for air, all while conditioning it at the same time. His chest grazed the bottom of the pool and once he reached the opposite end, he spun, trying to complete a full lap before coming up to breathe. He never made it. That untaught intuition had suggested he was no longer alone. And when he pushed himself up for air and dragged his wet palms down his face, opening his eyes, he realized he had been right.

His father sat on the ledge of the pool, his sweatpants pulled up to his knees and everything below submerged in water.

He had blinked and looked away, having wiped a stray stream of water from off his brow. "What are you doing here?"

His father watched him carefully. "I haven't seen my son in days."

He had given his head a quick shake, sending pellets of water rippling across the pool. His breath had finally slowed, his swim more exhausting than he had realized. "I've been home." It had been the truth.

His father had huffed out a laugh. "I know. The box of Reese's puffs keeps going down. Your mom thought the house was haunted."

He didn't laugh, and instead ran a palm over his forehead, momentarily pushing his curls away from his face. He had struggled to make eye contact with his father, and he knew why. Many would be surprised when he told them that his father was the fun parent, his mother the strict one. He hardly spoke and she never shut up, but it was true. His father was the one who would occasionally take his side if there was a familial argument. The one who would stay up late with him, play games with him, wrestle with him, laugh with him. His mother was the one who kept the house in order, who made sure his laundry was in the basket and his homework was done and thoroughly checked.

"You look disappointed in me," He had said softly, his hand forcing a gentle wave in front of him, keeping his attention on it instead of his dad.

"You have no ide—"

"I've been coming home," He had snapped suddenly. His eyes jerked up to his father, squinting narrowly. "Late, yes. I get in around two...in the morning, and you guys are always sleep. I lay down for a couple hours and I leave the house around five. I haven't skipped school. I've never skipped school."

His father's tone matched him. His voice rose and echoed loudly in the empty building. "We haven't gotten a text that you have—We—" The eldest former assassin had groaned, having dragged a hand down his face in exhaustion. When his father speaks again, his voice is calmer. "Your mother and I have been arguing a lot."

He had looked down. "I know."

His father's admission had been soft. "We don't know how to be your parents, not out here." Their eyes had met for a moment, one that ended far too quickly. "The truth is, in the OA you answered to the people above us and now that we're out, we can't get you to answer us. To respect us."

He had nearly rolled his eyes. "Dad, I do respect you and mom—"

His father had reached into the pocket of his sweatpants, pulling out a familiar bag. He had dropped it at the edge of the pool and motioned towards it. To the contents inside of it. Pills.

He could hear the emotion in his father's voice as his body stilled. "Then what the fuck is this?" The water had suddenly turned cold. "Your mother insisted on searching your extra bag while you were gone. I told her not to, that you deserved privacy just like everybody else. I told you!" His father's palm had hit the edge of the pool and he nearly backed away. "I told you what addiction did to me when you asked, and I told you how it ruined me. And you hugged me, and you said that you would never—"

He watched his father turn away from him. It was the first time since his father had told him the story about his addiction that his dad's voice had cracked, that he had cried. In that moment he had felt like sinking to the bottom of the pool and remaining there.

When his father had drawn his head back, he had nearly frozen underneath the cold stare. His father's eyes had been red. He had watched a tear fall. "You lied to me." Unfallen tears had started to burn his own eyes when his dad motioned towards the bag. "You've been acting different. You won't answer your brothers calls. You won't answer Faith or Carmen, or us. You've been staying out late with those seniors—those friends you mentioned, doing God knows what. Did they give them to you?" He had motioned towards the pills again, "What are they? What have you been using?"

He didn't hesitate. "Sleeping pills."

He plunged his head underwater.

And opened his eyes, allowing the chlorine to burn them instead of his tears.

He pursed his lips shut, small bubbles floating to the top as he counted to twenty, to thirty, and to forty. He wanted his father to leave. He had shut his eyes and hit a minute. It was early, yet his lungs had already started to burn. And did they burn. He watched his father's legs disappear from the pool and he waited, knowing approximately how long it would take for one to cross the arena and exit out the side door. He surfaced, taking a desperate breath too early, and a small portion of water went down the wrong pipe.

He had coughed, then he cried, his tears mixing with the water as it rolled through his hair, across his lips, down his chin. He had cried until he started to shiver, until his fingertips started to wrinkle with all the time he had spent inside the water. He had given his head one last shake before wading to the edge of the pool, palms pressed against the ledge to push himself up.

And that's when he saw it.

His father had left his small package of sleeping pills, but where he once sat were the katanas Liam had gifted him for Christmas—tucked safely inside the inconspicuous bag.

He pulled himself out of the pool, leaving a puddle of water in his wake. He had bent down and scooped the bag of pills in his hand, and he hesitated. He draped his towel over his head and started to walk off. Wanting nothing to do with them.

But then he heard a voice, one he's been hearing more and more lately—mostly in his dreams.

"There will come a time when you will have to make a choice." Veleno once told him.

He had stopped and he had shut his eyes, crumbling the bag of pills so tightly in his palm that he threatened to crush them. He could swear that he could hear his phone taunting him with a phantom vibration of messages—Federico, Faith, even Carmen refusing to leave him alone. He hadn't answered any of them. He hadn't spoken to any of them, even though they left message after message, telling him what had happened—checking on him to see if he was okay, even if he didn't return the favor.

"A choice where...once you make it, there is no going back."

He returned. He slung his gifted katanas over his shoulder and raced across the slick pool area to reach the double doors, hoping he could catch his father in time.

He passed a trash can on his way out.

He left the pool with only one of the two items.

He left with the one engraved, IJS.

C R I X U S   J O S I A H   S A N T I A G O   as   T H E   L I T T L E   A S S A S S I N

In loving memory, of Immanuel Joel Santamariá as Veleno.

He was coming for redemption, or maybe redemption was coming for him.

For the little boy who was forced to walk across shards of glass, a cruel lesson in the importance of gentle footsteps. For the little boy who they threw into a cage and starved, having deprived him of food for so long that he had waited and almost welcomed, death—only to be fed when they knew he couldn't go another day, when he barely had the energy to lift his head, forcing him to remain in their hell just a little bit longer. The lesson? That when you feel as though you've given it your all, you still have a little bit left to give.

Redemption was coming for him. For the little boy whose soul they took using the vilest of methods. For the little boy who vanished one day, a dark void left in his place. And for the person he became. Because only scary things live in the dark.

It had been sometime after Christmas, sometime after the chaos of the events in January took place, that he found himself alone. Everyone had gone to sleep. He couldn't. He never could. He had grabbed a laptop someone had left on the kitchen counter and had migrated into the dark living room, having powered up the device—the glow of the screen the only thing illuminating his features. And he had searched, scouring the internet for a definition that made sense.

Self-love. What is self-love?

He had heard Carmen and Faith say it in passing and had been confused about it ever since. He had asked them about love—Faith had started to cry, but Carmen had tried to help him define it. He had left the conversation understanding that it was something you felt for someone. A strong feeling. Something hard to explain, but easy to recognize once you've experienced it. He could understand the concept—the way Federico loved Carmen, Liam had loved Faith, or the way the little the star—Rosalie—loved Vincenzo. But for the life of him, he could not understand loving yourself.

And when the definitions did not help him, he had gone to YouTube—he had just discovered YouTube. He wasn't sure how he felt about it yet. But the videos didn't help either. People talked too much and said nothing. Nothing he could understand. Nothing he could relate too. He had slammed the laptop closed, a curse on his lips. He didn't understand it, but a part of him wanted to.

"Are you okay?"

He had lifted his head from his hands, his body having turned towards the sound of the voice. "What is it?"

Federico had moved slowly into the dark room. He had done his best to not jam his toe on a piece of furniture or knock his knee against an end table. And when he lowered himself to the sofa, a space between them, Rico had frowned, "What is what?"

"What is self-love?" He had asked.

"Self-love?" Federico had questioned back. "I don't think I'm the best one to answer this question, but I think self-love is different for everybody. They say that you need to love yourself before you can love someone else, but for me, loving Carmen is what's been teaching me. I show Carmen compassion and gentleness. I forgive her and she forgives me. I'm still working on it, but for me, self-love is showing myself the same thing I show her."

He had turned away, his eyes falling to his lap. "I don't understand."

Federico had shifted, wanting to help. "I have always separated myself and Fantasma. I always viewed them as two different people. I used to love him, that side of me, because I thought he kept me safe. But the more I leaned on him, the worse everything got. I realized I was leaning on him because I was too afraid to accept the other part of me—the person I was before him, the one who was weak and scared and maybe a little vulnerable." Federico turned to him, "I had help, but I'm starting to learn that there would be no him if it weren't for me. That little boy that the Russians—"

He had felt it in his chest. Something snapped. Anger had come out of it. "I hate him," He had muttered between clenched teeth. "I hate that little boy. They laughed at hi—they laughed at me. Nobody listened to me. They hurt me, Rico. I don't like him," He had said, "I don't like that part of me."

Federico had listened quietly, "But do you know that there would be no him, if it weren't for that little boy?" He hadn't answered, caught in thought, and Federico had continued, "That little boy will always be there. And who they turned you into will always be there. I said self-love is different for everybody, so maybe self-love for you is learning to accept them both."

Federico left him.

And then the little boy cried.

G A B R I E L   D E   S A N T I S   
as    D I A V O L O

They were coming for redemption.

For they had failed one king, and they knew they couldn't fail another.

Not much for them had changed. There had been tension between them and some of the soldiers. Regret. Sadness. Hindsight, now that the dreaded night was now in the past. But they did their best to protect her as well as they had tried to protect him. The only thing that had changed was how they introduced themselves.

It was when they stormed that house in late January with a group of soldiers behind them, barreling through the tight hallways—listening to the screams of women, of children, of men who had been caught off guard—they realized that their hunch had been correct. A Yakuza safe house somewhere in the hills of Washington state. To which family it belonged to, they hadn't cared. It had been Yakuza they were after, and Yakuza is what they had found.

They had cornered the un-armed group. They had waited for their screams to die down, for their panic to momentarily pause. They had released the safety of their automatic weapons, and they had lifted them.

And in unison, they had stated.

"We come in the name of Faith Ann Crawford."

G I O V A N N I   M A R C E L L O  
E S P O S I T O     as    C O M M A N D E R

and

T A T U M    as    
L I E U T E N A N T   C O M M A N D E R
OF THE LUCIANO ARMY

There was no redemption here.

"I don't want you to die."

Michael Luciano had been sitting at his desk when he heard the soft voice.

He had looked up at the little boy who stood underneath his doorway, sniffling. His pajama top had been wet with tears. The present king had rolled away from his desk and opened his arms, a welcoming invitation that the future—the little king had accepted. His boy ran into his arms, and he spun them in the chair, clinging tight. The little king had laughed, even though he had been sad.

"Did you have a bad dream?" Michael had asked him.

"Yeah," He had said. "You leave me a lot, in my dreams."

Michael wiped his cheeks, wanting to shield him from the truth but not wanting to hide him from the cold reality. "It was just a bad dream. I know death is sad. It's really sad, but we all are going to die someday."

"I know," The little king had said. "When will I die?"

Michael held him tighter. "I can't tell you that."

The boy had scrunched up his face. "But you always know. You know everything."

"I can't tell you when you are going to die, little king." Michael had shifted his son in his lap and had let out a breath. "Death will come for us all, but you are the only one who can choose to fight it or not."

He had been quiet. "Fight death?" He had finally said. The boy squirmed off his lap and spun around, "Like this?" And with all the energy he could muster at that point in the night, he had swung his right arm. Then he swung his left. And Michael laughed. He had spun and swung until he was dizzy. "Dad, I don't think that would wor—whoa—"

Michael had caught him before he could hit the ground.

"I promise you, little king," his father had said, "You will know exactly how to fight it when death calls your name."

For redemption was his.

and starring

L I A M    E L I J A H    L U C I A N O

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

With Frequent Appearances by:

G R A C E   &  
A N T H O N Y    S A N T I A G O

T H E   O R G A N I Z A T I O N   O F  
A S S A S S I N S

&

S A V A U G H N A

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Lealtá contains dark themes and morally gray characters.

I, as the author, do not condone the potential actions of the FMC.

Thank you.

- LEALTA is still scheduled for a late 2024 release, but please keep in mind and be patient with me as I navigate my transition from a student-girlie to a working-girlie.