Vincent leaned against the cold wall. It was damp and grimy, black mold crawling up its surface.
The air reeked of piss and rot, and somewhere in the dark, rats chattered, a sound that almost felt like laughter.
Laughter that mocked his arrogance, his stupidity. Laughter that told him this place suited him perfectly.
This underground cell was reserved for those who dared to defy the Lucero family.
The corridor outside was lit by a single, dying streetlamp, and the only light touching him now came from the pale, fractured moonlight seeping through a crack above.
But Vincent knew this place well. It wasn't his first time here.
When they were young, the cruel sons of capos and other mafia brats used to shove him inside as a joke, leaving him to cry and tremble in the dark.
It was then that he learned his place in this family, he was nothing. No one. While Lucien stood in all his brilliance, adored and untouchable.
