Night wrapped around the street like a second skin.
The kind of night where everything felt hidden—even the things happening right in front of you.
*** walked beside his brother.
Small hand inside a bigger one.
Cristian's grip was loose.
Not protective.
Just… there.
A cigarette burned between his fingers, the orange light flickering softly with each drag.
And he was singing.
Low.
Almost careless.
"Soldier boy…"
His voice was rough, slightly off-key, but steady.
"…oh my little soldier boy…"
Smoke escaped his lips as he walked.
Like the song and the smoke were the same thing.
Something that just came out without effort.
*** looked up at him.
Silent.
Listening.
Not understanding everything.
But remembering everything.
They turned a corner.
And then—
A man.
Standing under a flickering streetlight.
Beard unshaven.
Eyes wide.
A small package clutched tightly in his hands.
He saw Cristian.
And immediately—
Something broke inside him.
"Please—"
His voice trembled.
"Just give me two more months—"
His breathing became erratic.
"I swear I'll get the money—"
Cristian didn't stop walking.
Didn't stop singing.
"…I'll be true to you…"
The words came out almost softly.
Gentle.
Completely disconnected from the moment.
The man stepped back.
Panic rising.
"I just need time—"
Then—
A sound.
Metal scraping against the ground.
Cristian had picked up a long iron pole from the side of the street.
It dragged behind him.
SCREEEEEE—
The sound cut through the night.
Sharp.
Uncomfortable.
But he kept singing.
"…I'll be true…"
Closer now.
The man was shaking.
"Please—please don't—"
Cristian stopped right in front of him.
Silence.
For half a second.
Then—
CRACK.
The pole came down.
Violent.
Precise.
The man collapsed instantly.
A broken sound left his throat.
Cristian tilted his head slightly.
Then spoke.
Calm.
"Soldi."
He tapped the pole lightly against the ground.
"Where are your money for the group?"
The man tried to speak.
Blood filled his mouth.
"I— I was—"
CRACK.
Another hit.
This time harder.
Directly to the head.
The sound was dull.
Final.
The man's body went limp.
Cristian stood still for a moment.
Breathing slowly.
Then he exhaled smoke.
And turned.
He crouched slightly in front of ***.
Their eyes met.
"Think about it."
His voice was almost gentle now.
"That man just bought his own suicide."
He pointed lazily at the body.
"If you ever ask money from the mafia…"
A small pause.
"…you better be ready to give it back."
He tapped the iron pole twice against the ground.
Clang. Clang.
"Or you end up like him."
*** looked at the body.
Then back at Cristian.
His voice was small.
"But…"
A pause.
"…who decides who has the right to take someone's life?"
Cristian stared at him.
Then—
He laughed.
A real laugh this time.
He lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face.
"Oh, little brother…"
He shook his head slowly.
"…you're such a poor thing."
Then he spoke again.
This time in Latin.
Cold.
Detached.
"Non ragioniam di lor, ma guarda e passa sanza 'nfamia e sanza lodo."
The words felt heavy.
Ancient.
Like something that didn't belong in that street.
*** frowned slightly.
"…What does it mean?"
Cristian spat something onto the ground.
A tooth.
Broken.
Blood followed.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Then smiled.
Crooked.
"It means…"
He looked down at the body.
Then back at ***.
"…like me."
A small pause.
"I live off the pain of others."
His eyes didn't waver.
"Because I can."
He inhaled slowly from the cigarette.
"…an ignavo of my own life."
The smoke rose between them.
*** stayed silent.
Processing.
Trying to understand something that couldn't be understood.
Then he asked.
"…Cristian?"
"Mh?"
"If you're so smart…"
A small pause.
"…why don't you become a teacher?"
Cristian blinked.
For a moment—
Something changed in his expression.
Something softer.
Something almost human.
He reached out.
Placed a hand on ***'s head.
Gently.
Brushing through his long blond hair.
"…Maybe for you…"
He smiled faintly.
"…I would be."
The street fell silent again.
The body remained on the ground.
The song never finished.
And *** stood there—
Holding the hand of someone who could destroy the world in front of him—
And still call it love.