.

"Questo è il passato. Questo è il futuro."

Part III

New York, USA

While on his way home, John had to dodge water being thrown from a window, a dog that chased him for at least two blocks, and a carriage that was speeding down the street and nearly overturned at the corner where, unfortunately for him, he was buying a newspaper. A typical day, with its frequent incidents in his daily life.

Or, as a friend would tell, his natural ability to attract unfortunate events.

Resignedly, the man could only shake his head as he lit a cigarette and opened the door to finally enter his home. But instead of a welcome, the first thing he heard was the screams of his wife, who was scolding their son.

"Who can do something like that?" the woman complained, "Hitting a tree with your fists! And for what?! To see if you were strong enough?! Nonsense, what do you think-"

"I wouldn't have had to if you had let me go to practice, mom."

"Practice? Practice what? That's not even a sport."

"England devised rules for that. They even have tournaments!"

"Don't give me that from England again. As if it were possible-"

"Ahem," John interrupted. "He's telling the truth, darling, he means the London Prize Ring Rules. And they are even building a stadium in London for that; they call it Lillie Bridge Grounds. It'll be for various sports, and yes, believe it or not, that includes boxing."

"Dad!" his son quickly got out of his mother's grip and ran to him, his father, who noticed the bandage around the child's right hand "Dad, tell mom-"

"Don't cheer him on!" the woman snorted.

John sighed, feeling somewhat uncomfortable in the middle of the morning fight. Please, he didn't want to be taken in the wrong way; his family was everything he could ever wish for, and although at the time mother and son were arguing, they both shared a sincere affection. And it was because of that same affection that the mother was always worried about the son: it wasn't that she hated the sport that had suddenly gotten into the child's head. It was that it was too risky in their country, where hardly was practiced officially and what was most common was street fights. She wanted him to leave the idea for the peace, for his safety, and John thought the same, but his son seemed so happy and excited that he wasn't able to say anything, to the point he was considering doing something maybe foolish.

His son was already 12 years old. He could no longer be totally considered a child, and maybe...

Perhaps taking a trip could help him to gain some experience in life.

Perhaps…

Maybe if he asked that person for another favor...

"They're going to build a stadium!" the youngest complained and did a pout, one that made the mother shut up when he saw how his eyes were getting brighter and brighter. "Why don't we have something like that? Is it really that bad?"

Were they…

Tears?

His wife turned to look at him with sincere concern. The two exchanged glances in a kind of quick and fleeting conversation; and to show that she agreed with the pact, even if it meant owing another great favor, she nodded.

"Son," John called him and leaned slightly to be at his height. "Hey, why the sad face? Maybe there isn't much to do here, but you said it yourself, in England, it is something else; did I not say too that they are building a large stadium?"

"Eh?" he blinked, confused. "But..."

"Don't underestimate the power of friendship," he declared. "I'm sure Raymond won't mind helping me with this little problem. But of course, the important thing is whether you could be able to live in England for a while."

The child (because in his eyes he was still a child) stared at him, and his eyes, already bright, seemed to become more colorful at the same time that a smile was appearing on his face. He knew who Raymond was, knew he lived in England, knew he was from London.

The father smiled back and thought everything was ok; if he had to continue investigating what this mafia was and see if anyone knew more about those rings, so be it. That expression was worth it. Also, if John remembered correctly, his dear aristocratic friend had a son roughly the same age like his; maybe they could even get along with each other.

"I'll write to him as soon as I can. I don't think he'll mind if I tell him that my son-"

"Knuckle!" he yelled, "I'm Knuckle!"

"Knuckle?" the mother spoke, "But why..."

"Professional athletes have a nickname. And I've decided this will be mine. I've been thinking about it for a long time!"

John just hoped his son was better at boxing than he was at making up names. That was all he could ask.

Palermo, Sicily.

Giotto was sure he could hear voices. Voices of people, he thought, were around him, even though he couldn't see them because it was all a deep, flat darkness. Distant voices, voices he didn't recognize but that something inside him told him he should. Voices, most raspy, serious, with a hint of danger and cruelty in them, but which, curiously, did not cause him fear, but sadness.

Voices lost in that impenetrable darkness.

"Giotto"

They called him. And he wasn't sure why.

He felt an unpleasant sensation when they did it. And that's why he shook his head and covered his ears with his hands.

"Giotto"

Who were they?

It would be better if they shut up.

It would be better if...

"Giotto!"

Hearing the scream that echoed directly into one of his ears, the boy couldn't help screaming and jumping up, giving a head butt to a poor G who ended up lying on the ground, rubbing his forehead.

"You have a tough head! Be more careful!"

"You were the one who yelled in my ear!"

"It's not my fault you don't use your ears!"

"I use them! That's why I woke up!"

"I was calling you for at least 10 minutes!" G complained, frowning with a childish gesture. "And you didn't wake up! Stop playing with my nerves, will you?!"

Giotto pouted, but before any response occurred to him, his eyes fixed on his surroundings. He noticed G had fallen near one bed, that it was near another, also near another, and so on until they formed a kind of row. That in front, there was another similar row. That he was lying in one, and that the whole place was so empty and almost no light that it was a bit gloomy. Not to mention, everything was infused with the scent he knew so well of drugs.

It looked like a kind of medical wing where patients rested.

"G?" Giotto doubtful called him, "Where are we? How we ended-"

His head ached as if someone had struck him with a hammer, and at that moment, he remembered: the explosions, the screams, the chaos, the blood, the fire.

The fire.

The panic returned.

"G! What-"

He couldn't finish, trying to move in a reflex act, his muscles screamed in pain. An intense pain that went through his nerves and made him fall from the bed from where he was to the floor with a loud crash.

"Giotto!" G rushed to stand next to him, his eyes shining with such concern that Giotto even felt guilty. "Don't be so careless, idiot. If you want to move, lean on me."

Giotto felt just breathing was causing him great difficulty, so he accepted his friend's offer and allowed himself to be helped. His legs were wobbling, and G practically had to carry him even to stay upright.

"Wow, this is new..." he laughed, almost painfully. "I hadn't felt like this before, not even when..."

Not even on that occasion with Salvatore and the others.

"I don't know where we are or how we got here," G answered, looking nervous for moments. "I guess someone must have seen us and brought us here, to this... What the hell is this place? Anyway, the point is that for now, we are somewhat screwed and fuck because we do not know anything, besides our name, which is somewhat useless information in this situation."

"G, the language."

"If I want to speak ill, I will speak ill."

Giotto smiled, and G returned the gesture.

The world as always was terrible, but at least they had each other.

G stared at him and seemed to want to say something, ask something; his gestures were crystal clear to Giotto, but he ended up shaking his head slightly. He would leave his curiosity for later, for his sake, and Giotto appreciated the gesture, for he was sure that he would have no answer to what G wanted to ask him, not now, not for a long time.

"What was that state? How did you disappear the fire?"

He didn't know. All he was aware of was that, whatever it was, it had left him with minimal ability to move, and not knowing what had happened.

"Outside voices are heard from time to time. I guess it's people passing by," G said, "Should we try to get out?"

"We don't lose anything, do we?"

"Apart from being more lost than we already are? Not really."

Likewise, they had to do something, didn't they?

They both walked to the door. Giotto put his hand on the knob and pulled.

Funny thing. He wasn't the only one who did that. On the other side, someone had just pulled the door to open it.

Orange eyes met blue ones, both looking at each other for a few seconds in surprise to see someone else in front of them.

And at that moment, the sky met the mist.

"Why are you-"

"Giotto! G!" interrupted a female voice from behind.

"Signora Maria?!"

That unknown child with dazzling clothes, and eyes and hair as striking as G's own, stepped aside, allowing not only Maria but also three other well-known people to pass: Paolo, Franco, and Bianca were there, looking at them like if it was some miracle.

"Oh my God," G snorted. "They're all here, why are you all here? Let us breathe; you are stealing the air!"

"Signor Piero was right; it was worth searching so hard!"

"Is Piero here too?!"

There were lots of hugs and sighs of relief. Most likely there would also be questions once the fear had been completely erased, and some reprimands after they found out how the two child ended up in such a dangerous situation. But at least, for those moments, everything was happiness. It was a strange feeling of warmth.

Giotto managed to see how that strange child watched them for a few seconds before turning around and disappearing as he entered the corridor again. His presence was no longer necessary, so he had decided to retrace his steps and notify his father that the people they were looking for had been found.

It had been a fleeting encounter, too quick and irrelevant to be truly remembered.

But it was going to be remembered. Although at that time, neither of them knew it, for better or for worse, they had met the person who would change their lives in the not too distant future.

It was the first meeting between Giotto and Daemon.

That was the past, and that was going to be the future.

Milan, Lombardy region.

His eyes stared intently at the apple hanging from the tree. So red. So juicy. Perfect for eating while lying on the grass and enjoying the morning day. The only bad thing was that he couldn't reach it, it was on a too high branch, and he didn't trust his climbing abilities to dare to try. So he just stared at it intensely, as if by the force of his gaze it might fall.

He looked and looked and looked. And they could call him crazy, but he was sure that the more he concentrated, the apple seemed to start shaking (or the branch, it didn't matter). That just gave him more determination to keep going. Maybe it would work, he just had to be focused and-

"Cozzato Simon! I'm talking to you, do me the favor of paying attention!"

The boy jumped in fright, letting out a shameful cry.

"Mom! What are you doing here?"

The woman shook her head and sighed heavily.

"Didn't you hear anything I said?"

"Eh..."

Awkward silence.

"I was telling you," she repeated with a particular non-subtle tic in one of her eyes, "That because of your father's work, we may have to move out of town. And your auntie wants to move too, what a thing to do in these times."

"I like to know other places," the boy smiled. "Where are we going?"

"They are different destinations. It seems we will be on some tour," the woman looked tired just thinking about it, unlike her son, who seemed happy as long as he could wander for a while. "Florence, Venice, and… I don't know, many more. I don't remember all of them, only that your father wants to end up in Sicily to visit an old acquaintance he had and help his sister to accomodate in her new place. It's not a good idea, if you ask me, the situation we're in-"

Cozzato ended up ignoring his mother's words to look back at the apple on the tree. After all, he knew the story, so he decided to focus on his previous problem: the apple.

The thing was, it wasn't moving now, no matter how much he looked at it. The boy bit his lip angrily and clenched his fists.

A strong gust of wind, accompanied by a small imperceptible movement under his feet.

And suddenly, the apple fell to the ground.

"What was that?" his mother asked, scared.

"Nothing," said the smiling child, taking the fruit in his hands. "Don't you know what gravity is, mom?"

Wow, I think this was the shortest chapter I've ever done. Not even the prologue was like that! But as I said in the previous one, this one was going to be of lesser extension because it was the end of the incidents that began in chapter 8.

Finally, I have introduced all members of the first generation! I'm glad I was able to do it! Similarly, I have already put on the table all the situations that will be important in future chapters.

As a small curious fact: In the 19th century boxing was practiced mainly in England. Hence my idea.