Flashback
Angel stepped out of the dimly lit apartment building, feeling a mix of frustration and resignation. Those last clients had been particularly difficult, trying to negotiate lower rates for his services and attempting to get something for nothing. It was a frustrating situation, but he needed to take whatever jobs he could find, even if they didn't pay what he deserved.
As he walked down the bustling street, Angel contemplated his situation. Freelancing in this line of work wasn't easy, and he longed for the stability of a manager who could handle bookings and negotiations for him. Or perhaps a lover who would support him both emotionally and financially, at least for a while. He knew that life was a series of compromises, and he was doing what he had to in order to survive and eventually thrive.
Angel had dreams beyond this, aspirations that went beyond the late-night rendezvous and haggling with difficult clients. He wanted a chance to pursue his passions, maybe even find a way to leave this lifestyle behind entirely. But for now, he was focused on making ends meet, navigating the tricky world of freelance work in the hopes of finding that breakthrough.
Angel's past experiences with relationships had left him wary and guarded. He had been through the cycle too many times: men who sought him out for his body, who used him as a means to satisfy their desires or gain some sort of financial advantage. These relationships were fleeting, shallow, and ultimately left him feeling used and discarded.
The few times he had tried to build something more meaningful, he faced judgment and ridicule. People who claimed to care for him turned on him, accusing him of being promiscuous, degrading him for his career, and even turning the tables to accuse him of humiliating them. It was a painful and lonely cycle, one that seemed to reinforce the walls he had built around himself.
His journey into the sex trade had been an escape from a violent past, a way to break free from the clutches of a family that now resided in Hell. He found himself working in unconventional spaces, from burlesque dance halls to modeling gigs. The environment was far from what most would consider normal, but it provided a sense of autonomy, a way to make a living on his own terms.
Angel's life in Hell was a complex balancing act, where survival required him to adapt to the ever-changing trends and dynamics of the underworld. His past experience with the Mafia had taught him a few tricks that he now applied to his current profession, finding ways to leverage his skills to his advantage while minimizing the risks.
In his line of work, gaining an extra edge was crucial, and he had developed a keen understanding of human behavior and the vulnerabilities of his clients. He knew how to take advantage of their inebriated states to discreetly extract a bit more money from their wallets. It was a small act of retribution for the haggling and mistreatment he often faced.
Playing the role of an escort with a "lukewarm intelligence level" was another tactic Angel had mastered. By appearing less attentive and interested than he actually was, he created an environment where his clients felt comfortable sharing information they otherwise wouldn't. This opened up opportunities for him to gather valuable insights, which he could later monetize or use to his advantage.
However, Angel was cautious about how often he used these tactics. Overuse could lead to trouble, attracting attention or causing his actions to be traced back to him. He knew that maintaining a delicate balance was essential, ensuring that he continued to provide his services without drawing too much suspicion or ire.
As he navigated the treacherous waters of Hell's underworld, Angel relied on his resourcefulness and adaptability. He hoped that one day he could find a more sustainable path, one that didn't require such high-stakes manipulation and careful maneuvering. Until then, he did what he had to do to survive in a world where every advantage mattered.
In the shadowy embrace of the Abandoned Hope suspension bridge, Angel found solace in the makeshift den he had established beneath its metal framework. As he ventured down the worn path to the chain link fence, his senses remained alert, ever cautious of his surroundings. The underbelly of the bridge offered a haven of anonymity, and he was determined to keep it that way.
A carefully concealed opening in the fence provided Angel with entry to his hidden lair. He knew the importance of discretion, both to avoid unwanted attention from authorities and to safeguard his territory from other opportunistic demons. He had created a world within the city's shadows, a space where he could retreat and be himself without the prying eyes of judgment.
Ensuring that no potential threats lingered, Angel moved with practiced ease down the slope to the edge of the Sanguine Channel, its blood-red waters adding an eerie ambience to his hidden sanctuary. The worn quilt he had hung acted as both a shield from the elements and a barrier against prying eyes.
Angel's den under the bridge, though offering a sense of privacy and shelter, was far from comfortable. As he took in the surroundings, he was met with the harsh reality of his living conditions. The small fire circle, the rock that served as a makeshift table, and the old mattress that had seen better days were all testaments to the challenges he faced every day.
Fatigue weighed heavily on him, a reminder of the unforgiving nature of his life. He knew he needed sustenance, but at this moment, the task of finding food seemed daunting. Instead, he settled down on the old, less-than-inviting, urine-scented mattress, his body weary from the night's endeavors.
As he pulled off his top, a small, unsettling encounter reminded him of the less-than-sanitary environment he inhabited. Discovering what he believed to be a flea in his fur, he sighed as he picked it out and flicked it in the direction of the water that flowed underneath the bridge. Knowing that fleas, lice, and mites were a common issue in the conditions he lived in. The thought of having to comb through his fur to rid himself of these pests was an additional burden he'd have to tackle in the coming daylight hours.
Angel considered his options. He needed to address the pest issue soon, and he weighed the possibilities of finding a bathhouse or seeking an abandoned tenement building that still had running water. Both had their advantages, but he needed to assess his financial situation first. The memories of the vinegar baths from his childhood flashed through his mind, a mix of nostalgia and practicality. He knew he'd have to take care of this issue promptly, not just for his comfort but to make sure he wasn't rejected by potential clients.
Laying on his makeshift mattress, his hand reached under the ratty pillow and clutched the small metal shive he kept for his protection. He had been assaulted in one of the places he had taken refuge a year prior. He would sooner be erased than to let that happen again. He hadn't closed his eyes for long when his senses went on high alert. The scraping sound of the plywood board being moved and the telltale jangle of the chain link fence being disturbed signaled that someone was entering his hidden sanctuary. He remained still, not wanting to reveal his presence unless he absolutely had to.
The approaching steps down the slope were cautious, but the intruder couldn't conceal a brief utterance of disgust at the smell of the area. Angel strained to identify the voice, a sense of familiarity tugging at his memory, but he couldn't quite place it. He held his breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
The quilt curtain, his meager protection against prying eyes, was abruptly pulled aside, allowing the city's light to filter into the space beneath the bridge. Angel's eyes adjusted to the sudden illumination, revealing the figure before him. He didn't recognize this intruder, but he couldn't shake a feeling of familiarity.
This person had to be someone he knew from his past, someone who had crossed paths with him in the city. A former client, or maybe someone who tried to pick him up at a bar. Whoever they were, their presence in this place was unexpected, and Angel's guard remained up. He didn't know the intentions behind this visit, and he couldn't afford to be caught off guard, especially not in this vulnerable state.
Angel's grip on the shive tightened as he silently assessed the situation. He waited, watching for any signs of hostility or danger, ready to protect his space and himself if necessary.
Heart racing, Angel kept one eye cracked open as he observed the figure standing in the entryway of his den. The intruder was about half Angel's height at best, but still had a determined presence that radiated an air of potential danger. From what he could see the being was a spider demon. So a demon similar to him, but still a creature that carried its own set of unique abilities and characteristics as a sinner. The person's readiness for confrontation was evident, and Angel remained motionless, maintaining the facade of sleep.
The moments that followed seemed to stretch on, the tension in the air palpable. He held his breath as he listened to the slow, deliberate footsteps approaching him. It was a calculated risk, but he hoped that his passive response might dissuade the intruder, leading them to believe that this was not a situation worth pursuing further.
The spider demon drew nearer, and Angel could sense the person's presence just a few feet away. The silence was deafening, interrupted only by the sounds of their breathing and the subtle echoes, and bustling noise of the surrounding city. He was ready to react at a moment's notice, the small metal shive still firmly within his grasp.
The sudden feral growl from Angel, followed by his swift and aggressive response, took the intruder by surprise. The spider demon, now faced with a determined and armed opponent, was met with a flurry of motion as Angel wielded his makeshift shiv with intent, showing that he wasn't going to be an easy target.
The handmade knife cut through the air, not striking with deadly precision but clearly conveying the message that Angel was ready to defend himself. The intruder had likely expected an easy takeover of this hidden space, but Angel's resistance shattered that assumption. The element of surprise now worked in his favor.
The encounter was swift, and Angel's actions demonstrated his readiness to protect his territory and his own well-being. It was a battle of wills, a confrontation of survival instincts in the underbelly of Hell.
Angel's attempt to force the unknown figure towards the cliffside took an unexpected turn as the person managed to evade his attack, creating a chaotic moment that led to Angel's own loss of balance. The shiv he had held slipped from his hand as he fought to regain his footing, but it was too late. He was teetering dangerously close to the edge of the cliff, his attempt to pivot after the fleeing figure putting him in a perilous situation.
Just as Angel's instincts kicked in, and he grasped for anything to prevent himself from going over the edge, two pairs of hands intervened, grabbing hold of his limbs and throwing him backwards. He landed hard on the ground, his senses reeling from the abrupt shift in momentum. Before he could react, the figure was on him, using their additional sets of arms to pin down his own.
Angel's struggle was met with overpowering force, the figure's primary hands gripping his face with an unyielding hold. He was forced to look directly into the face of his captor.
"Guardami, Anthony…" (Look at me, Anthony) The words echoed in the air, spoken in Italian by the unknown spider demon. The harsh rasp of his voice carried a hint of life's wear and tear, a roughness that suggested a history marked by indulgence or perhaps even violence, both common attributes among the denizens of Hell."Ricorda… (Remember...)" The command was filled with implications, memories or experiences shared between them, hidden beneath layers of time and the murky depths of the underworld.
Despite Angel's initial reaction of growling and thrashing, the impact of the words began to seep into his consciousness. They stirred something within him, a recognition that transcended the present moment. The connection between the words, the voice, and the figure crouched over him started to take shape in his mind, like pieces of a puzzle falling into place.
The tension in the air persisted, the weight of the demon on top of him a constant reminder of the physical struggle they were engaged in. But beneath the surface, Angel's thoughts churned, trying to decipher the meaning of this encounter. His struggles ceased as he began to mentally realize who this person's identity was.
"Fra...Fratello? (Bra…Brother)" Angel's voice quivered with a mixture of disbelief, longing, and uncertainty. The word slipped from his lips, carrying with it a sense of recognition, a connection that reached deep into the past.
As the initial rush of adrenaline began to ebb, Angel's breathing steadied, allowing him to focus on the face above him, illuminated by the dim light filtering through the quilt curtain. The eight hard red eyes that stared down at him seemed to hold a thousand stories, a testament to the tumultuous journey both of them had undertaken in the underworld.
The weight of this revelation hung in the air, creating an unspoken bridge between the two beings. Angel's mind raced, trying to make sense of the encounter, to understand how he had come face to face with his brother in this hidden space.
"Sì, Fratellino… (Yes, little brother…)" The words held a sense of both familiarity and reassurance as Angel's older brother, the smaller spider demon, spoke to him in Italian. The release from his earlier grip allowed Angel to gradually sit up, his weariness palpable after the physical and emotional intensity of the encounter.
His brother's guidance, both in words and actions, was unexpected yet oddly comforting. Angel felt the exhaustion seeping into his bones, and he found himself unable to muster any resistance as his brother led him out from under the bridge. "Riposati, mi prenderò cura di te (Rest yourself, I'll take care of you)." The notion of being taken care of, even in this harsh and unforgiving environment, brought a fleeting sense of relief. Angel was tired—tired of the constant struggles, tired of the solitude, and tired of the relentless challenges that life in Hell threw at him. The prospect of someone looking out for him, especially his own flesh and blood, offered a glimmer of hope in a world that often felt devoid of it.
As they moved away from the hidden den beneath the bridge, the white furred spider didn't resist. He allowed his brother to take the lead, trusting in this unexpected reunion, at least for the moment. Angel found himself surrendering to the need for rest.
"Enzo," the name resonated in Angel's mind as he drifted into an exhausted slumber.
Angel's eyes slowly fluttered open, revealing an unfamiliar room that left him disoriented. He scanned the surroundings, attempting to piece together the puzzle of his location. The last recollection he had was Charlie summoning the doctor she wanted to consult about him. The locust demon had conducted some initial examinations, but before he could comprehend the situation, a sensation of impending darkness swept over him. Strangely, he felt a faint awareness of something unfolding, almost as if a current of weakness washed over him. The doctor seemed to perceive the situation too, remaining composed as he calmly instructed Angel to recline. And then, as if a curtain had been drawn, everything faded to black.
As he glanced out of the window, his gaze settled on a cabin across the serene lake. This indicated that he had been moved here after losing consciousness, reaffirming that he was still within the confines of the Morningstar Private estate. However, this realization did little to ease his mind. His attention shifted to a metal-framed cot positioned on the opposite side of the room, and there, resting on it, was the unmistakable figure with white hair. Could it be that Vaggie had chosen to stay by his side through the night? Cherri, with her protective nature, might have insisted on such care, and Charlie, too, could have wanted to remain close. But Vaggie, of all people? Her reservations about him had always been evident, and trust was a precious commodity from her, which he hadn't exactly earned. The female moth demon continued to sleep, unaware that he had awoken, a display of vulnerability that tugged at his conflicted feelings.
Although it might not have been the wisest course of action, Angel decided to get up and search for a way out of the building. The idea of being confined in a hospital-like room was unbearable, a reminder of his earthly days he'd rather not endure in Hell. He strolled through the silent corridors until he stumbled upon a door leading to an outdoor deck. As he stepped outside, his stomach protested its emptiness, reminding him that he hadn't eaten much the day before. However, at this moment, he craved a cigarette more than food to soothe his frayed nerves.
Instinctively, he reached for the pocket where he typically kept his cigarettes, only to realize that he was still in his night clothes. The realization struck him like a cruel joke, and he knew he'd left his precious cigarettes and lighter back at the cabin. The frustration mixed with his discomfort, creating a sour cocktail of emotions. He leaned against the deck railing, taking in the surroundings while battling the urge to curse in emotional frustration.
"Ah..." The unexpected voice of Dr. Abaddon caused Angel to jump in surprise. "Sorry... I didn't mean to startle you. I just noticed you are awake earlier than expected," the Locust demon said, his tone reassuring. Angel remained silent, still wary of the other demon's intentions. His attention was piqued, however, when he heard the telltale sound of a lighter igniting, accompanied by the familiar scent of tobacco wafting through the air. Abaddon took a drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke within his lungs for a few moments before exhaling.
"I gather you want one of these," Abaddon offered, shaking another cigarette out of the pack. The spider demon hesitated briefly, his need for the calming effect of nicotine ultimately overcoming his reservations. He accepted the proffered stick of tobacco and the means to light it, gratitude evident on his face as he took a moment to light the cigarette. The small gesture provided a surprising sense of camaraderie in this unusual situation.
"Charlotte was quite worried about you," Abaddon stated after a moment of the two demons quietly smoking. Angel took a drag from his cigarette, allowing a moment of contemplative silence to pass before he responded.
"Yeah, she's got a heart o' gold, even if it sometimes steers her toward them iffy choices, ya know?" Angel replied, the hint of a wry smile touching his lips. Despite his complex relationship with Charlie, he couldn't deny her genuine concern for those around her, especially for him, a demon with a past as murky as the depths of Hell itself.
Abaddon nodded in understanding, exhaling a plume of smoke as he leaned against the railing. The morning seemed to hold a certain stillness, as if the world around them was holding its breath. Angel appreciated this moment of respite, even if it was brief. It was moments like these that reminded him of the nuanced nature of existence in Hell, where even demons, with all their flaws and dark inclinations, found common ground in unexpected ways.
"I reckon I shouldn't be too taken aback?" The Spider responded, his tone carrying a mixture of empathy and understanding. He took another drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing briefly in the dim light before fading into a faint red.
"Yes," Abaddon admitted, his tone reflecting a deeper understanding. "It's one of the ways she shows she cares. Charlotte has got this genuine desire to make a difference, to be a force for good in this chaotic realm. Sometimes that means making choices that others might question, but it comes from a place of compassion, and you can't deny the sincerity of it."
"You think this hotel she's cookin' up stands a chance?" Angel asked, his question carrying a mix of genuine curiosity and a hint of uncertainty. He didn't mean it to be accusatory; he simply wanted an outside perspective on the viability of Charlie's ambitious project. Abaddon seemed like someone who might be familiar enough with Charlie to offer a more informed opinion about who she was and what she aimed to achieve.
Abaddon took a moment to consider the question, a contemplative expression on his face. The night air carried a sense of anticipation as he weighed his words carefully before responding. "Well, it's a tall order, no doubt about that. Redeeming demons sinners so they can be accepted by Heaven is a formidable challenge, especially in a place like Hell where chaos and darkness thrive. But," he paused, taking another drag from his cigarette, "I've seen her determination and the genuine goodness that she carries within. She believes in it and sometimes that kind of belief can move mountains, even places such as here."
Angel listened attentively, taking in Abaddon's words. He appreciated the honesty and the deeper insight into Charlie's character. It was a reminder that, despite the odds, sometimes a single soul with a strong vision could make an impact, even in the darkest of realms.
"I find the idea of her hotel to be questionable," Dr. Abaddon admitted after a momentary pause, his honesty shining through. "Though to give her viewpoint some credence, it is unnecessary and, in some ways, unusual for Heaven to sanction the slaughter of demons just to keep the population down. It is almost as though God is not in his Heaven any longer."
"There you are," the female moth demon said, her voice a mix of relief and irritation. Her eyes locked onto Angel, a myriad of emotions flickering across her features. It was clear she had been searching for him, and her concern was evident, but she also seemed ready to express her annoyance at his sudden disappearance.
Angel blinked, momentarily taken aback by Vaggie's sudden arrival and her display of worry. He didn't often find himself on the receiving end of such genuine concern, especially from someone like Vaggie. He took a moment to gather his thoughts before responding, "Hey, Vag's, just needed a little change of scenery. Hospital rooms ain't exactly my top pick for chillin', you know?"
"It's alright, Vagatha," Abaddon interjected, expertly quelling any potential tirades. He was well aware of the princess's chosen consort's volatile temper, but the setting demanded a level of decorum. "I noticed Angel had woken up, so I thought I'd have a brief conversation with him before I returned to my duties. Speaking of which, I should head back to my office. There's a chef on the estate who can prepare breakfast for you, Angel, and a menu in your room whenever you're ready. Once you've eaten, we can proceed with another dose of benzodiazepine, as prescribed."
"You've reached the Happy Hotel," Husk grumbled over the phone, sticking to the script as instructed. "Your source for your redemption needs. How may we be of service?"
Charlie's face fell in disappointment as she heard the speech she had carefully composed for Husk to recite to potential callers. The words still came across as forced and unnatural. She couldn't help but think back to that laughably bad commercial released by the "Immediate Murder Professionals," which, despite its ridiculousness, had a strangely earnest quality that seemed to resonate more with the audience.
"Hello," Charlie responded. "Husk…"
"Oh…" Husk said, caught off guard by Charlie's unexpected call. His tone shifted, displaying a softer side, as he hadn't anticipated hearing from her. "How's your trip going?"
"Not so well," Charlie answered honestly, her voice tinged with a sense of concern. She glanced out the window, her gaze landing on the building across the lake where the clinic and kitchens were stationed. She understood Vaggie's reasons for being with Angel, but she consciously wished her girlfriend was here with her for moral support.
Despite having some breakthroughs with Cherri's attitude problems, culminating in the two of them enjoying what Cherri referred to as "Chocolate Homicide Sundaes" as they talked about Cherri's experiences in Hell, Charlie still felt a bit out of place without Vaggie by her side. Even when they went to bed, she found herself reaching out to the empty space where Vaggie should have been.
"How is the hotel?" she asked, eager for some news from home. Despite the challenges, she believed in the Happy Hotel's mission and wanted to know how things were progressing in her absence.
"It's alright," Husk reassured, "I've noticed Valentino's limo driving past a few times, checking to see if you guys were truly gone. We've even had people from the News Studio inquiring about the details of Angel's so-called retirement. I suspect we might encounter some protesters eager to storm the place. Of course, Alastor has his unique methods for handling such situations."
"Thank you for sharing that," Charlie replied. "We've experienced some occurrences up here too. It's hard for me to describe, but considering your familiarity with the time when Angel and Alastor were alive, I thought you might be able to provide some help."
"Uh," Husk responded, clearly not accustomed to being sought out for insight or assistance. His usual routine involved indulging in booze and gambling, with occasional interventions from Alastor. "I'm not sure how much help I can be, Princess."
"Charlie," the blond girl emphasized, "please, just call me Charlie."
"Alright," Husk replied, shifting his tone to a more engaged one. "So, what kind of things are happening?"
"The night Angel didn't return from the studio," Charlie explained, "Alastor mentioned that the hard drugs he turned to were meant to help him cope with his issues."
"Yeah," Husk responded, nodding. "You're right. Back in the day, Legs was on some hard stuff was used as medication way back when the kid was still around. Angel Dust, or PCP rather, wasn't really a recreational drug before the 1960s. It was originally intended to be an anesthetic."
"An... anesthetic?" Charlie questioned, clearly trying to make sense of the information.
"Yeah, that's the stuff they give you before surgery," Husk clarified. "Although it wasn't available until years after the kid was gone. If Angel was using anything before he died, I doubt it was the same stuff he named himself after. Regardless, it's not the kind of drug people turn to for fun. It's the kind of stuff they use when they want to block something out."
"I understand," Charlie said, concern evident in his voice. "Angel experienced withdrawal last night, but he's currently receiving care at the staffed clinic on the estate. It seems he's been using drugs to cope with the effects of what Valentino, and possibly others, have been subjecting him to. Is there any important information I should know?"
"Well, uh…" Husk said, his thoughts racing. "It's crucial to determine when he began using drugs in general. If he only started using in Hell, that's one thing. However, if he was already using before his death, that's an entirely different matter with its own implications."
"What do you mean?" Charlie asked, her apprehension evident as she took a seat on the bed. She had a sinking feeling that the forthcoming information might not be something she wanted to hear.
"Well, you are aware Leg's is gay, right?" Husk asked.
"Of course," Charlie affirmed.
"In the time he is from," Husk sighed, "being gay was seen as a mental illness."
"Wait…what?" Charlie asked in horror, her eyes shifting from the windows of the cabin to the building across the lake that housed the clinic and estate kitchens.
"Yeah," Husk said somberly. "It wasn't much better around the time I fell into Hell, and I'm sure that Cherri girl has other experiences she could tell you about. But in the early to mid-1900s, being homosexual was seen as a crime that could get you arrested or killed. At best, if it was known he was gay, the Spider would have been subjected to discrimination and persecution, at worst, subjected to conversion therapy."
"What's…," Charlie asked, feeling uncomfortable. "What's conversion therapy?"
"Essentially," Husk explained, pausing to find the right words. "It's a bunch of misguided methods aimed at trying to change individuals who identify as part of the LGBT spectrum to conform to what were seen as societal norms. I can't go into all the details, but I can tell you it often did more harm than good."
Charlie's face paled at this news. In Hell, various relationships were embraced as normal - from hetero to same-sex, to casual, to polyamorous. She had never questioned this or wondered if such things were as freely accepted in the Living World or Heaven.
"Could this have contributed to Angel's drug use?" Charlie asked, her concern deepening.
"Possibly," Husk sighed. "Though coming from a Mafia family wouldn't have helped matters either."
"About that," Charlie said, curiosity evident in her tone. "What can you tell me about the Mafia?"
"Not much," Husk said, reflecting on his experiences. "I've encountered individuals and associations from various Mob groups. What I can tell you is that they aren't always the gun-toting monsters you see in movies. Sure, there were a few complete psychopaths, but a lot of them were seemingly respectable businessmen who wanted to avoid trouble. Still, they were also not people you'd want to cross. My advice would be to tread lightly when it comes to that subject, not a topic to ask too many questions about."
"Thank you for sharing all of this," Charlie said appreciatively.
"You're welcome," Husk replied. "Look, could you tell Angel that Al, Niffty, and I… we'll be wishing him a smooth recovery. Drug withdrawal is nasty business, and he'll need all the support he can get."
"So how are you feeling?" Vaggie asked, concern in her voice after Angel had returned to his room. The Spider made no response as he half-heartedly browsed the breakfast menu. He wasn't in the mood to deal with Vaggie's potential scolding for not telling them about his drug use behind their backs, especially considering it didn't align well with their collective efforts. He already felt terrible as it is.
Realizing she wasn't going to get a response, Vaggie sighed and sat down on her borrowed cot, feeling frustrated. In the past, Angel acting like she didn't exist might have seemed like an improvement compared to his crude comments at her expense. But now, she just wished he would talk to her or acknowledge her presence, even if it was just to express his anger. The silence between them felt heavy and strained, and she hoped they could find a way to bridge the gap.
"I really hope you're genuinely committed to going clean," Vaggie remarked with a mix of concern and frustration. "Charlie can't keep making excuses for you. If you're going to turn to drugs to solve your problems or act out in ways that could undermine our project, it's going to be hard to convince others that it's worth anyone's time. We're all here trying to make a difference, but we need you to be on board too."
"So, what's the deal when this little break is done?" Angel asked, his tone heavy with uncertainty. He had put the menu aside and lay back against the pillows of the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, as if shielding himself from the impending realities.
"That's something Charlie and I are discussing," Vaggie said with a serious tone. "According to the news, there have been reports suggesting you've retired from the porn business. Valentino's been spinning it as if you're just dealing with creative differences and taking time to reevaluate your career. But the studio's been concocting stories, insinuating that Charlie must be manipulating or coercing you in some way."
"Vox's doing," Angel sighed, his weariness evident. "Maybe it's Velvette's sway. It's crystal clear we can't camp out here forever, and once we're back in Pentagram, Val's gonna pull out all the stops to reel me in, no matter what Charlie says." He paused, his frustration palpable. "I'm caught between a brick wall and a tough spot, and I ain't got a clue on how to handle it."
"None of us want you to go back to him," Vaggie replied with determination. "I don't know exactly what we can do, but there must be a way to handle this." Her words carried a sense of unity and resolve, highlighting their determination to face whatever challenges lay ahead.
"That just ain't gonna fly."Angel said with a heavy sigh, rolling over onto his side. "Unless you dames are schemin' to keep me holed up in the hotel 'til I can work some sort of miracle redemption."His tone was marked by a sense of resignation, as if he felt trapped in an impossible situation.
"Angel," Vaggie whispered, her concern growing as she observed him. She had never seen him in such a vulnerable state before. Normally, Charlie was the one who managed to catch those fleeting glimpses from behind the mask he used to shield himself. But this…this felt like an entirely different Angel Dust. It was as if she was seeing a side of him that he never showed anyone, a raw and unfiltered version of himself. Was this the real Angel, hidden beneath the façade of glamor and makeup, or was this an Angel Dust shaped by the turmoil of withdrawal? The uncertainty weighed heavily on her as she tried to figure out how to help him through this difficult time.
"It's as clear as day that even if redemption were in the cards," Angel said with a tone of defeat. "It's never been my deal. You were spot on... I've just been a drain on everyone's time." His words were heavy, reflecting the self-doubt and harsh judgments he was placing on himself, perhaps amplified by the struggles he was currently facing.
"I…" Vaggie began, but then she closed her eyes, a sense of sadness washing over her. She remembered the day when Charlie had first propositioned Angel to become part of the hotel. From the moment she had met him, she had been quick to judge him as unsuitable for their mission. If she had known then what she knew now, would she have seen things differently? "I never should have said that... I'm sorry."
Whatever Angel had been expecting, it wasn't an apology. He didn't say anything, but the way he turned his head towards her, with the darker of his mismatched eyes regarding her, seemed as if he was trying to assess her words, almost as if he was searching for any hidden ulterior motive or insincerity. The air was heavy with a mixture of emotions, vulnerability, and the weight of past judgments.
"I've never told anyone this…" Vaggie said, her voice filled with discomfort as she began to share a painful part of her past, a story that she hadn't shared before but felt it was time for someone to hear. "But I am actually a victim. I'm not comparing what I've gone through to everything you've experienced, but I do understand what it means to be used as someone's plaything and how humiliating that feels."
She paused for a moment, the weight of the memory evident in her voice, before continuing. "You once noted that I didn't particularly like or trust men, and at the time, I took it as something you wanted to tease me about. When I had been alive, I lived a happy and peaceful life with my parents, my older brother, and baby sister. We had a good community around us, but we lived on a rural road some distance from town. So, if anything happened, we were five miles away from the nearest police."
Vaggie's words carried a mixture of vulnerability and determination as she recounted the tragic night that changed her life. "One night, about a week after I had turned fifteen, I had been home with my family. Suddenly, a small group of men broke into our house. They were a group of escaped convicts who had managed to break out of jail by killing a couple of guards and taking their weapons. While they were on the run, they caught sight of our house and thought whoever was there could be used as a hostage to keep the police at bay. They didn't allow any of us to grab anything as we were led out of the house, both at gun and knife point."
She took a deep breath, continuing with the harrowing details. "My father pleaded with the prisoners to let my mother, sister, and I go. My brother and I would do whatever they asked. The men ignored him, until one of them got fed up and told him that if he didn't stop asking, my brother and father would be digging our graves. My younger sister was only a small child, and she was scared over who these men were and what they wanted to do with us. I was also concerned, but I made an effort to let her know we would be okay."
Vaggie's voice wavered slightly as she described the horrific events that followed. "Once we came to their camp, the leading convict looked each of us over, though his eyes remained a little too long on me. He then said he had too many hostages, that the men and the child were useless to him, but the women would warm his bedrolls. Without thought, my father, brother, and sister were shot dead before my eyes. My mother flew into a hysterical rage at the sight of her husband and two of her children murdered. She attempted to attack one of our captors, only for him to strangle her until she went limp and lifeless. Then they…"
Vaggie's breath hitched at the memory of being punched in the face to knock her flat onto the ground. One of the vile beasts who dared to call himself a man grabbing hold of her hair and telling her that she should behave herself or she would get what her family got. And then he was on her, large meaty hands forcibly holding her down as she struggled to get away from them. The fabric of her top was torn open to exposing her chest and the pain as she felt her body being savagely violated. After he was done the beast disguised as a man stood up, tucked himself back into his pants and then mockingly thanked her for having him be her first time. Soon after another man took his place, and then another after him. She had stopped putting up a fight by the time the fourth man took his turn, all of them laughing and jeering about how she had become their whore and she would earn her living working for them. The only thing she could focus on were the deceased bodies of her family that lay around her. In her shock and humiliation over everything that was being done, she found she didn't grieve for her father or brother. Instead, she was angry with them for being dead when she wanted them to protect her…when she needed them to stop what was happening to her. She despised the people who ravaged her body for believing it was their given right as men to punish and humiliate her for the crime of being born a female. And the men of her neighboring community for being able to peacefully sleep in their beds with their families, while she was orphaned and alone as she was being molested by a group of monsters. If this was what it meant to be a man, then she didn't want to have anything to do with them...ever.
"They hurt me," Vaggie said, her voice filled with a mix of pain and vulnerability. Angel had rolled over on the hospital bed so he was laying on his stomach, attentively watching her. He remained quiet, giving no indication that he wanted to disrupt or make light of what she was sharing. The weight of her words hung in the air, creating a moment of connection between them, marked by understanding and empathy.
"When they were finally done with me," Vaggie continued. "I was forced to dig a grave for my family members. I was forced to do this completely nude. Their excuse was so they could make sure I couldn't conceal any weapons or anything, but I believe it was only they could humiliate me more as they forced me to use my bare hands to dig at the dirt and create a resting place for my parents and siblings. During the few times I could hear people calling out for me and my family members as they searched for us, the men holding me hostage told me that I called out or screamed they would cut out my tongue. Over the next several years, I was used by these men over and over again. I was given some old ratty clothing to wear as we were forced to move from campground to campground and was forced to pretend that I was the niece of some of the men. All the while they would keep me close to be sure I didn't talk to anyone or run off to find help. They sold me to others to use as they liked if we stopped with areas that had other people. When we were in camp, they would make sure I understood that they could kill me whenever they wanted, I was nothing to them, I was just there to be insurance. Eventually when I was around my twenties, I decided to formulate an escape, while we were looking through a junk yard for scrap we can use or sell, I came across a knife. It was rusty and corroded, but it would do what I needed. I immediately stashed it in a pocket of my pants and managed to squirrel it away in my bedding. Then that night, when one of my captors came to screw me, I attacked them. I managed to stab two of the men in self-defense and slashed out at a third before I was overpowered, then all I knew was darkness before I woke up in Hell."
"That does kinda add up," Angel acknowledged, processing Vaggie's past as he shifted to a sitting position. "I kinda had a hunch there was a backstory to your mistrust of guys, and I don't blame you one bit. Even though the folks who did you wrong weren't real men, those creeps weren't even fit to be called human, they were just beasts. I can relate, 'cause I've been through something similar."
He continued, opening up about his own struggles. "I ain't sure how much acceptance there was for being gay or bi back in your day, but lemme tell ya, in my time it was a real tough road. I've tried the whole beard act a couple of times, and I gotta admit, it never sat right with me. I'm cool with the gals, enjoy their company and all. But I didn't wanna drag some dame into a phony deal. Even if she knew the score, it'd end up with her resentin' me, 'cause all we'd be is roomies playin' house. It was tough enough hidin' who I was, didn't need to drag someone else into that mess too."
Angel's words carried a sense of shared understanding, revealing the complexities of his own struggles with identity and the choices he had made to protect both himself and others from the consequences of societal prejudices.
"So how did you keep people from knowing you were gay?" Vaggie asked, curious about how Angel had navigated the challenges of concealing his true self. She, too, had lived in a time when loving a person of the same gender could be frowned upon, being transgender was even more of a sensitive topic when she had been alive and even that was grudgingly becoming more accepted around the time she had passed away. The world was changing, but not uniformly across all aspects of identity.
"It wasn't really a secret… at least not within the family," Angel replied, his voice revealing the weight of his experiences as he drew his knees to his chest. He had noticed Charlie and Cherri's arrival in the room, but he hadn't interrupted Vaggie to inform her. The female moth hadn't noticed the arrival of their other two companions, and if he stopped to let her know, he couldn't continue sharing what he was about to say.
"Pops always suspected that there was something off about me," Angel continued. "He'd do things to 'correct' it or what he considered correcting. For instance, one of the guys who worked for the family managed a prostitution racket. When I was sixteen, Pops had me do some jobs under him while I was proving myself to the family; told me it would 'man me up'. After a couple of months of working for this guy, the creep serving as my 'Padrone' requested that I come to his office. He then told me he knew from the moment he saw me that I was gay, and he had contacts with the other families. So if I didn't want to be outed, I'd have to 'buy' his silence."
Vaggie listened intently, feeling a mixture of empathy and anger for what Angel had gone through. "At that time, I hadn't slept with anyone, and sure as hell wasn't going to have my first time with some creepy asshole," Angel continued. "So, I struggled to get away from him, it was during this that I managed to grab hold of a letter opener. Often, one of the ways to prove yourself to a crime family is to kill someone as part of a job; this is referred to as 'making your bones'. That event was where I made mine."
The room held a heavy silence, filled with the weight of Angel's painful history and the realization of what he had endured to survive and protect his identity.
Vaggie was speechless at this, Angel hadn't been much older than she had been when she had been molested. But he had managed to kill the person trying to rape him while she hadn't…she hadn't considered that was even possible or checked to see if there was anything she could have used as a weapon. Having finished his story, the Spider had seemingly turned his attention towards her, or rather towards something over her shoulder. Looking behind her, Vaggie saw Charlie and Cherri standing in the doorway. Cherri remained neutral like she had heard of or seen Angel in similar situations before, Charlie was holding a hand to her mouth as though not sure how to react at this given moment.
Vaggie asked, a hint of surprise in her voice, "When did you two get here?" She couldn't help but wonder how she had missed the arrival of the other two demon females. It was unusual for her to be caught off guard like this, especially considering the gravity of the conversation they had just walked into.
Cherri responded nonchalantly with a shrug, "Oh, around the time Angie was explaining he didn't want to put a girl into a fake relationship with him." Angel, still affected by the weight of his past, rested his head on his drawn-up knees, his gaze fixated on the tranquil lake before them. In the distance, Hell Crows flew in scattered groups, perhaps squabbling over the remnants of a recent kill. The painful memories of the day he had taken Mario Valvano's life flooded Angel's mind, causing him to bite his lip in a desperate attempt to hold back tears.
1929
"Ah, Anthony," the older man greeted as he entered the dimly lit room. The glow of a single lamp cast long shadows across the worn furniture and ornate rugs that adorned the space. The walls, covered in deep red wallpaper, seemed to absorb what little light there was, creating an atmosphere of secrecy and intrigue. "Hey, close that door, will ya? I gotta have a heart-to-heart with ya."
Anthony nodded, his fedora casting a shadow over his eyes as he turned to obey his Padrone's request. The heavy wooden door creaked as it swung shut, and with a deliberate click, he turned the key in the lock. The audible snick of the bolt sliding home seemed to reverberate through the room, sealing them in a cocoon of confidentiality.
He turned back to face Valvano, his face schooled into an expression of respectful attentiveness. The Padrone was an imposing figure, his grizzled features etched with lines that spoke of both wisdom and ruthless experience. His well-tailored suit bespoke of authority, the sharp creases a testament to the careful attention he paid to every detail.
Anthony cleared his throat, his nerves manifesting in the slight quiver of his hand as he adjusted his tie. Valvano's piercing gaze seemed to bore into his very soul, and the weight of the silence hung heavy in the air. It was moments like these that defined one's fate in this world, and Anthony knew it well.
He couldn't shake the unease that hung in the air. Turning back to face the desk, he noticed that Valvano was eyeing him in an uncomfortably scrutinizing manner. The lamplight cast sharp angles on the older man's face, emphasizing the deep lines etched into his skin by years of both triumph and tribulation.
"Sit down, Anthony," Valvano gestured to a wooden chair placed in front of the imposing mahogany desk. The wood creaked slightly as Anthony settled into the seat, his back straight and his hands resting on his lap. The Padrone's office had an air of authority and history, with framed photographs of men in suits and various artifacts that spoke of a life lived at the intersection of power and danger.
Mario Valvano, a solidly built Sicilian in his mid-sixties, sported a prominent frame, with deep brown eyes that carried sagging bags beneath them. His face, with its prominent jowls, evoked the rugged demeanor of a bulldog. His hair, a mixture of salt and pepper, retreated from his scalp as if each strand couldn't wait for its eventual demise.
The lines etched into his weathered skin told stories of countless battles, both in the streets and within the confines of his own empire. His hands, adorned with heavy gold rings, bore scars that hinted at a past filled with confrontations and hard-earned victories. Yet, despite the harshness of his appearance, there was a certain charisma that radiated from him, a magnetic pull that commanded attention and respect.
As he sat behind the imposing mahogany desk in his dimly lit office, the lamplight played on the angles and shadows of his face, casting his features into sharp relief. The air around him seemed to crackle with a mixture of authority and the weight of years gone by.
Valvano's presence filled the room, his very aura a testament to the power he held over his domain. And as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his fingers forming a steeple under his chin, he exuded a sense of both caution and authority that left no doubt in Anthony's mind about the gravity of the situation at hand.
"Ya needin' somethin' from me?" The younger man inquired, striving to maintain a calm demeanor. It had been more than four grueling months since Molly and Enzo had rescued him from that mental hospital. He hadn't yet recovered from the repeated corrective treatments that were inflicted upon him. The memories haunted him: the nauseating effects induced by drugs while he was subjected to photos of male nudes, the electroshock therapy that left him lying on his room's bed, his mind drifting aimlessly during the convulsive contractions that gripped his body, and the weeks lost to the haze of insulin shock therapy-induced comas, only to wake up with images of nude and provocatively suggestive women thrust in front of him. Being in a situation that felt like an interrogation was a painful trigger, stirring up PTSD from those traumatic experiences he had endured.
Anthony's voice was steady, though there was an underlying tension in his words. He had fought hard to regain his sense of self after the ordeal he had been through. The echoes of the treatments and the invasive methods used against him lingered like ghosts in the back of his mind, an ever-present reminder of his vulnerability.
Valvano's eyes remained fixed on Anthony, his gaze seemingly dissecting every word and nuance. "Relax, kid," he said, his tone surprisingly gentle. "I ain't here to put you through nothin' you don't wanna go through."
"You been puttin' in a month's worth of work here, ain't ya?" Valvano asked casually.
Anthony sat in the chair across from Valvano's desk, the soft light from the lamp casting a warm glow on the worn wooden surface. He nodded, his demeanor a mix of pride and anticipation.
"It's been a couple o' months," Tony remembered. "Tomorrow's gonna make it a solid three months on the books."
Valvano leaned back in his chair, a contemplative look on his face as he considered Tony's words. The office, bathed in the soft amber glow of the lamp, seemed to hold a hushed anticipation, as if the air itself was waiting for Valvano's response.
"Three months," Valvano mused, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk's surface. "Time flies, don't it? Feels like just yesterday your Pops brought you to me."
"I brought you in 'ere 'cause..." Valvano stopped, taking a good long look at the sixteen-year-old boy. "Ya see, I got connections with the folks from the 'other' families. Folks who'd be mighty curious 'bout you." Anthony couldn't help but shudder, but he tried to keep his cool.
Anthony sat across from Valvano in the dimly lit room, the air suddenly feeling heavier as the Padrone's words hung in the air. He knew all too well what "other families" meant – rival gangs, power struggles, and a tangled web of alliances and hostilities that defined the criminal landscape of the city.
"I..." The young boy stammered, his hand nervously tousling his golden-brown hair. His eyes, a shade of butterscotch, darted around the room as if he was looking out for any wise guys hiding in the corners. "I, uh, ain't sure what you're gettin' at."
"Come on," Valvano said as he got up, he loosened his tie and a few buttons of his shirt as he approached. "Yer not pullin' the wool over anyone's eyes. I could tell you was queer from the get-go, the minute yer old man brought ya 'round. Don Henrico handed you over, thinkin' I could shape ya up, make a man outta ya." Anthony found himself going rigid in his chair as Valvano approached. The older man was in front of his seat in moments an onslaught of pungent garlic wafting from Valvano's breath mingled with the unpleasant stench of his cologne. The combination, intensified by the older man's foul body odor, created an overwhelming aroma akin to rotting garbage in the heat. The teenage boy couldn't help but release an involuntary gasp, his heart pounding, as Valvano's hefty hands slammed down on the arms of the chair pinning Anthony in place.
The atmosphere in the room shifted abruptly, the tension hanging thickly in the air. Anthony's breathing quickened, his chest tightening as Valvano's words cut through him. He had always been cautious about revealing his true self, and the realization that his secret was no secret at all sent a chill down his spine.
"Padrone, I..." Anthony began, his voice shaky, but Valvano's proximity was suffocating, his words like a vise around Anthony's throat.
Valvano's eyes bore into him, a mixture of intensity and something that Anthony couldn't quite decipher. "Don't play dumb with me, boy. You think you're the first? I've seen it all. And you know what? It don't matter to me. What your old man ain't privy to is that I ain't just one-sided," Valvano whispered, flashing a predatory grin. "I ain't in the habit of takin' a liking to men, but you, kid... you got a face so pretty it could pass for a dame's. Now, here's the deal: if you ain't keen on me spillin' the beans to them other families—the ones lookin' to ruffle the Ragno family's feathers—you'll grease my palm to keep things hush-hush."
The words hung in the air like a heavy cloud, a chilling understanding settling over Anthony like a shroud. The room felt suddenly colder, the atmosphere thick with the weight of Valvano's proposition.
Anthony's heart raced, his mind struggling to process the implications of Valvano's words. He had thought he understood the world he had stepped into, the complexities of loyalty and trust, but this was a territory he had never fathomed.
"I... I don't know what to say," Anthony managed, his voice trembling. The predatory glint in Valvano's eyes sent a shiver down his spine, a mixture of fear and uncertainty gnawing at his insides.
Valvano leaned in closer, his grin widening as he spoke with a low, gravelly voice. "You don't gotta say nothin' , kid. You just gotta decide what's more important to you—your secrets or your skin."
"No, no," Anthony protested, his voice trembling, as a meaty paw closed around his shoulder, the grip tightening.
Valvano's fingers dug into Anthony's shoulder, the pressure causing a sharp jolt of pain to shoot through him. The once familiar room now felt like a trap, the walls closing in on him as he stood pinned against Valvano's overpowering presence.
"What do you mean, no?" Valvano barked, his voice dripping with menace. "If the truth comes out, you'll be sleepin' with the fishes, no fancy way to put it, and your old man's name? It'll be in the gutter right alongside ya. This room's locked up like Fort Knox, no escape. So, what's the verdict gonna be?"
Anthony's frantic eyes scanned the room, desperately seeking any avenue of escape, but he found none as Valvano's repulsive presence pressed against him. He shuddered as he felt the coarse, whiskered mouth inching closer to his own. Hand on his shoulder holding him in the chair
"Padrone, please," Anthony's voice trembled, his heart hammering in his chest. The walls seemed to close in around him, the air thick with Valvano's heavy breath and the overwhelming stench that accompanied him. The proposition was a vile trap, one that offered no true choice.
Valvano's lips curled into a twisted smile, his grip on Anthony unrelenting. "You think you're special, huh? Think you can defy me and come out unscathed? I've seen men like you before, and trust me, they ain't the ones who make it out alive."
Anthony's mind raced, his thoughts a chaotic mix of fear and desperation. The weight of Valvano's body against his, the predatory intent in his eyes, it all felt like a nightmare he couldn't wake up from.
"Make the smart choice, kid," Valvano's voice was a low hiss, his face now dangerously close to Anthony's. The scent of garlic, cologne, and something far more sinister was suffocating. "You don't wanna see what happens when you cross me."
"Just relax, ragazzo (boy)," Valvano whispered, his mouth tracing a path along the younger man's neck, while he positioned one knee between Anthony's legs. "I'll make it worthwhile for ya."
Anthony's heart raced, his body frozen in shock as Valvano's unwelcome advances intensified. The weight of the situation bore down on him like a suffocating fog, his mind a whirlwind of horror and disbelief. He had never imagined that the world he had entered would take such a sinister turn.
Fear and disgust clashed within him, his instincts screaming for him to break free from Valvano's grasp. But the room felt like a prison, and the older man's hold was suffocating, his predatory intentions impossible to escape.
"No," Anthony's voice quivered, his breath hitching as he fought to find his voice amidst the rising panic. "No, Padrone, please... I can't..."
Valvano's lips curled into a cruel smile, his grip on Anthony tightening as his mouth continued to descend along Anthony's neck. The room seemed to close in around them, the walls bearing witness to a twisted power dynamic that Anthony was powerless to escape.
"Don't fight it, kid," Valvano's voice was a low growl, his breath hot against Anthony's skin. "You can make this easy or hard for yourself. Either way, it's happening."
Every fiber of his being screamed for him to resist, to fight against the violation of his boundaries. But Valvano's strength was overpowering, his control unyielding, and Anthony was trapped in a nightmare that felt inescapable.
"Nah, please, I beg ya," Anthony pleaded, full of fear.
Ah…" Valvano uttered with a lecherous smirk, his fingers starting to pull out Anthony's shirt where it was neatly tucked into his trousers. "Quite the surprise, I gotta say. Figured you'd have dipped your toes in, given the way you've been lookin' at me when our eyes meet. Almost like you've been harboring a secret desire for me to take you."
"No!" Anthony gritted his teeth, determination fueling his struggle as he pushed against the burly man holding him prisoner in the dimly lit room. The flickering light bulb overhead cast eerie shadows on the worn-out furniture and peeling wallpaper, accentuating the tense atmosphere.
Unfortunately, his efforts were in vain. Valvano, a towering figure with a scarred face and a cold demeanor, used his considerable strength to overpower Anthony. With a sneer, he employed one calloused hand to firmly pin both of Anthony's arms over his head. Anthony's heart raced, his pulse throbbing in his temples as he continued to resist, his muscles straining against the unyielding grip.
Valvano's other hand, weathered and skilled from years of questionable work, moved with precision. It undid the buttons of Anthony's shirt one by one, exposing his gaunt torso to the chilly air of the room. Anthony's breath hitched, a mixture of fear and anger surging through him. His bare skin prickled in the cold, but his determination burned hotter than ever.
The older man's grip tightened, his fingers like steel vices around Anthony's wrists. With a sudden, powerful motion, Valvano yanked Anthony out of the rickety wooden chair, sending it scraping across the creaky floor. Anthony's muscles tensed as his back collided violently with the scarred wooden desk, the impact jarring his senses. A couple of items teetered on the edge before crashing to the floor in a cacophony of sound.
Pain radiated through Anthony's body, but he fought to maintain his composure. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his eyes locked onto Valvano's, a silent challenge passing between them. Anthony's mind raced, searching for an opportunity, a weakness he could exploit. He refused to be broken, to give in to the intimidation that oozed from every corner of the room
"I can't help but wonder if your twin sister's got the same fire in her as you do," Valvano remarked, his tone laced with a sinister edge that sent shivers down Anthony's spine. The low hum of a distant jazz tune seeped through the cracked window, juxtaposing the darkness of the room with a touch of forgotten rhythm.
Anthony's jaw clenched as he felt Valvano's oppressive presence, the older man leaning over him with a sickening intent. The dim light cast harsh shadows, making the scar on Valvano's face look even more menacing. Anthony's heart raced, a mix of fury and dread bubbling within him.
Valvano's demeanor took a disturbing turn as he pressed closer, invading Anthony's personal space in a way that left no room for escape. Anthony's breath caught as he felt the hardening presence against his side, a visceral reminder of the danger he was trapped in.
"That gal's only worth anythin' as a chip on the table, see?" Valvano's words dripped with malevolence, the implication chilling Anthony to his core. He knew what Valvano was insinuating, and the thought made his stomach churn.
Anthony's eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and disgust. He couldn't allow his sister to become entangled in this web of treachery. She was innocent, untainted by the grimy dealings that Valvano reveled in. But he also knew the power Valvano held, the network of influence that extended far beyond this dimly lit room.
"I got a lot to bring to the table, and she'll fit right in as my bride, just perfect," Valvano's voice oozed with possessiveness, a twisted vision of control that turned Anthony's blood cold.
"NOOOO…" Anthony's guttural yell reverberated through the tense air, a desperate cry fueled by a surge of primal instinct. In a split-second decision, he lunged forward, his teeth sinking into the closest thing he could reach — Valvano's jowled cheek.
Valvano's grip on Anthony faltered as shock and pain tore through him. A roar of anguish escaped his lips, and his hold on Anthony loosened. The taste of blood mingled with Anthony's fury, a bitter reminder of the brutal reality they were both entwined in.
Seizing the moment, Anthony summoned every ounce of strength within him. He wrenched himself away from Valvano's grasp, his body aching from the ordeal but driven by adrenaline. The older man's grip weakened further, his hold slipping as his hand instinctively went to the wounded cheek, fingers stained with red. Valvano, recovering from the shock, glared at Anthony with a mixture of anger and disbelief.
"You no-good brat!" Valvano's snarl sliced through the air like a whip, his anger palpable. With a swift, brutal motion, he delivered a powerful punch to Anthony's face, the impact sending the younger man crashing to the ground. Pain exploded across Anthony's senses, his vision momentarily blurred as his head spun from the force of the blow.
Gasping for breath, Anthony's fingers dug into the worn floorboards beneath him as he struggled to regain his bearings. Blood trickled from his split lip, a coppery taste filling his mouth. The room seemed to spin around him, the shadows dancing in a macabre ballet.
Valvano loomed over him, a malevolent figure with hatred etched into every line of his scarred face. His chest heaved with the effort of his rage, the veneer of control shattered in the wake of Anthony's defiance. The air was charged with hostility, a palpable tension that weighed heavily on both men.
"That's it, once I'm done, you're gonna wish you never crossed me," Valvano's voice was a venomous hiss, each word laced with the promise of further suffering. Anthony's heart raced, the fear mingling with the burning anger that coursed through his veins.
Valvano's next words sent a chill down Anthony's spine, a frigid realization of the depths of the man's malevolence. "Might just be doin' your old man a favor. Was plannin' on havin' some fun, but now it seems you're beggin' for a real rough ride." The implications hung in the air like a poisonous fog, a reminder of the darkness that enveloped them.
As Anthony's chest heaved and his battered body protested every movement, a new spark ignited within him. The ember of resistance flared back to life, fueled by the searing injustice of the situation. He may have been down, bloodied and broken, but his spirit remained unyielding.
Through swollen eyes, Anthony's gaze locked onto Valvano's, a silent declaration that he would not be broken, that he would fight until his last breath.
Amid the scattered desk supplies on the floor, the closest object within Anthony's reach was a brass letter opener, intricately shaped like a dagger. The memories of his brother's chilling words about the experience of a first kill flashed in his mind, a haunting reminder of the path they had tread. In this terrifying moment, the room seemed to close in around him, the walls whispering of desperation and rebellion.
In the midst of the chaos, there was only the glint of the letter opener, the man intent on overpowering him, and the raw fight for his survival. Without a conscious thought, Anthony's fingers closed around the ornate handle, the cold metal providing a semblance of grounding in the maelstrom of emotions.
With a primal surge of adrenaline, Anthony's instincts took over. The shadows seemed to blur as he lunged forward, his movements fueled by desperation and the harrowing need to break free from this suffocating nightmare. The letter opener, once a mere desk ornament, transformed into a weapon of survival in his grasp.
Time seemed to slow as the letter opener found its target. The room echoed with a visceral cry, a combination of agony and rage, as the sharp tip met flesh.
Valvano's sudden recoil was accompanied by a guttural, strangled sound that echoed through the room. His hands shot up to his neck, fingers grasping desperately at the metallic object that now protruded from his skin. The letter opener, once an innocuous desk accessory, now posed a deadly threat, dangerously close to the carotid artery.
Time seemed to stretch as the room bore witness to this gruesome tableau. The shadows played a macabre dance around Valvano's contorted features, the shock and agony evident in his eyes. Blood welled around the wound, dark and foreboding, a stark reminder of the violence that had erupted within these walls.
Anthony's heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the unintended result of his actions. His initial intent had been self-defense, a means to escape the clutches of a predator, not to deliver a potentially fatal blow. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on him, a mix of horror and realization churning in his gut.
As the reality of the situation settled in, panic swept over Anthony like a tidal wave. The room, once a battleground of struggle, now held a silent witness to the dire consequences of his actions. He stared at Valvano, the man he had wounded, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he grappled with the enormity of what had transpired.
In his mind's eye, Anthony saw the paths that stretched out before him, each fraught with its own dangers. The only potential aid lay with the paramedics, but time was a merciless enemy. He knew that if Valvano succumbed to the wound, the consequences would be severe. The web of connections that Valvano had woven would tighten, and furious families would demand justice. The teenage boy who had dared to stand against the darkness would become the scapegoat for the chaos that had unraveled.
"Wait, don't," Anthony's desperate protest echoed through the room, but his words were swallowed by the weight of inevitability. The air seemed to thicken as Valvano, driven by a grim determination, slowly and methodically removed the knife-like letter opener from his neck. The metallic sound was sickeningly intimate in the midst of the charged silence.
Time hung suspended as the letter opener was extracted, and then reality rushed in like a deluge. Blood erupted from the gaping wound, a horrific gush that stained the room with a macabre hue. Valvano's features contorted in agony, his grimace mirrored by the froth of crimson that formed at his mouth. Each labored breath seemed to punctuate the room's gravity, a surreal dance between life and death.
Anthony's hands trembled at his sides, his eyes locked onto the horrific scene before him. He had never intended for things to reach this point, the violence and chaos spiraling far beyond his control.
Valvano staggered forward, his movements growing weaker with each passing second. The life that had once animated him was rapidly draining away, leaving behind a husk of a man who had wielded power and cruelty with impunity. He convulsed, the struggle for breath turning into a cruel symphony of agony, a haunting reminder of the fragility of existence.
Then, in a final, shuddering exhalation, Valvano's body went limp. The man who had once been a fearsome force lay motionless on the floor, the silence that followed a stark testament to the finality of his fate.
Everything around Anthony felt like a surreal blur, the aftermath of the violent encounter sending shockwaves through his senses. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, his heart still pounding as he stood in the dimly lit room. The weight of what had transpired settled heavily upon him, a mix of dread and disbelief.
With unsteady hands, Anthony's gaze landed on the phone resting on the desk nearby. It was a lifeline, a connection to the outside world that held the potential to alter the course of his future. His trembling fingers reached out, the cool enamel providing a grounding touch as he hesitated for a moment, his mind racing.
Summoning his resolve, he dialed a number that held significance, a beacon of hope in the midst of chaos. The rotary dial clicked under his touch, each number a reminder of the urgency of the situation. The seconds that ticked by felt like an eternity, the weight of his actions pressing down on him with each passing moment.
He held his breath, the sound of the dial tone resonating in his ear like a distant echo. The seconds stretched, a tense silence that seemed to encapsulate the gravity of the choices he had made. His grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles white against the receiver.
"Hello," came a masculine voice, answering after a few rings.
"Zio (Uncle) Umberto," Anthony responded with a hint of regret in his voice. "I... Valvano's... I didn't mean..."
"Tony, take a breath, calm down," Umberto Andreioli replied in a reassuring tone. "You're talkin' gibberish, kid. Just take a deep breath and spill it. What went down?"
"Val... Valvano," Anthony struggled to get the words out, his distress causing them to come out in a jumble. "I didn't mean... I was tryin' to... I was tryin' to stop him."
"Tony, slow down," Umberto's voice remained steady, a comforting anchor in the storm. "Start from the beginning. Tell me what happened."
"I…" Anthony tried to say. "I…I didn't…he tried to…"
"Hold on a second, hold on," Umberto said, his urgency evident in his voice. "I'm gonna go over there."
The line went silent as Anthony waited, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He could almost hear the gears turning in his uncle's mind, the cogs of a plan being set into motion. Then, the sound of footsteps, distant but growing nearer. Anthony didn't remember opening the door, but he must have done so at Umberto Andreioli appeared in the frame. Close behind Umberto were Enzo, and another loyal member of the family, Luca Celani. The trio stepped into the room, their expressions a blend of concern and determination. The weight of their presence was palpable, a united front against the storm that had enveloped them all.
In his mid-forties, Umberto Andreioli carried an imposing demeanor that seemed to have been etched by the challenges of the world he navigated. Though he projected a stern and even cruel exterior to outsiders, those who truly knew him understood that beneath the hardened surface, he possessed a kind-hearted soul. His reputation as his father's consigliere had been built upon a foundation of loyalty, wisdom, and a shrewd understanding of the delicate balance of power.
Umberto's dark brown hair was meticulously slicked back from his chiseled face, a touch of sophistication amidst the ruggedness.
His eyes held a depth that few dared to explore, a gaze that could be piercing and unwavering when necessary, but also held a softness that only those closest to him were privy to. The light olive tone of his skin served as a living tribute to his Calabrian heritage, a reminder of the roots that had shaped him. Every word he spoke and every decision he made were influenced by the legacy of his family, his culture, and the complex web of loyalties that tied him to his father's empire.
As he stood in the room, his presence radiated authority and a quiet strength. There was an aura of respect that surrounded him, a recognition of his role as a pillar of support and guidance for the family. He was a man who had seen the darker aspects of life but had also held onto the values that had been instilled in him since childhood.
Umberto's gaze, intense and penetrating, swept over the scene before him – the room's disarray, Anthony's battered form, and the weight of the choices that had led them all to this point.
"Anthony," Umberto said, his voice carrying both authority and genuine concern. "What's the story? What went down?"
His words were measured, a reflection of the countless conversations he had navigated in his role as the family's consigliere. His dark eyes, which held a depth of experience, absorbed every detail of Anthony's disheveled state – the torn clothes, the marks on his face and body, all of which told a story of a recent and violent altercation.
Umberto's gaze then shifted to the room itself, taking in the signs of a struggle that had unfolded. The overturned furniture, the shattered objects, all painted a vivid picture of the chaos that had erupted. But it was in this disarray that his eyes fell upon Valvano's lifeless form, lying in a grim and haunting puddle of blood.
A heavy silence enveloped the room, the air charged with a mix of emotions. Enzo, having moved past Umberto, knelt by the body, his posture a reflection of the gravity of the situation. His presence was solemn, a figure of respect amidst the unfolding tragedy.
Umberto's gaze remained on Anthony, his expression unwavering as he awaited an explanation.
"Here," Luca suggested, his voice carrying a soothing tone as he gently wrapped an arm around Anthony's shoulders, guiding him toward the couch in the room. "He's clearly experiencing a state of shock." As Anthony sank onto the couch, his mind a tempest of emotions, he felt the support of those around him.
Enzo gave a heavy sigh as he stood up and walked over to the window, his strong fingers pulling it open to let in a gust of fresh air. The room, once suffocating with tension and the scent of violence, was now filled with the breeze of a city that remained oblivious to the tragedy within these four walls.
The evidence was stark, and the room carried the somber weight of the truth. The scent of voided bowels lingered in the air, a silent confirmation that Valvano's life had come to a brutal end.
"This here's the weapon did the deed," Enzo's voice was steady, his words carrying a weight of finality as he approached Umberto. In his outstretched hand, he held the dagger-shaped letter opener that had been the instrument of fate, passing it over to the older man. The blood on the blade was a glaring, telltale sign of the violence that had transpired. Umberto's gaze shifted to the weapon, his expression unreadable. He accepted it with a grave acknowledgment of its significance.
"I believe Valvano might have attempted something," Celani commented, his voice carrying a reflective tone that echoed the thoughts of those gathered in the room. The events of the night had unraveled in a tragic sequence, leaving behind a puzzle of motivations and consequences that demanded understanding.
Anthony remained seated on the couch, his posture a reflection of the turmoil within him. His once golden olive skin now appeared drained of color, a ghostly gray that hinted at the weight of the world that now rested upon his shoulders. His fingers clamped onto his skull, the tension in his body palpable. It was as if he bore the weight of the entire situation within the confines of his mind, his inner struggle threatening to tear him apart.
Umberto's gaze shifted to Anthony, concern etched into his features. "Seems that way," he agreed with a measured nod, acknowledging the weight of Celani's observation. Then, he moved closer to the shaken boy, his authoritative presence softened by a genuine concern. "Anthony, you're not in any trouble," he began, his voice carrying a reassuring tone that aimed to ease the young man's anxieties. "But I need to hear your side of the story. What went down?"
Umberto's words were direct but laced with understanding. He understood that the truth was often complex, that the events leading up to this moment were likely layered with nuances and emotions that might not be immediately apparent. His role was not only to protect the family's interests but also to ensure that justice and the truth were served.
The room seemed to hold its breath as the weight of Umberto's question hung in the air. Anthony, still grappling with the shock of what had transpired, looked up at his uncle. The truth was a burden he had to bear, a reality he couldn't escape.
"He tried... to..." The teenager's voice wavered, his words catching in his throat as he struggled to convey the harrowing experience. "He tried..." But suddenly, the turmoil within him became too much to bear. Anthony leaned forward, his body unable to withstand the weight of the emotions surging through him. His stomach churned, and he couldn't hold back the contents, which spilled onto the floor before him.
Umberto, ever composed and adaptable, deftly stepped aside to avoid the mess, his expression unchanged by the unexpected turn of events. Enzo, standing nearby, pinched the bridge of his nose in a mixture of frustration and understanding. The scene before them was a stark reminder of the toll that trauma and shock could take on even the strongest individuals.
Meanwhile, the conversation between the other three men became a garbled blur to Anthony. The words exchanged seemed distant and fragmented, his consciousness swimming in and out of focus as he grappled with the overwhelming weight of the moment.
Umberto's gaze shifted back to Anthony, his expression softened by empathy. He understood that the events of the night had taken a toll on the young man, both physically and emotionally.
"I'll handle... investigation," Umberto managed to say. "You find a safe place... for now."
"My Papa... the winery... he left it to me," Celani offered. "...stay safe... until it's over."
"Make it happen," Enzo's words were decisive, carrying the weight of command. "...notify Pops," As Anthony's consciousness wavered, he felt a reassuring arm draping over Celani's shoulders, guiding him out of the room. The physical support was a small comfort in the midst of the overwhelming emotions that threatened to engulf him. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and sensations, and the touch of another human being served as an anchor to the present.
"Never thought he had it in him," he heard Enzo's voice remark to Umberto, the words carrying a hint of admiration and surprise. The comment, overheard in his state of disorientation, sent a ripple of conflicting thoughts through Anthony's mind as everything shifted to black.
A gentle touch on his shoulder brought him back to the present moment. He didn't startle at the contact, perhaps because the person behind the gesture seemed attuned to his current state of mind – it had to be Charlie. Cherri had a knack for recognizing when he was feeling off, and her familiarity with him extended beyond just words. Vaggie, on the other hand, wasn't known for being touchy-feely, at least not with him. Among the trio, Charlie was the one who made an effort to respect his boundaries when it came to physical expressions of friendship. After a brief pause, he turned to acknowledge her presence.
The blonde girl's red-pupiled eyes carried a gentle expression, as if she held words that might be difficult for him to hear. Yet, it appeared she understood that he was already aware of the message she intended to convey, either because someone else had already spoken those words or he had reached that realization on his own.
Exhaustion consumed him, a weariness that defined his existence. It was the most apt way to put it – he had grown weary of the constant fear, tired of enduring the unrelenting pain, and fed up with surrendering his body to some insignificant goon, someone he wouldn't even remember or care about, all just to line Val's pockets. Even now, though he yearned for the escape of drugs, craved that temporary oblivion, he understood that the substances themselves did nothing to truly alleviate the suffering. They merely offered a fleeting, detached respite, a thin veil masking the anguish and haunting memories. If he felt wretched beyond measure in sobriety, how could the fleeting high be worth it? After all, every time he bought that dust and similar substances, he was essentially handing over more of his hard-earned money to Valentino, further entrenching himself in this cycle.
Charlie was laying it all on the line for him, a stark and rare show of belief. She had trusted him when Val's words seemed hollow, and she was prepared to put a stop to Valentino's grip on him. She saw something in him that few others did, and she invested the time and effort to bring that hidden potential to the surface. Any other demon would've abandoned him at the first sign of trouble. He had a debt to repay – he had committed to being part of her hotel, and she had held up her end of the deal. It was his responsibility to fulfill his part. Otherwise, he'd find himself right back where he started – under the oppressive rule of Val or other despicable beings like him. He would be forced to bear it all in solitude, just as he had since his manifestation in Hell over seven decades ago. The loneliness he experienced when Molly had to return upstate. The isolation he felt after Luca Celani's death. It was a loneliness that haunted him, and he owed it to Charlie and himself to break free from that cycle.
A knock on the door frame announced the arrival of a female Hellhound, her presence adding a unique energy to the room. Her fur bore a soft, muted blend of golden tan and white, a striking contrast to the darkness that often surrounded them. She wore a black peasant blouse that gracefully revealed her shoulders, paired with a short denim skirt, showing a hint of confidence and casual style. Her silvery hair was neatly gathered into a high ponytail, giving her a touch of practicality amid the fiery aesthetic.
"Appologies for the interruption," The Hellhound said. "I overheard that there's a patient in the clinic, but I haven't heard any calls for breakfast just yet."
"Ah, Tetra," Charlie greeted with a smile. "Allow me to introduce everyone—this is Tetra, our talented chef at the cabin estate."
"If we had a chef here," Cherri asked, clearly perplexed. "Why the heck were we making dinner yesterday?" Vaggie discreetly nudged Cherri in the ribs, signaling her disapproval of the brash question.
"The times Vaggie and I have been here together," Charlie explained. "We've preferred to make our own meals, as it's just the two of us. So, Tetra kindly ensures that any food needed at the cabin is readily available for our use. By the way, Angel, is there anything specific you'd like for breakfast?"
"Angel?" Hellhound inquired, peering into the room and noticing the demon sitting on the bed. "As in Angel Dust? I had no idea the patient at the clinic was a celebrity."
"Accordin' to da news, ya know?" Angel said, his tone tinged with mild sarcasm. "Seems like I'm s'posed ta retire, do a little soul-searchin' 'bout my career."
"I hope so," Tetra said. "I always enjoyed your singing performances much more than your other work. In those adult films, it never seemed like you were genuinely enjoying yourself, despite how it might have looked. But when you sang, it was different—you seemed to truly lose yourself in the music."
"Hey, which ones did ya dig the most?" Angel inquired. "I've tackled Addict, Use Me Up, Show and Tell, and 911. Leastways, those are the ones I can rattle off right from the noggin'."
"Depends on my mood," Tetra responded. "But quite often, it's a toss-up between 'Addict' and 'Use Me Up.'"
"I didn't realize you could sing," Charlie remarked.
"I kinda remember dishin' out tickets for one of my gigs," Angel said, giving a half-hearted smirk."None of 'em tunes really fits the vibe you're pushin' with the joint, so it's prob'ly a good thing no one swung by. "Vaggie was about to say something, but a sharp look from Charlie halted her from speaking. The Hellborn Princess sensed that Angel was hinting at something beneath his words.
"Tell you what," Tetra suggested. "Since you haven't ordered anything, I have some muffins that I made earlier. Why don't I bring up a variety of them and some plates?"
"That sounds lovely," Charlie smiled in approval as Tetra left the room.