?? Education ??
The restaurant perched atop one of the tallest buildings in the upper quarters, a place where the city’s wealthiest dined and their secrets floated between silverware. Dark polished wood gleamed under brass chandeliers, the walls lined with mirrors that made the space seem endless. Tables were dressed in crisp white linens, the fine china embossed with gold trim. Servants moved with silent precision, starched collars and black vests immaculate, carrying trays without a single slip. Outside, the evening light caught the rooftops, but inside, the air smelled faintly of roasted meats, fresh bread, and expensive cigars.
Unusually, Emilio sat alone. Not a single Silvano or Carlo flanked him, an absence that made even the most seasoned waiters uneasy. One bodyguard positioned himself at the door, another took a separate table, feigning a quiet meal while keeping his gaze on Emilio. On the rooftop, no eyes watched, but the driver in the sleek automobile below stayed vigilant, hands tight on the wheel, eyes sharp as razors.
The riots, the mounting tension with the police, had made Emilio insist on this fortress of security. Normally, he trusted the restaurant’s connections and his driver; a single bodyguard sufficed. Now, he was surrounded by caution.
His shoe tapped the floor. The gold of his watch caught the chandelier’s glow as he checked the time, waiting for a visitor who was already late.
A young servant approached, polished hands clasped.
“Don Emilio, would you care for something to eat while you wait? Perhaps a glass of wine?”
Emilio shook his head.
“No, thank you. I will be leaving in a couple of minutes.”
The bodyguard at the door stepped inside, closing the gap. The servant’s hands trembled slightly as he backed away, eyes flicking between them.
A small envelope changed hands—slid across the table by a young messenger, nervous eyes darting toward the street. The bodyguard broke the seal, scanning the contents quickly. His brow rose.
Leaning close, he whispered into Emilio’s ear, “Don Emilio… Chief Inspector Harry won’t be joining. Came straight from the station.”
Emilio’s lips curved into a thin, amused smile. “Harry, you clever bastard,” he murmured, exhaling softly.
“This is the second time he is late to the meeting,” the bodyguard muttered.
Emilio said nothing, standing with slow deliberation. The bodyguard draped a coat over his shoulders, bowing his head as Emilio adjusted it.
"Send word to Carlo and Silvano. We'll be acting independently for a while. Carlo deals with business. Silvano manages the men. That will remind the authorities of something."
Not far from there, a building stood in the narrow belt between the noble quarter and the middle districts, close enough to wealth to borrow its cleanliness, far enough to avoid its scrutiny. Its stone fa?ade was well kept, balconies scrubbed and repaired, iron railings repainted each spring. Birds favored it—sparrows and pigeons alike—nesting freely along the ledges, fluttering in and out without fear.
All but one balcony.
That one remained bare. No seed. No railings dusted with feathers. No birds lingered there long.
It belonged to a man of enormous wealth who chose modest walls. Out of calculation, eluding taxes.
It was Don Carlo’s apartment.
He lay propped against the headboard of a bed built for two and occupied by one, the weight of the blankets heavy against the early chill of autumn, the kind that crept into bones and promised winter without mercy. He had not dressed. He had not eaten yet. A low table had been drawn close to the bed, neatly arranged with papers, envelopes, bills, contracts, aligned, squared, and ordered with the care of a man who controlled chaos by refusing to let it touch his hands.
The dream he had last night, one that reminded him of his youth, was still on his mind.
Twenty Five Years ago
The office smelled of cigar smoke and polished wood, the late afternoon sun cutting across the floor in sharp lines. Young Dominick shifted on his heels, hands clasped, eyes fixed on Carlo’s face. The older man sat behind the massive oak desk, fingers drumming softly, expression calm—too calm.
“Dominick,” Carlo said, voice low and deliberate, “a merchant owes money. Cannot pay. Two options. Option A: take what you can now and ruin him. Option B: wait, hope he recovers, and pray it doesn’t hurt our business.”
Dominick’s brow furrowed. He leaned forward slightly. “There’s Option C,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice. “We threaten his patrons. Make them pay instead. The merchant keeps his business, we get our money. Everyone benefits—well… except fear is involved.”
Carlo’s eyes narrowed, just a fraction, but his lips didn’t move. “Clever,” he murmured. “Too clever for your age. But na?ve.”
He stood, walking slowly around the desk, his shadow falling long and sharp across the floor. He tapped the ledger in front of Dominick. “Option... Z,” he said softly, each word measured, “we take the merchant’s debt… then sell it to his rivals at a discount. He collapses. Our enemies profit from his ruin. And we? We walk away richer, untouched. No loyalty, no mercy. That is how the world works, Dominick. That… is business.”
Dominick’s eyes widened. For a heartbeat, he thought Carlo might be soft, that there was a line the man wouldn’t cross. Then the weight of the lesson settled. Carlo had already crossed it, and with a precision that left Dominick both awed and wary.
Don Carlo shook his head, chasing the memory away to focus. He was alone in the bed but not alone in the room.
A thirty years old man sat in a chair nearby—thin, well-groomed, dressed plainly but precisely, every crease deliberate. He leaned forward only enough to pass a document across.
“The Palacio casino figures,” Rossi said.
Carlo opened it, scanned a page, then closed it again.
Rossi slid a second document forward.
“Dock leases,” he continued. “Cold storage, ice distribution, and the river carts. Same decline.”
A third followed, lighter paper.
“Tenements on Mercer and Viale Sud. Rents, maintenance costs, vacancies.”
Another pause. Another sheet.
“Private clinics and dispensaries,” Rossi said. “Medicine procurement and delivery contracts.”
Only then did he stop.
Carlo leaned back against the pillows, fingers steepled, eyes half-lidded—not tired, not angry. Thinking.
Carlo accepted the paper without comment. His eyes moved over the figures with practiced ease. No reaction crossed his face, no shock, no irritation. Only recognition.
“These are the worst figures I’ve seen in years. But what should I expect, when men are afraid to sit at a table where the only conversation is gunfire and corpses?”
Rossi nodded.
“We’re bleeding coin across the board. Everywhere. Rents are late. Labor parties are backing strikes and riots—our interests there have taken a hit. And…” He paused, swallowing. “We’re behind on payroll for Don Silvano’s men.”
Carlo did not look up from the page.
“Have they complained?”
“No, no no no no. No, Don Carlo. Not yet. But usually we supplement—bonuses for jail time, successful work. Now even their wages are two days late.” Rossi hesitated. “Should we draw from the reserves?”
“No,” Carlo said calmly. “Muscle is paid from earnings. Always. Still... a lot of the boys are inside. The blue coats are being bold and Emilio is still negotiating with Chief Inspector Harry. We should consider jail time payment as well."
Rossi shifted in his seat.
“Do we know who was arrested?”
Carlo finally lifted his eyes. Just enough.
“I don't like these questions, Rossi. I don't want prisoners' names next to legitimate business discussions. Understand?”
“I... apologize,” Rossi said quickly.
Carlo exhaled, then scratched his chin. That alone told Rossi more than enough. The logistics man, Rossi, who have been the key associate for the business front Don of the Marviano family and organization for a few years, understood.
his voice lowered.
“No other option. We’re cutting costs.”
The garden of Don Silvano's mansion sat above the city, up on the hill, away from the eyes. Old trees, stone paths, damp earth. Lanterns hung low.
Two corpses lay on the ground.
Men.
One had been shot clean through the eye. The other’s skull had caved inward, the face no longer a face at all. Blood darkened the stones beneath them, already drying.
Don Silvano stood over them, tall, cane in hand—not really needed for him to hold himself straight. The old Don was looking down at their faces as if waiting for something.
“Who is left on your side? Sal? Tessio?”
Salvatore and Tessio stood a few steps back, smoking.
They had turned the slums upside down looking for Rocco.
Tessio said, “Four more to go. Nothing on this... Rocco. The boys are still looking too.”
Silvano didn’t lift his eyes.
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“What about Vince? Didn't he find him?”
“No,” Salvatore said. “Foundling houses. Clinics. Community halls. Nothing so far.”
Silvano, still staring at the dead men.
“Could he have ran?”
Salvatore shook his head.
“His place had signs he’d been around. He couldn't have gone that far.”
Tessio said, “The dock syndicates swear they didn’t move him. No ships. No wagons.”
“Don Silvano." Salvatore took a step forward, "The search is hard with so many of our men inside. The hundred thugs we had are reduced to fifty or forty. Nothing from the coppers?”
“No,” Silvano said. “Inspector Harry keeps postponing the meetings with Emilio. Says the crowd is tense and angrier than ever and can't leave his house or the police headquarters in peace anymore.”
Tessio smirked.
“Sounds like a good excuse.”
“No,” Silvano said. “He’s stalling to keep us short on muscle. He also knows me, Carlo and Emilio won't meet for a while given the tensions to make a decision about it. Crafty snake. Even our informants in there are shut out.”
He finally looked up.
“I’d kill him, or better, send Domi after him but... he is not being hostile yet."
Tessio asked, “Should we scare him? This inspector?”
“A bluff won’t work. Let's...”
Silvano stepped forward and placed his foot on one of the corpses, testing his balance.
He steadied himself.
“...do it differently.”
Salvatore and Tessio waited.
“If our men stay inside,” Silvano said, “We will find other methods."
Silence.
The garden answered with the sound of insects and the faint creak of branches shifting in the wind.
Silvano spoke again.
"Any word on the streets? Usually this kind of chaos gives rise to young blood. Any gang out there wants Enzo's seat? Instead of these..." he glanced at the corpses, "...things?"
Tessio shrugged.
“Nothing. I hear some children are making moves. Peaceful. Sharing food. Walking together.”
Silvano chuckled, before it turned into a loud laugh.
"We wouldn't want toddlers on the table now."
He raised his chin, eyes fixed on the unusually clear moon for the autumn weather.
"How old are you two?"
"Sal is thirty-nine. I'm forty-two." Tessio responded.
"I can speak for myself." Salvatore said, offended.
"Hmm..." Silvano hummed, lost in the moon's sight. "You're still quite young."
Silvano remembered a scene from when he was about that age.
Thirty Years Ago
Vince and Dominick sat on the floor in the garden. Same garden.
Dominick—fifteen—was trying to convince Vince to smoke, half-joking, half-insistent. Vince kept pushing the cigarette back toward him, unimpressed.
Not far from them, Silvano sat on a chair. The title 'Don' on his name now after his father's decease, joining his two childhood friends and brothers, Emilio and Carlo, in leading the Marviano three families.
He wasn't alone. The newly appointed head of the family was sitting with two men.
This time, they were alive.
Tied to chairs. Muffled. Beaten past recognition.
“So I hear you two attacked some of our own,” Silvano said. “These two kids… are friends of ours.”
No answer. No movement. They were beyond that.
“Dominick there,” Silvano continued, “was just disowned by his parents. Isn’t that sad? Even after helping them? Getting them out of misery?”
The Don tilted his head, studying the wrecks in front of him.
“And you thought you’d add to his misery. How heartless...”
He turned.
“You two. Come here.”
Dominick and Vince stood and walked over, brushing dust from their clothes. No longer slum kids. Expensive boots. Good cloth. Watches that didn’t belong on boys their age.
“What is it?” Dominick asked.
Silvano gestured at the tied men.
“What should we do with them? Want to strip them and make them walk the slums, Domi?”
Dominick laughed.
“I never get tired of that.”
He paused, then glanced sideways.
“Vince. You decide.”
Vince shrugged.
“Don’t care.”
“God, Vince,” Silvano muttered. “That’s all you ever say.”
Silence.
Vince thought.
Hummed.
Dominick waited, excited. An unusual sight of Vince about to decide something other than following him.
Silvano tilted his head, wondering what kind of thought Vince would come up with.
Then—
The kid just shrugged again.
Dominick sighed. Silvano did too. No one ever managed him—not friends, not adults.
“Then I will,” Dominick said, stepping closer.
His eyes held no trace of childhood. Not after two years by choice in rooms like this—listening and learning from top figures of the underworld, collecting debts, watching men beg.
“Do you have a gun, Don Silvano?”
That earned them life. Eyes wide. Breathing fast.
“Guns are off limits,” Silvano said, unimpressed. “Not until eighteen. Family policy.”
“How noble,” Dominick rolled his eyes.
Silvano’s voice hardened.
“Carlo and Emilio may tolerate this attitude but not me. Don’t test my temper, boy.”
Dominick winked, and that made Silvano stop talking.
No more questions. The revolver came out, handed over.
Dominick bowed as he took it.
He walked toward the chairs. The men couldn’t tell if the safety was on. It didn’t matter.
Silvano’s mouth twitched.
Vince watched, unblinking.
Dominick pointed at the kneecap, pressing an inch, measuring their reaction. Then the other man's foot.
He waited, watched, as one's eyes widened with horror and the other shook his head violently, pleading.
Finally, he pointed in between the legs, never taking his eyes off his prey. The tied muffed man's breath hitched. He closed his eyes, sweat all over his face.
“What?” Dominick said lightly. “You thought I’d shoot?”
He smiled.
“A bullet’s a waste on you. And Don Silvano’s word is law.”
He leaned in, studying the terror up close.
“I just wanted to see something.”
With that, he walked back to the
“Dominick Marviano,” Silvano said, ruffling his hair. “You impress me.”
He motioned to the guards—their fists still wet.
“Take them home. Let's spare these ones.”
As they were dragged away, Silvano crouched beside Dominick.
“But I see you, kid.”
A chill ran through Dominick.
Silvano straightened.
“You hid mercy under cruelty. Be careful. That shows.”
“Huh?!” Dominick snapped. "You said yourself I'm not allowed to carry a gun?!"
Silvano smiled.
“Don’t take me for an idiot, boy. You expected that answer already.”
Dominick pressed his lips together.
“How did you know?”
Silvano turned away.
“You didn’t ask me to kill them.”
“Years ago, I’d have told you to... make a point to these kids as well.” Silvano finally spoke, dragging himself out of the memory.
Salvatore raised an eyebrow, a bit surprised.
"And... now?"
The old Don's voice grew softer.
“Now I have a granddaughter... Olivia... my sweet... beautiful... Olivia...”
He couldn't finish that sentence. His gaze went back to the two enforcers waiting patiently for his next words.
Whatever softness there was a moment ago in his tone, was gone. Vanished. Like it was never there.
“So don’t just make a point if you come across them. Make sure they remember you. Ten years from now. Twenty. In case they grow bold like that... stupid waiter.”
His foot slipped on the corpse. He caught himself on the cane.
Salvatore and Tessio didn’t move.
They knew this man hated seeing himself weak or needing help to stand straight.
Silvano straightened, furious.
He stepped back, then ran a short step forward and kicked the dead man’s head hard.
He spat on the other's face.
“Even dead, they’re still trouble.”
The old man turned, heading back inside.
“Stop bringing 'em to my house.”
By the time the docks woke fully, the river air already carried a sour edge.
People lined up before dawn.
Women with baskets hooked over their arms, men with caps pulled low, children rubbing sleep from their eyes as if bread were a prize for waking early. The bakery windows glowed faintly—but there was no warmth behind the glass. No kneading. No clatter of trays.
When the door opened, the baker didn’t ring the bell.
He stepped out instead, apron still clean, flour untouched, and pinned a scrap of paper to the frame.
NO LOAVES TODAY
For a moment, no one spoke.
“You’re joking,” a woman said.
“I’ve no flour,” the baker replied, not looking at her. “Half a sack yesterday. That was the morning batch.”
A man scoffed from the back.
“Raising prices now?”
The baker snapped his head up, eyes raw.
“I don’t need your money.”
That ended it.
A murmur moved through the line.
“Gianni’s closed.”
“So’s the one by the canal.”
“She was open this morning.”
The baker took the sign down, folded it once, and shut the door.
"Let's hope tomorrow."
The line didn’t move.
Not far away, a butcher watched a boy with a ledger shake his head.
“Skipped,” the boy said. “This street. Few others.”
“No reason?”
“None I got.”
“And tomorrow?”
The boy only shrugged, tucking his pencil behind his ear as he left.
The bell jingled behind him. The shop felt too warm.
The ice carts came late—and light.
A butcher peeled back the burlap and swore. The blocks were smaller, chipped thin, already sweating.
“That won’t hold till noon,” he said.
“That’s what they gave me,” the carter replied.
Down the pier, it was the same. Crate after crate—enough to last the morning, no more. By afternoon the smell would start. By evening, the meat would be gone.
No theft. No breakage. Just less.
“Quiet cuts,” a dockhand muttered.
“Costs,” an older man answered.
The whistle blew. Work went on.
Farther down, away from food and ice, a handful of men stood where they didn’t usually linger.
The crates there were plain. No shop names. No stamps. Just red numbers—some crossed out.
One sat open.
Empty.
A dockworker ran his hand along the inside.
“That should’ve fought me. The weight. Even empty, there should be something left.” He stopped himself mid-breath. “This was scrubbed.”
A foreman passed, eyes flicking once to the crate. He didn’t slow.
“Close it. Mark it received.”
Word spread low and fast.
“Out by the rail line,” someone whispered. “Near the new work to Vareze. Black powder went missing.”
"What?!" another exclaimed in fear. "What are they planning now?"
By midmorning, the ice was already melting.
The meat would follow. Shops would close early. Bakers would blame flour, butchers would blame heat—and no one would say what everyone felt.
Something was being thinned out.
Something else had vanished entirely.
And whatever it was, it wasn’t meant for daylight.
Dr. Kranz’s clinic smelled of alcohol, ink, and boiled water—clean, but strained, like it had been scrubbed too often to erase what lingered beneath. The tall windows let in a pale, wintry light that flattened the shelves of glass jars and labeled drawers into quiet rows. Outside, the city murmured, restless.
Alex sat across from Kranz’s desk, hands folded in his lap, feet not quite touching the floor.
“You’re… going to be out of the city, Doctor?” Alex asked. His voice lifted at the end despite himself, worry flickering through the surprise.
Kranz nodded, already weary. “Yes. I received confirmation this morning.” He adjusted his spectacles. “Medical deliveries have been delayed again. Even basic disinfectants. I intend to find out if this is the case or not in nearby towns. Hospitals cannot function like this.”
Alex lowered his gaze. Another anchor loosened. Another certainty quietly pulled away.
“Don’t worry,” Kranz said gently, noticing. “I’ve prepared something for you.”
He opened a drawer and withdrew two books, worn but well cared for, their spines softened by use. He placed them on the desk and slid them across.
“Chemistry and Latin. From where we left off,” he said. “I’ve selected lessons you can manage on your own, given what we’ve already covered. I’ve marked the pages, added notes where the text becomes… unkind.” A small, dry smile. “If something troubles you, write it down. We’ll go through it together when I return.”
Alex took the books and slipped them into his satchel. He nodded—but said nothing.
That alone was strange enough.
Kranz studied him over the rim of his glasses.
“Why don’t you come with me, Alex?”
Alex looked up sharply, then shook his head.
“I can’t. I have… responsibilities.”
Kranz’s brows drew together.
“Your job?”
“Not just that.” Alex hesitated. “I’m waiting for an important… message. And my friend—Dante—needs me. Things are difficult right now.”
"Dante? I apologize if you mentioned him before, but is this your father's friend with whom you're staying?"
"Um... not quite. He is... his son. Yes. His son."
Kranz exhaled slowly. He didn’t try to hide the disappointment.
“I had hoped,” he admitted, “that we might spend some time together outside the clinic.”
The tone was different. It wasn't the voice of the doctor explaining, or a teacher correcting. It was something unguarded.
Alex noticed immediately.
Kranz continued, eyes drifting briefly to the window.
“I never told you this, but… my wife and I separated long ago.”
His fingers tightened together.
“I gave my work everything. There was always another patient, another emergency, another reason to stay late. I convinced myself it was noble.”
Alex’s chest ached.
“I did not give her or our children any time,” Kranz said quietly. “Not real time. And now… Now they are grown. Men and women. And I missed it. All of it.”
“For a while,” Kranz went on, voice softer still, “I believe I tried to make up for it with you.”
Alex’s breath caught.
“We will do something,” he said suddenly, louder than he meant to, as if warding off the guilt before it could settle. “Once you’re back. When things calm down. We’ll—” He searched for the right words. “We’ll spend time together.”
Kranz blinked, caught off guard. Then he smiled, small, genuine and nodded.
He reached beneath the desk and brought up a compact leather case, scuffed at the corners. He opened it carefully.
“Regarding the instruments you requested,” he said, “you’ll have them.”
Inside were the essentials: clean bandages, gauze, a roll of adhesive plaster, a small bottle of carbolic acid, scissors, forceps, a thermometer, a slender stethoscope with a worn wooden chest piece.
Alex’s eyes widened. The instruments weren’t trophies or ornaments. They were carried things. Tools that asked for steadiness, for patience, for a hand that knew when to act and when to wait. This felt like finding a place for something he had already been holding inside him. A kind of treasure, not because it glittered, but because they made the boy remember that there was always a path. An escape from something he couldn't name.
“But only on one condition,” Kranz added, closing the case and holding it firmly.
Alex straightened.
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Promise me you won’t attempt what you cannot or should not do,” Kranz said. “Do only what I have taught you.” He placed the case into Alex’s hands. “What a brilliant boy like you can do… must do… and should do. Not more.”
Alex nodded.
“I promise.”
Kranz watched him for a long moment, as if trying to memorize the shape of him.
“Good,” he said at last. “Then I will trust you.”
And Alex, clutching the case, felt the weight of that trust settle heavier than any instrument inside.
[LitRPG] [Cultivation] [Crafting] [Smart MC]
Synopsis (Click to Expand)
To transcend the heavens, one must first forge the ladder.
He is a Cultivator who values volume over speed.
He is a Chronicler who will not stop at the sky.