Chapter 81

  ?? Inner Voices ??

  The bar had gone dark hours ago. Earlier than usual.

  Chairs were stacked on tables, their legs casting long, crooked shadows across the floor. The front windows were shuttered, bolts slid home.

  In the back room, James slept on his side, knees drawn in. His breath came shallow but steady now. A bucket sat within reach of his hand, the sour smell of vomit still sharp inside it. Someone had rinsed it, but not well enough to erase what it was for.

  A blanket covered him—too big, folded twice at the feet, tucked tight at his shoulders. The floor beneath him was layered with sacks and old coats, softer than the boards out front, farther from the doors. Farther from the windows.

  Leo lay a few steps away, boots still on. His back rested against a crate, arms loose, eyes closed but not gone. One hand rested on the floor, palm open, as if measuring the room even in sleep.

  James shifted. His brow pinched. Leo’s eyes opened at once.

  The boy settled again. His breathing evened out.

  Leo didn’t move back. He stayed where he was, watching the dark, until the room went quiet again.

  They hurried the last stretch home, coats pulled tight as the light drained from the street. Night came early now. Too early. Every sharp sound made Antonio flinch, half-expecting gunshots to start up and claim the dark for themselves. His boots scuffed the soot-streaked boards outside the last chimney, black powder dusting the hem of his trousers.

  They had taken longer today. As usual. Antonio’s hands still smelled of ash and tar, nails blackened from scrubbing flues.

  Inside the house, Antonio stopped just past the threshold. He was weaker, hungrier. The leader of the sweeps braced himself, already counting the usual options. The whip. A slap. A kick if the master was in a mood. Or worse than all of it: being told to sleep outside on the boards he’d climbed all day, cold against the winter wind.

  The master shrugged off his coat and hung it on the hook by the basement stairs, careful not to smear soot on the polished wood.

  “I heard you today,” he said, not turning. His voice was low. “Shouting. Giving directions.”

  Antonio swallowed.

  “I... I was just—”

  The words stuck. He rubbed at his face, smudging ash across his cheek without realizing it.

  The master turned then. His face gave nothing away.

  “Find a way to be quicker,” he said. “I need the money, kid.”

  Antonio’s lips parted. “You’re… fine with that?”

  “As long as you don’t drag us home by dark every day,” the master said. “And you don’t get me into trouble.” He hesitated, just enough. “Shouting carries. Find another way. Your sweep mates—” a brief shake of his head, “—their bosses won’t be so forgiving if they find out.”

  Antonio nodded. His shoulder brushed the corner of the soot-stained stove, still warm from the day’s fire, and he felt the grime of the rooftops under his fingernails, the sting of ash in his eyes.

  He waited. For the rest of it. For the sentence.

  The master reached for the lamp.

  “Heat the soup from yesterday. I'm skipping dinner. Good night.”

  Antonio stood there a moment longer, then breathed out—slow, careful—before following him inside, boots leaving tiny black prints on the floorboards, the scent of chimney dust clinging to him like a second skin.

  The pot never made it to the table. Lino’s aunt lifted it, hesitated, then set it back on the stove, lid tilted just enough to keep the steam in. What did reach the table were three bowls already filled—cloudy liquid, a few pale roots floating near the surface.

  “Eat while it’s warm,” she said, brisk, already turning away. “It tastes worse cold.”

  There were only three bowls.

  Tonno stared at his.

  He scooped once, slowly. Lifted the spoon, then stopped. The broth dripped back into the bowl, thin as rain.

  He stood and slid the bowl in between Lino and Pinch.

  Lino blinked. Then grinned, sharp and immediate.

  “Oh no,” he said. “No, no. Look at this. Big as a doorframe and suddenly delicate? What is it, Tonno? Afraid of a little hot water? Huh? Huh?”

  Tonno shrugged, eyes on the floor. His stomach growled, loud enough to be rude. He pretended it hadn’t.

  "I won't die because I skipped a meal. I had lunch."

  Pinch was already eating, both hands around his bowl, careful and serious. He blew on each spoonful like it mattered.

  “I’ll wash,” he said, loud for everybody to hear.

  “You can't even reach the sink,” Lino said.

  “I'll climb,” Pinch replied, offended. "And neither can you."

  Tonno sat back down, hands on his knees. Lino leaned closer, lowering his voice.

  “You know,” he said, “if you skip meals too often, you stop growing. That’s how it works. You’ll wake up my size or Pinch's.”

  Tonno didn’t answer.

  Lino frowned suddenly.

  “Hey. You dropped something.”

  Tonno glanced down, reflexive.

  Lino’s fingers moved quick. He slipped a small, dry chunk of boiled root—saved, clearly—into the pocket of Tonno’s coat, hoping he'd find it later at night.

  Tonno looked back up, suspicious, but Lino was already grinning at Pinch.

  At the counter, Tonno’s father poured water into chipped cups. One, two, three. He filled them carefully, right to the edge, like that made it more. He didn’t pour himself one.

  Pinch’s grandfather leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the boys eat. The corner of his mouth twitched.

  “Theodore,” he said. “He just keeps growing. What I hear they’re doing out there… it’s unbelievable.”

  His gaze slid to Tonno.

  “Strong stomach on that one.”

  “Always has been,” Lino’s aunt replied. "But we must be careful of what they're eating."

  She lifted the spoon, stirred the pot once, then set it back down. The spoon came up clean.

  Tonno’s father cleared his throat.

  “I’m closing the bakery. No flour. No sense opening the doors just to explain it to people.”

  He swallowed. “We’ve gone from shops closing early to shops not opening at all.”

  “Don’t talk like it’s the end,” Pinch’s grandfather said. “Things turn.”

  “I helped this along, uncle,” Tonno’s father said quietly. “Every coin I fed into these... mobsters games.”

  Lino’s aunt frowned. “You work from dawn to dark. What are you talking about?”

  “I gambled, ma'am.”

  “Once or twice,” she said at once. “In a year. Your old man was furious about it but that’s nothing.”

  “It was still mine to waste.” He kept his eyes on the table. “Two coins. Could’ve been helpful in these harsh times. Toys. A cake. Or kept for the day I’d see Tonno married, with a family of his own.”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The room fell still.

  “I see.” Lino’s aunt exhaled. "Then I might as well say the same about myself."

  "Did you gamble?"

  "Of course, not!" She answered, offended, voice a little grumpy.

  A moment passed as she regained her calm, a flicker of regret in her tone.

  "But... I frequented their bars, for black market alcohol back in the day."

  Pinch’s grandfather nodded slowly.

  “We failed them,” he said. “All of us. And they don’t even see it.”

  His eyes moved back to the boys. “Maybe that’s why we should be watching them closer. Learning, even. While we still can.”

  No one argued.

  Pinch finished last. He stacked the bowls with care and carried them to the basin, hauling himself onto a crate without a word. The water ran cold. He hissed, then scrubbed harder.

  The adults watched.

  Outside, the city pressed in—hungry, restless, thinning at the edges.

  Alex and Dante had pressed as close as they dared, skirts of the slums giving way to the polished stone of noble territory.

  They stopped abruptly. Two guards stepped from the shadows, halberds at their sides, eyes sharp and suspicious. Their uniforms were dark blue with brass buttons, polished but worn, and a thin chain of identification glinted at their collars.

  “Hold,” one said, voice flat. “Business here?” the guard asked, his tone patient but firm.

  Dante opened his mouth.

  “We’re… acquaintances of the Algraves.”

  The guard’s eyes narrowed.

  “Acquaintances? You? Ha! You’ll forgive me if I don’t—”

  Dante’s words caught midair. He remembered the Algraves’ parents: their instructions to keep the details of their connection secret, the twins’ gratitude for the rescue from kidnapping, the precarious trust they’d earned. He shut his mouth.

  Alex frowned.

  “Why can’t we get through?”

  “No one who does not live here may enter,” the guard said, voice tightening. “Except for deliveries with permits, city officials, or servants carrying instructions from a household head. That’s the law of this street, and it is enforced.”

  Alex and Dante exchanged a glance. Slowly, they stepped back, a little more distant from each other than usual. The warmth of hope drained from their shoulders.

  “Nobles are scared for their lives,” Dante murmured as they walked. “From the Dons and the people. You can’t rely on rich folks for any help after all.”

  Alex said nothing.

  Dante’s eyes flicked toward him.

  “No luck with the handbills? Did anyone contact you?”

  “No,” Alex replied quietly.

  Dante blinked, a faint, pitying look softening his sharp features, then looked forward.

  “Give it time.”

  They walked in silence, the distant hum of the city pressing in. Slowly, a small crowd began to gather near the street corners, murmuring and shifting. The private guards, sharp as hawks, raised their weapons and fired into the air, driving the crowd back.

  Alex ducked instinctively. Dante tugged his cap lower over his eyes.. They ran a block away, familiar with the scene that has happened more than a few times in the last few days, hearts racing but bodies steady.

  The city finally fell quiet behind them.

  "Can you read the situation?" Alex asked. "Deliveries problems. Food poisoning. Medicine running short. Even Mr Harris' shop is affected."

  Dante’s brow furrowed.

  "Not this one. But the mob has roots everywhere. I wouldn't be surprised if it's related to the hunt somehow. You said one’s hiding in Mira’s orphanage. If he is one of their targets, then they are not done yet.”

  For a moment, Alex’s cheeks warmed at the memory of Mira’s weight on his back, her flat cap pressed against his neck, forehead nestled between his shoulders.

  The warmth died the moment they reached the Plaza.

  Whistles cut the air—sharp, shrill, overlapping. Constables moved fast now, no lines, no patience, boots hammering stone as they broke into sprints. A chase tore across the square from left to right, a boy ducking between carts, a truncheon cracking down where his shoulder had been a second earlier. Someone shouted. Someone else threw a stone. It struck a helmet with a dull, ringing thud.

  That earned a charge.

  People scattered in bursts, crowds tearing themselves apart before they could finish forming. Any knot of more than two was rushed—hands grabbed, bodies slammed into walls, truncheons rising and falling with brutal efficiency. A man went down near the arcade, blood streaking from his brow as he was dragged by the collar. Another swung back and was rewarded with a kick to the ribs that folded him clean in half.

  Curses flew. Orders barked. Whistles again—short, sharp signals that sent constables veering into side streets, dragging the chaos with them.

  Alex and Dante flattened themselves against the wall of a shuttered shop, shoulders pressed tight to the stone. They’d seen this before. Too many times to flinch. Still, Dante kept his chin down, eyes tracking hands, badges, boots—watching for the moment a glance lingered too long.

  A constable rushed past them, close enough that Alex caught the smell of sweat and leather. He didn’t look their way.

  Good.

  Near the fountain, a woman doubled over, gagging. A man steadied her, muttering about bad meat, flour that tasted wrong. Someone else spat and blamed the ice—said nothing kept anymore. A whistle shrieked. A baton struck stone inches from them.

  “Move!” a constable barked.

  They moved.

  Then, as quickly as it had ignited, the Plaza began to empty.

  The chases bled outward, sucked into the surrounding streets—boots fading, shouts stretching thin, whistles growing distant. What remained was noise without motion: a few constables shouting to one another, repositioning, scanning a square that no longer held anything to break.

  The Plaza felt hollow.

  The fountain sat dry and cracked at its center, stone split where water should have softened it. A dark ring marked where the waterline used to be, like a scar that hadn’t healed.

  Alex waited. Counted breaths.

  Only when the whistles stopped echoing, only when the constables settled into place, did he push off the wall.

  Dante fell in beside him.

  Now, walking as two was safe again.

  They looked at the fountain. The basin was dry. Stone cracked where water should have softened it. A faint dark ring marked where the waterline used to be.

  No Noor today either.

  The first hand that reached Alex when hunger had made him small and hollow, the first light that had cut through the city’s grime when he arrived. Without her, the Plaza has been feeling different for a couple of weeks now. Each step across the cracked stone echoed a little too loud, a little too hollow. Alex was hoping to see her. He tried coming early to the Plaza, ask people about her... yet she was nowhere to be found. He felt it in his chest, a weight pressing just behind his ribs. One that has been waiting to crawl back in. And now with Noor constantly away, it found a room.

  See it now? The chain. Every hand, every step.

  The city’s groaning… and it’s on you.

  Because of the Dons you didn’t let Pablo kill.

  Now rot in here forever...

  When you could have been at home.

  Alex’s lips pressed into a thin line. Slowly, he shook his head, fingers pressing into his temples before threading through his brown hair in a vain attempt to calm the thoughts that clawed at him. Each motion deliberate, almost ritualistic. Dante noticed. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He stayed quiet, choosing instead to pray that his anchor doesn't break. He has said enough the other day. Now, it's up to Alex.

  Suddenly, the two boys noticed a familiar figure.

  Leo stood near the dry fountain, coat hanging open, hands visible, posture loose in a way almost deliberate. When he noticed Alex and Dante, they walked toward him.

  Dante stiffened out of habit—then relaxed just as quickly.

  “Leo,” Alex said. “Have you seen Noor? I haven't for weeks now.”

  Leo shook his head. Then he nudged at the basin’s edge, where pebbles had been arranged carefully. Small stones. Patient work. The shape closed in on itself, unmistakable once you saw it.

  Dante crouched. “That’s an 'N'.” His mouth pulled into a crooked smile. “She once spelled my name with coins. Guess she evolved.”

  He shifted one pebble aside, revealing what sat just beneath it—two small stones placed wide apart, another curved below them. Crude. Deliberate. A smiley.

  "She is letting us know she is safe." Dante added.

  Leo stared at the stones longer than Dante did.

  "Anything?" he finally asked, voice low, steady.

  “We’re expecting a call from Dominick,” Alex said. “Any day.”

  "He set up a telephone in our place," Dante added. "He won't be checking in himself for a while given all the tension. He still wants us away from scenes. As soon as he rings, we’ll come straight to you to evacuate civilians."

  Leo exhaled slow and controlled. Relief didn’t soften him, but it unknotted something behind his eyes. He nodded.

  Dante broke the stillness. “Oh! Sweeps warned me off a street yesterday. Nearly walked into a patrol. Amazing. Shame we live a bit far from you guys. But even so, the warnings reached us.”

  "Can we help?" Alex asked. "When is the next meeting?"

  "No idea." Leo admitted. "Police are preventing gatherings. Sweeps masters are getting impatient. And a lot of sick kids."

  "I can help with that, Leo! Did Mira tell you?" Alex stepped forward, louder than he meant to, clinging to the opportunity, afraid the earlier voice will creep in again if he hesitates.

  “Yes. Tomorrow. Vale pub. My place.” His hand drifted lightly to his stomach. “You know it, Dante?”

  "Who doesn't?" Dante shrugged. "That's a popular one. All the betting and boxing."

  "A homeless newsboy I’ve been sheltering is sick."

  Alex’s focus snapped sharp.

  “Symptoms?”

  “Cold deep in him. Vomitting.” Leo’s shrug was minimal, controlled. “No fever. Not yet.”

  “Could be bad food. That’s early,” Alex said at once. “That’s when it matters. I can come now.”

  Leo shook his head.

  “Not tonight.”

  Alex frowned.

  “Leo—”

  “It’s getting dark,” Leo said, quiet but firm. “I won’t have you, the only one who doesn’t think shouting at blood makes it stop, caught in something” He paused. “And I can’t move more than one person through the back without questions. In the morning, it’s empty. Just me and him.”

  Alex held his gaze, jaw set, then nodded once. Reluctant. Controlled.

  “Alright... Pass this on to the others. Be careful with food for a while. Milk, meat, anything that smells even a little off. Vegetables are safer. Stick to those.”

  “And I'll come first thing in the morning tomorrow,” he added. “Hopefully with information from Dominick. Keep him warm for tonight.”

  Leo returned the nod.

  Dante put a hand on Alex’s shoulder, smiling gently, his eyes bright with hope.

  “There you go,” he said. “Your first patient.”

  Alex returned the smile, though it was weak—almost resigned.

  Dante’s grip tightened suddenly. The gentleness drained from his face, replaced by something sharper. Not anger, exactly, but a wordless plea Alex understood all too well.

  And still, somewhere inside his head, the thought crept back in.

  Keep playing doctor.

  Soft but insistent. Alex closed his eyes, muscles loosening for a moment he didn’t know if it was defeat or quiet resistance.

  The three walked on. Alex’s gaze stayed fixed on the uneven stones at his feet. Dante’s eyes never left Alex, reading, learning, anchoring himself to the boy who reminded him of what's right and wrong. Leo’s head tilted slightly, taking measure of their backs as they moved toward the slums.

  The Plaza stayed silent behind them, empty and still, as if the city itself were holding its breath.