Chapter 42 - Parallel Lines

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Chapter 42: Extra Story

 

 

Actually, this is just titled "extra story", because I couldn't think of a proper title. OTZ

 

This is a short 0.5 extra about why Vito fell for Fitch.

 

***

 

At first, he absolutely despised that little brat with golden hair and amber eyes, who looked so much like Mr. Bude but cried all the time.

 

And not just any crying—this kid cried incessantly, unbearably, unbelievably often! Every time Vito saw him, his face was covered in tears, dirt, and snot. His tiny hands were always clutching his white bib, using it to wipe his nose, his drool, and his endless flood of tears.

 

He was undeniably a child as cute as an angel, yet every time Vito looked at him, all he felt was pure frustration.

 

Life was already hard, troublesome, exhausting—why cry so much? Crying wouldn't make luck any better, and he simply couldn't understand what this tiny thing had to cry about.

 

The first time they met was at Mr. Alexander's funeral. As the sole heir, Young Master Tengshe arrived nearly an hour late. His wheat-colored skin held a thin sheen of sweat, and his beautiful, red-brown eyes were half-lidded, giving him a lazy, indifferent demeanor—there wasn't a hint of sorrow.

 

Following closely behind Tengshe was Mr. Bude. His golden hair gleamed in the sunlight like spun gold, and his amber eyes held a detached coldness as he gazed at Mr. Alexander's portrait.

 

Tengshe paid no mind to the looks from those present. He sat down calmly in his designated spot—directly across from Vito's master, and thus directly across from him.

 

It seemed his master mouthed something to Tengshe, causing the young man's shoulders, thin beneath his white shirt, to shrug. Tengshe's lips curved in a smile as he silently mouthed back: "Sex."

 

He was still underage, yet he was already exposed to things he shouldn't see… What a hassle! Scratching his tousled brown curls, he lowered his head just enough that his height allowed him to hide behind his master's broad shoulders.

 

And that was when the crying began—loud and clear—from the entrance.

 

A little kid, about five years old, was rubbing his eyes and bawling, his chin tilted up as he wailed, "Papa... w-wah... Papa, P-Pa... uh-ugh..."

 

And then the kid threw up right at the door. Probably from crying too hard and choking himself. Vito carefully shifted his position to stay hidden behind his master's towering figure, hoping to avoid being called to clean up that mess.

 

Sure, he was still a kid himself, but he hated kids—especially the ones who whined and cried.

 

Then he noticed Tengshe raising an eyebrow at the boy, a stifled laugh escaping his lips. "Bude, take Fitch away. I don't want people thinking I've got a little brother now."

 

"Yes, sir." Bude gave a graceful bow and quickly approached the little brat.

 

As soon as Fitch saw Bude, his crying diminished significantly. His ugly, tear-stained face stretched into an equally ugly smile, with snot, tears, and drool mixed together. Vito turned away in disgust—he'd seen pigs with swollen faces in the arena that looked ten times cuter than this kid.

 

The next moment, a sharp slap echoed through the hall, drawing every gaze—except Tengshe's.

 

Bude had slapped the child, sending his small body flying backward. Fitch rolled two or three times on the floor, finally stopping when he crashed into a funeral wreath. Otherwise, he might have rolled even farther.

 

"My apologies. I failed to discipline the child properly. I ask for the forgiveness of all the esteemed members present." Bude's voice was cold and steady, devoid of emotion, as if he hadn't just struck a child.

 

Even among mafia members—men who had done all sorts of vile deeds from murder to arson and drug trafficking—the scene before them left everyone holding their breath, the atmosphere freezing over.

 

Italians valued family deeply. For the mafia, familial bonds were the foundation of their power, with influence so strong that even the government hesitated to interfere. Even if familial relationships were strained, it was rare to see such blatant disregard.

 

The little brat seemed to have been knocked out—there was no more crying.

 

Vito had no interest in this mess. Getting involved would only lead to trouble. He just wanted to be his master's loyal guard dog, so he quickly averted his gaze from Bude and, out of boredom, found himself staring into a pair of red-brown eyes directly across from him.

 

"Vito, go check on him."

 

"Master…" He wasn't thrilled, lowering his voice in an attempt to bargain.

 

"Two slices of chocolate chiffon cake." Taotie cut him off quickly, his gray eyes showing a faint, hidden smile and a glimmer of worry only Vito could perceive.

 

Why did his master, despite being in the mafia, always meddle in such troublesome affairs? What a pain! "Three slices. And a big glass of chocolate milk."

 

"Glutton." He only grinned at his master, slipping nimbly into the aisle behind the last row of seats, trying his best to avoid drawing attention as he left the hall.

 

When he reached the door, Bude's amber eyes met his coldly. The man's beautiful face was expressionless, like a statue.

 

Vito had often seen that look when training under Bude in knife combat. Usually, it meant someone was about to have a very bad day.

 

He plastered on an innocent expression, nodded to Bude, and hopped down the steps with a spring in his step, as if dancing. Bude didn't spare him another glance. When Vito turned back, Bude's tall, elegant figure had already returned to the hall.

 

The little brat had indeed fainted. His tear-streaked face was an unsightly mess, smudged with dirt and scratched by tiny pebbles. There was even an abrasion on his nose. Tears mixed with dirt, painting his cheeks in streaks of gray. Not cute at all.

 

Why had Master sent him here? Sure, he was a watchdog, but he was only eleven. Faced with an unconscious kid, the most he could do was call a doctor.

 

How annoying. How troublesome. Couldn't this kid have just stayed home and sucked his thumb like a normal child instead of running around making his life harder? His Master could be so contradictory—capable of ruthless acts, yet absurdly meddlesome at times. Was that really okay? He trusted that his Master was fine, but he wasn't sure if he was.

 

The kid suddenly coughed, then began to sob softly, his small limbs twitching in the grass like a turtle flipped on its shell.

 

Vito quickly clamped his hand over the kid's open mouth, only to feel a wet tongue slip against his palm. Ugh, disgusting!

 

"Mmph... mmm..." The crying started again. With a huff, Vito hoisted the kid up and ruffled his messy hair—there was a small lump on the back of his head.

 

"Want some candy?" He fished a fruit candy from his pocket and, not waiting for a reply, shoved it into the kid's mouth. A choked noise escaped, and the tears stopped in shock.

 

"I'm Vito. You're Mr. Bude's son, right? It's the first time I've seen you. You really do look like him…" Vito forced himself to ramble, hoping the stream of words would keep the boy from crying again.

 

The candy seemed to do the trick. The little head nodded obediently. "I-I want my dad... I'm so hungry... Mom... Mom's gone too..."

 

Great. Now he not only had to feed this kid but also find his mom? He felt a wave of irritation wash over him, but his lips curved into a bright, sunny smile.

 

Three slices of chocolate chiffon cake wouldn't cut it. He'd need Taotie to throw in half a fruit-and-nut cake too!

 

Judging the kid's light weight, Vito decided it wouldn't be too hard to carry him. Without hesitation, he scooped the boy up. "I'll take you to eat. Just don't cry."

 

"But... but... Mom... Mom is gone..." The kid sniffled, cheeks puffed out with candy, tears threatening to spill again.

 

"Your dad will find your mom. Don't worry." Vito's response was casual, with no intention of taking on any responsibility himself.

 

"Big brother, you're so nice to Fitch!" The kid's face, still streaked with dirt and tears, managed an awkward smile. Vito gave him a dry laugh.

 

It wasn't like he had a choice.

 

Later, he led the little boy to the kitchen, handed him off to the cook, and quickly slipped away. Behind him, an ear-piercing wail erupted, as if a wild beast had been unleashed.

 

***

 

He thought he'd never see the kid again. Mr. Bude had always kept his son hidden from the family, and surely, he'd continue to hide that ugly, crybaby of a child in the future.

 

But he was wrong.

 

Fitch was Bude's illegitimate son, a product of an accident. Bude had no love for the child's mother, and certainly none for the child. To wash his hands of it, he'd given the woman five million euros.

 

The woman had died later, supposedly from exhaustion. She hadn't touched a cent of Bude's money—instead, at her funeral, it had all been burned.

 

She had died later, supposedly from exhaustion. Not a single cent of Bude's money had been used; instead, it was burned at her funeral. That was why Bude had ended up taking in the boy.

 

He probably hadn't done it willingly.

 

Over time, Vito found himself encountering the kid more and more often. Every time, Fitch's face was blotchy with tears. Alright, to be fair, even when he was smiling with a candy in his mouth, he was still quite the eyesore.

 

He was always crying. Where did that small body get so much energy from? Wailing until he was hoarse, his whole body convulsing, yet never stopping—the sight of his face was a perpetual mess.

 

Genes were such a strange thing. Despite his hair color, amber eyes, and features being nearly identical to Bude's, he lacked that breathtaking beauty.

 

With a candy rolling around in his mouth, Vito enjoyed his three o'clock snack time—his master's granted reprieve. As usual, he climbed up a tree and gazed out over the deep blue of Azzurro* Bay.

 

[T/N: This is my own interpretation since the events are curretly taking place in Italy, supposedly. I could have left the original pinyin; "AiQing" bay, which conveys the poetic sense of a "beloved clear sea".]

 

Warm wind, warm sunlight, shadows of leaves gently mottling his skin. The air held a blend of the sea's brine, fresh grass, and the fragrant aroma of freshly baked bread from Rosalind's shop.

 

And... that brat's annoying cries.

 

Though distant, they rang out clear as day. He pressed his hands over his ears, but the absence of the wind's whispers made the world feel strangely dull.

 

Bude had thrown the kid into the training grounds, among the batch of children slated to become Tengshe's future guard dogs. As someone who had been through it himself, Vito knew all too well how harsh life there was—especially for someone starting at five years old, far too late.

 

The sobs turned into fragmented gasps. Lowering his hands, Vito bit into the hard candy in his mouth, his ears instinctively tuning in to the uncharacteristic tone of those cries.

 

He doubted the brat could survive the training. Weak, timid, and frail—the kind of kid who was always the first to be eliminated. Whether they died or were sold off to "special" places, it was just the way things were. Nothing to be too concerned about.

 

Did Mr. Bude truly hate his own son so much? Why bother taking him in at all? He had asked his master once and received a long, thoughtful silence. Gray eyes lingered on those blueprints, though his mind was clearly elsewhere.

 

"Perhaps... he himself doesn't understand his own feelings." That was the final answer his master had given.

 

Scratching his tousled brown curls, Vito jumped down from the tree. He decided to go see what was going on. The crying sounded genuinely off. Though he hated seeing that ugly face, he imagined his master would have told him to check on things if he were here.

 

He really was a clever and considerate dog.

 

He had a hunch about what might be happening. It was always the same sorts of things—getting beaten, bullied, or maybe targeted by some pervert with a thing for kids. He had seen it all before.

 

It would only take five minutes to get to the training grounds through the shortcut. Not too long. Passing under a Greek-style archway, the scene unfolded before his eyes—a few kids clustered together, and Fitch's broken sobs came from the center of the circle.

 

Curiosity piqued, Vito moved closer, keeping his presence quiet. The untrained brats were still slow and none of them noticed him slip into their midst.

 

Fitch's face was pressed into a patch of filthy mud. His thin arms flailed, struggling to push himself up. Just as he managed to lift his head and release a weak cry, a foot shoved him back down, his mouth bubbling with dirty water.

 

His small face was a mess—coughing and choking on muddy water, his nostrils and mouth smeared with grime.

 

If breathing was that difficult, why stubbornly keep crying? Arms crossed, Vito frowned, watching that pitiful little face. Crying and coughing, teetering dangerously on the edge of suffocation.

 

Should he intervene? He hated trouble and didn't see anything wrong with natural selection. After all, he had survived this very training ground the same way. Those who had bullied him back then—he had taken his time, but he'd repaid every slight.

 

Those who couldn't save themselves wouldn't last long in a mafia family. Helping now might not be a good thing... He thought he might be too mature for his age. Why did the master still insist on calling him a kid?

 

Well, since he'd helped once before, helping a second time wouldn't hurt.

 

In the end, he did save Fitch. One wrong step led to another, and before he knew it, he was constantly cleaning up Fitch's messes.

 

Habit became second nature. Every day, during snack time, he would go find Fitch. That perpetually tearful face began to smile more often around him—a bright and innocent smile. Sometimes, he even caught himself blushing.

 

Bude remained the blade combat instructor. He had seen, more than once, Bude's expressionless face as he watched Fitch slowly learn not to cry. On that cold and distant visage, a complicated emotion would surface.

 

When Fitch no longer cried, he began to resemble Bude. His beautiful features, still a bit chubby and tender, suggested that he might one day possess the same breathtaking allure.

 

Every day, he brought sweets and snacks to Fitch. They would share the treats and chat. Fitch was an incredibly naïve child—he would cling to anything he liked and avoid anything he disliked. And he always ended up crying and complaining to him about the grueling training.

 

"Vito, is it nice to be a watch-dog?" Fitch nibbled on the pumpkin pie he had brought, a smudge of cream on his nose. Vito leaned over and licked it off.

 

"It's not bad, but it's troublesome," he replied. Especially his master—so meddlesome! How could someone slice a man's throat without a flicker of emotion, then stroll into a church to help repair some stained glass? And always sending him on errands—what a headache!

 

"I hate being hungry." Fitch spoke with his mouth full, words garbled. A year ago, Vito would have found it disgusting, but now he thought it was rather cute.

 

"You need to learn to protect your own interests. I can't always help you." He wiped the cream off Fitch's nose again, licking it from his fingers. The familiar sweetness now carried a strange, bittersweet undertone.

 

He never tired of teaching Fitch these things. As a watch-dog, he felt lucky to have a good master, but beyond that, he knew he had to handle his own troubles.

 

Fitch's dependency was too strong. He had heard that Fitch's mother used to whisper to him constantly:

"You are Mommy's treasure. You are Mommy's most precious possession—the one and only. You don't need to go anywhere, think about anything, just stay by Mommy's side."

 

What a powerful desire to possess. Fitch had been perfectly molded into someone who couldn't do anything without companionship or guidance. It was dangerous—especially with the watch-dog candidate trials coming up. One misstep in those brutal fights could mean death.

 

Fitch's pink lips were smudged with cream, pouting slightly. His amber eyes blinked hard as he tilted his head and looked at Vito. "Vito, why won't you help me? Don't you like me?"

 

He had once hated this ugly, always-crying brat. But what about now? Silently, he bit into the pumpkin pie, his gaze fixed on that face—adorable when not crying, blessed with Bude's exquisite genes.

 

"I do like you." He reached out again, wiping the cream from Fitch's lips. Though they were both just kids, he suddenly felt shy, not daring to lick his fingers this time.

 

"Then why won't you help me? They always bully me, steal my food, ruin my things. It hurts so much when they hit me."

 

"You can fight back. Didn't Mr. Zuo teach you all hand-to-hand combat techniques? Even if you're smaller, his style is perfect for you." It wasn't that Vito didn't want to help—he simply knew he couldn't.

 

Learning to solve problems on your own is the only path to growing stronger. In this world, most of the time, you stand alone.

 

"You don't like me!" Fitch's lips trembled, and his amber tears welled up before spilling over as he began to cry.

 

Vito ruffled his brown curls, sighing in frustration. He had no idea how to comfort Fitch. What a headache... Fitch was still so young. Not everyone could be like him—a precociously mature child.

 

As Vito's refusals grew more frequent, Fitch gradually clung to him less. Though they still shared snacks every day, Fitch often seemed distracted.

 

One day, Fitch didn't show up at their meeting spot, leaving Vito with a hollow ache in his chest.

 

He later heard that Mr. Bude had taken Fitch to live with him. His chances to see Fitch dwindled, often reduced to watching from afar as Fitch shadowed Bude, guarding Young Master Tengshe.

 

Father and son weren't particularly close, but their interactions were no longer so cold. Maybe this was for the best. Mr. Bude could teach Fitch to be strong.

 

After that, Vito never kept candies in his pocket again.

 

Months later, Bude was dead—shot seven times by an enemy. Just like Mr. Alexander.

 

At the funeral, Vito saw Fitch again. His amber eyes were swollen from crying, his small frame trembling as he leaned against Young Master Tengshe.

 

"Shh, don't be sad. I'll avenge Bude. You don't have to think about anything. Just stay by my side." As Vito walked by, he heard Tengshe's soothing voice.

 

Fitch's little head nodded gently, his amber eyes dazed and dreamlike, focused entirely on Tengshe. It was as if his whole world lay within that space, unshakable by anything else.

 

Vito fled the chapel, running to the spot where he and Fitch used to share snacks, where he doubled over and vomited.

 

It was only then that he realized he liked Fitch. Somewhere along the way, without noticing... Yet the love he had to offer was not the love Fitch needed.

 

At thirteen, his first love had begun without him knowing—and ended just as senselessly.

 

He never liked anyone else after that. Never, not even once.

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