All the Devil's Men: Chapter Three Sunday, July 12, 2026

Please be warned this novella contains scenes dealing with violence, profanity, drug and sex abuse that may cause some readers distress. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. It is an imaginary work of cautionary fiction.

A Strange Threesome | (Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows — The Tempest, II, ii, 40-41)

Chapt 2 | Contents | Chapt 4

ara piloted his plane from the watery runway of the reservoir to the dark ocean of air.

Once takeoff procedures had been completed, and on auto-pilot, he patted the Italian next to him on the head. These Italians sure were proud fuckers. When Dara had plucked him out of the car and taken him to his cabin, he had recognised, with a hunter's calm, the kind of man who wouldn't beg or ask for permission to survive.

The threat of torture hadn't moved him to talk.

The threat of taking his head off his shoulders, however, slowly, in small increments, until he begged for death. Now, that had made him talk.

He patted the Italian's head again. It was wrapped in tarp. It would be his gift to this Enzo character his late Italian passenger had spoken so much about.

When he'd heard about the underboss and his fixation with Dante, it had lit a whirlwind of fires inside his mind. In retaliation, he'd burn down Rome to rival Nero's inferno, he promised himself. Beginning with the bodies at the reservoir. It was the first of many funeral pyres Dara hoped to start, but he'd realised after his clean up job that he'd have to call in a few favours to help gather the kindling he'd need.

Deep in thought, his radar blocker kicked in, beeping monotonously to give the carrier's camouflage an ominous heartbeat. He looked down at the distant ground. Watching, but not really registering, as the landscapes below shifted from green fields to blue seas to the sprawling cities of the European continent. He caught glimpses of the Mediterranean, and came to his senses, feeling a pang of longing for Dante and the dreams of visiting his friend's sun-drenched island home.

But at least Dante was alive.

And if not to Sicily, Dara was bound for Rome, to free his friend and—

And what, Dara?

That voice in his head. The voice of his conscience or his heart. He was never quite sure which, only ever sure it irritated the fuck out of him.

Aren't you secretly happy that Cillian is dead? Now you have Dante to yourself.

He twisted the throttle of his plane, going into a sudden nosedive.

Killing yourself isn't going to change the truth. Or save Dante, is it?

He corrected his descent, then, skimming over shabby tenements and ancient ruins, until he manually operated his floatplane's landing wheels into position, and touched down at a small airport outside Rome. Siobhan's intel had told him it belonged to the Caruso family.

It was only right they be hospitable, he told himself. They'd be having him as a guest in their home very soon, anyway.

He twirled the black crucifix that hung around his neck.

Very soon, indeed.

                  ngelo kissed Dante's shoulder.

                           "You taste of me," he sighed. "I wonder, do I taste of you?"

                            He offered his own shoulder playfully, but Dante silently moved away from him to pour the last of the wine into their glasses. He stared at Dante, intently, but Dante would not look at him.

"Do you remember this?" He asked patiently, pulling up part of his shirt to reveal a long healed scar over his heart.

It was in the shape of a hole. The size of a nail.

"Your silence hammers its nails into me more than your words ever could. Will you not speak to me, Dante?"

But Dante handed him a glass without saying a word. Angelo pushed it away, kneeling beside him, placing a hand on his arm.

"Then let your lips say what it is I need to hear, caro mio."

In desperation, he cupped the back of Dante's head with his free hand, holding him in place as his other arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him flush against him. He kissed him, but the kiss was unreturned; he deepened the kiss, but it failed to melt the coldness that emanated from Dante, and relenting, Angelo curled up into his arms.

"Please speak to me. Tell me you forgive me, per favore."

Dante stared down at him, then, with an intense stare that seemed to look right through him. He still said nothing, but tears had formed around his eyes that said enough.

"Do not look at me like that!" Angelo cried. "Do not pity me."

Dante backed away from him. Further and further away.

He reached out to pull him back, regretting his remarks, but Dange was out of reach. He dropped his arms to his sides.

"I do not want your pity," he repeated, feeling helpless, and feeling ashamed for being unable to hide his helplessness. "Anything but your pity."

"I can't deny it, brother. You do look pitiful."

"What-?!"

In place of where Dante had stood, stood Baba Mamba, with a glass of wine in his hand.

"How? Where?"

"How and where, indeed. We have places to go and people to see. Now, wake the fuck up."

And Baba Mamba proceeded to throw the wine in his face.

ante opened his eyes to find a man he did not recognise staring at him. Dressed in an expensive suit, sharp-featured, with eyes like polished steel.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Domenico," he said.

Dante recognised the voice. It was the man from the plane.

"Why did you bring me here?"

The man smiled. It wasn't a pleasant one. "Have you not been told? You are the esteemed guest of our underboss."

Dante remembered. So, it wasn't a dream. "Lor— Enzo?"

He nodded. "Many of my friends died because we brought you here. I hope it was worth it."

Railing against his restraints, Dante protested, "I am sorry for your friends, but I did not ask to come here."

He stared at Dante, as though suddenly aware that he was naked, and in chains. "But here you are. I wonder what is so special about you?"

"Release me, now," Dante said. There was no fear, or desperation in his voice. It was his fiery temper that spoke.

"I could give you some sort of release," Domenico replied in a mocking tone. His smile turned even more unpleasant. He reached out and placed a finger on Dante's left nipple, tracing a line down to his belly button. "Enzo would never have to know I played with his toy."

"I am no one's toy," Dante said. He had no idea what time it was; he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. But his slow burning rage had taken hold, and it kept the effects of his hardship at bay.

Domenico took a step closer. His hands began to probe Dante's body. "I will make you mine."

Dante prayed inwardly for forgiveness. Out loud, he said, "Don't do this. Let me go. Back home."

"You have nothing to go back to," Domenico said without thinking, his hands grasping and stroking at Dante's thighs.

"What do you mean?" Dante felt something snap in him, could almost hear it, like a piano wire. He knew what this man meant. In that moment, the fire of his rage began to burn ice cold.

Domenico gave a chuckle from low in his throat. He loosened his grip on Dante, and pulled back to watch his reaction. "They're all dead. Your family. We killed them all."

Dante went stone still for a moment, as he had when Enzo had tried to kiss him. A victim of Medusa.

"You lie," he said. His voice was emotionless. His eyes expressionless. But his hands were pulling at his restraints with all his strength. The more Dante resisted his chains, the more they tightened. His wrists had begun to bleed.

Domenico shook his head, slowly, tauntingly from side to side, for greater effect. "It was seeing pictures of your husband wearing the crucifix Enzo gave you. It drove him mad."

"I don't believe you," Dante said, wishing it were not true. But in his heart, he knew. Cillian was dead. His parents were dead. Because of him.

"Next time you see Enzo, ask him to show you the crucifix. I took it off your husband and placed it around his neck with these very hands." He reached out to Dante again.

"Don't touch me," he warned. "I ask you for a last time. Let me go, and I will go in peace."

Domenico's unpleasant smile, which had never really left, returned in full force. "Is that a threat?"

"No," said Dante, quietly slipping his wrists out from his restraints. The intended bleeding had provided the effect of a lubricant as he had hoped. "I do not make threats. But I keep my promises."

Domenico had not noticed Dante free himself from his chains. He did not see what hit him, either.

                  ngelo opened his eyes, startled, and shook his head.

                           He was wet. Someone had thrown wine over him.

                            Not wine. Water. He stared up at the face of the culprit, and wondered whether he was still dreaming. "Baba? How did you find me?"

"Oh, I have my ways and means," Dean said, mysteriously, putting his bottle of water on the ground and helping Angelo to his feet. "But seeing you like this, my friend, I wish I hadn't found you."

"I wish the same," he coughed.

You do not know how much I wish you were a dream, he thought.

He looked down at his tattered clothes, now damp, and asked, a little irritated, "If you will not tell me how, Baba, will you tell me why you found me?"

"First, stop calling me Baba. I don't go by that name no more." Dean put a hand into his puffa jacket's pocket and took out Angelo's crucifix. "Second, this." He offered the keepsake, as though holding it any longer was going to burn a hole into his palm.

Angelo stared at his Mama's memento, but he didn't take it. His Mama had died a year ago.

"Surely, you didn't come all the way to Rome to give me this? I cannot go back to Downland, you know that."

Dean grinned. "Our bosses are gone, brother. You don't owe anyone anything in Downland no more." He told Angelo about the Bull of Blacklion. "Now, you gonna take this, or what?"

Angelo took the crucifix, but he didn't hang it around his neck. "Why did he let you go?"

Dean's grin dropped. "I didn't want Dante dead, so he did me a favour."

"Ah, I see," he said. A sudden surge of emotion roughened the signature softness in his voice. He swallowed down his anger. "And h-how is Dante?"

"It was him that told me to give you this back. I gave it to him after you left."

Angelo nodded, but said nothing.

"I'm different now," Dean said, putting his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched.

"Yes, but I am the same," Angelo replied. "As you left me."

He placed the crucifix around his neck.

Dante.

Goodbye forever. Dante's final words to him. Now in his dreams, Dante never spoke. And his silence hammered nails into his heart harder than his words ever had. Or ever could.

He wished he could have forgotten him.

But how did you forget? How did you stop dreaming about someone you loved more than your own life? He thought of him every waking moment, but it was that last time they saw each other he always remembered first. The shame of it had seared the memory into his mind.

Dante recognising him on the motorbike. The pity in Dante's eyes.

God, the pity.

He would have preferred to see hate or anger on Dante's face for the attempt on his life.

He saw the same shame in Baba Mamba's eyes. But he saw Dante's pity in them, too.

As the silence between them grew, the sounds of Rome intruded, and people began to stare at them. A black man throwing water on a homeless, sleeping Italian was starting to catch the attention of a few shop owners. One proprietor, a local butcher, was making his way towards them with a large meat cleaver in his hand.

Angelo put a hand up at the approaching man. "Va tutto bene. È mio amico," he said.

"I've discovered I'm not very welcome in Rome," Dean whispered, not looking at the man, who gave a slight nod of the head at Angelo's assurances. He shot Dean a look of disgust, spat on the floor and turned to walk back to his shop.

"Don't take it personally. They don't know you like I do," Angelo said, and the sarcasm in his voice didn't go unnoticed. "So, you came to apologise and make me your right-hand man again?"

"No. I'm no longer a king of Downland, brother."

"Baba giving up his crown? So, you have changed."

"Call me Dean, man."

"You'll always be Baba to me, Dean."

Flashing images of his punishment in the tunnel attacked his consciousness. What happened to him in Downland would lie between them like a sword, until one of them had the courage to pick it up. But then, who knew what would happen?

Dean looked around at the pointed glances of the passersby, wishing they were anywhere, but in these unfamiliar surroundings. "I get it, man. You don't know how sorry I am, and there's no way I can say sorry for something when it ain't enough. I don't ask for forgiveness, because it ain't deserved."

Angelo patted himself down, looking for a cigarette. Felt to see if the one behind his ear was still there. "Is it not strange how when sorry is not enough, sorry is all one can say, Baba?"

"I was following orders, man," Dean said, the tone in his voice spoke of regret, but also of something else. Of a real desire for forgivenesss.

Angelo caught the change in tone, and appraised him fully. He noticed the subtle differences in gait and speech from the Baba Mamba he had worked for back in Downland, which had escaped him at first.

But what was done was done. It could not be undone.

"Orders I would not have followed," he said.

Dean nodded, pulling the hoodie of his puffa jacket over his head, "I know it. You said I would pay for it. And you were right. About many things that day, brother. Believe me. I carry it with me, and I will until the day I die."

Angelo took the half burnt cigarette stub from behind his ear, straighted it and placed it between his lips. "I would cry for you, but I have no tears left, not even for myself."

In his mind, he grasped the sword of his unspoken trauma. Should he wield it? "But, Baba, I think, it was more than just orders that made you do what you did that day."

Dean ignored Angelo's comments this time. It was justified. There was nothing to say. This was why he hadn't tried to look for him before now, and was beginning to think it had been a bad idea. There were things in his heart, which he hadn't the courage to face himself. He took out a Zippo lighter from his jacket pocket, and flicking open its lid, sparked it up, offering it to Angelo.

If they couldn't be friends, then perhaps they could be allies.

"What if I told you that I need your help?"

Angelo lit his cigarette from the Zippo's flame, inhaling the scent of lighter fluid and fire. After blowing out a large plume of smoke from his lungs, he indicated the cardboard box he slept in, and the state of his ragged clothes. "I am of no help to anyone. I am a beggar on the streets of Rome. How can I help you?"

Dean flicked the lid of lighter shut. "What if I told you Dante needs our help?"

aruso sat at his desk. His eyes were locked onto the past, present and undecided future, his thoughts wandering aimlessly amongst unspoken concerns as he looked down at the glass of bourbon in his hands.

He was drinking too much these days.

Glancing up at the clock, he could not relax. Everything needed to be ready and in order for tonight.

Fortune favours the bold.

He would need to be bold all right. He would need balls of fucking steel. He looked down. His robe had begun to become undone.

Maybe he should have got dressed for this meeting. Between him and Carlito De Luca.

They weren't the best of friends, they were the best of enemies. But enemies with a common cause. Making money. The Irishman had already made his presence known, had begun cutting supply lines. Hitting the other families, telling them, in no uncertain terms, to keep out of the fight between the Casa Nera and the Bull of Blacklion.

Now, Carlito, the appointed spokesmen for the other families was requesting for a come to Jesus moment.

Not requesting. Demanding.

As if on cue, there was a knock on the study door.

Caruso put his glass down. "Enter," he said.

The door clicked open and his young henchman and a large, well groomed man walked through eclipsing the doorway behind him. Carlito "the Wall" De Luca. His face spoke a thousand unspeakable words.

But he spoke a few of them now. "Chi cazzo credi di essere?"

"Calm down, Carlito. Sit down," he said, trying to remain calm himself. He did not get up in greeting, and was not sure whether his fear or anger would take hold. But he felt his balls shrink back under his robe.

"Calm down? Do you know what the fuck you're doing?" The large man's expressive arms flung out to his sides, almost knocking the young guard off his feet. Carlito pushed him away from him.

"Tell me. What have I done?" Caruso managed to maintain his composure as he spoke. He waved at the young guard to leave them, and indicated for Carlito to sit opposite him.

The incensed Don ignored the invite of the chair facing him, and lowered his large frame down on the leather couch, instead. Its frame creaked painfully under his weight. "Perché cazzo non me l’hai detto?"

Caruso ignored the slight, and the hysteria. He spoke in a gentle manner that belied his own quickly dissipating patience. "And what is it I am supposed to have kept from my brother, eh?"

Carlito's black eyes glinted red, but his voice softened, suddenly, too. "Do you know why we call you un Greco, Caruso?"

He knew where this was heading, and he did not like it. Still, he said, "My love for the classics?"

Carlito shook a large, fat hand at the tapestries hanging on the wall. "It is your love of something, but not the classical, brother. And do you know why we tolerate your tastes? Because of your name and your influence, but there is a limit."

Caruso stood up, his patience finally worn thin. His robe parted. His dangling balls had resumed their normal size. "And what is that limit, De Luca?"

Before Carlito could reply, there was a soft knock at the study door. It opened without waiting for a call to enter.

It was Enzo. Caruso smiled, as he watched Carlito's demeanour change.

"Enzo, my son. You are just in time. Don De Luca here was about to tell us we have exceeded our limits."

Enzo closed the study door behind him, and walked over to the desk. "I see. And what are these limits?"

The Wall began to shit bricks. "I think Don Caruso misunderstood me," he said, starting to sweat profusely. He took a handkerchief from his suit jacket's top pocket, and began to wipe his brow. "You have a problem, and it has become our problem. It is bad for business. And we do not want to be involved."

"This problem, as you say, is affecting all of us. Rest assured, I will deal with it," Enzo said, pouring himself a drink.

Caruso sat back down at his desk. "There, you see? My son has said he will deal with it. And it will be dealt with."

Carlito looking unsure, asked, "When?"

"Tonight," Enzo said, taking a sip of his drink.

"And our guarantee?" Carlito asked again, with the same look of uncertainty.

"Guarantee?" Enzo's eyes seemed to go dead for a moment. He placed his glass on the desk. "Is my word not enough Don De Luca?"

Carlito stopped wiping his furrowed brow. "The word of a— a—"

"A what?" Enzo snapped, unable to restrain himself, two large veins appearing at his temples. "The way I heard it, all the families sold us out, out of fear of one Irishman. Why should I take the word of un fottuto codardo that the families will not stab us in the back while it is turned to face our problem?"

"Why you upstart! Who are you to call me a coward? We are taking a back seat in this, because no one had the fucking courtesy to ask us if we wanted to go along for the ride!" Carlito placed his hands on either side of his massive thighs, and pushed himself up from the couch. He towered over Caruso and his second-in-command, going for his sidearm, only to remember in the next instant that he'd left it outside with the guard.

Enzo, calmly, took a step closer to the Wall, ignoring their differences in size, to shield Caruso, who had flinched involuntarily at Carlito's outburst. "I said I'll deal with it. Just don't ask for a fucking receipt if you're too scared to come along for the ride," he said, looking up at him, straight in the eye.

"Vattelo a pigliare in culo!" Carlito spat out, but made no move to raise a hand to Enzo, and kept his arms at his sides.

"Oh, porca puttana! Everyone just calm the fuck down!"

This time, it was Caruso that interjected, getting back up to stand in between his rock and a hard place.

"I could speak the language you understand De Luca, and be biblical, and tell you we shall serve the Bull's head on a platter, as John the Baptist's was presented to Salome. But I shall talk of the classics, instead I think."

Carlito waved a hand in the air, dismissively. "Talk of what you want. But talk of results."

Caruso poured himself a large whiskey, before he spoke. "You know the tale of Ulysses in Roman mythology, the Greek Odysseus?"

Carlito's eyes scanned the tapestries on the walls with a look of pure disgust, again. "Well?"

Caruso looked down into the amber liquid in his glass, as though he were divining the future. "The Greeks admired his cunning and deceit, so he is a hero to them. The Romans did not, because of their rigid sense of honour."

"As it should be," Carlito smirked, smugly. "What of it?"

"My son Enzo is my Odysseus, although you might call him Ulysses. He is smart and he is cunning. But he is a man of honour. If he says our troubles will be over by tonight, then believe him. He will get you the results you seek."

Carlito seemed to be pacified by Caruso's words, but pointed a finger at both of them. "I will take your word for it, but if he fails, then don't expect a homecoming, capisci che?"

Enzo took a last step closer, and said in a very low voice, "If I fail to end the Bull, Don De Luca, I can guarantee you there will be no homecoming. For anyone."

Carlito began to sweat again, as he made his way to the door. "I don't like threats," he said.

"My threats are like my promises. I don't make any I can't keep. And I guarantee you that."

"The night is still young. We shall see what will happen before the night is out." And without waiting for a response, he opened the door and strode out, slamming it shut behind him.

Enzo turned to look at Caruso.

The silence that fell after Carlito's departure was deafening. Only the long case clock ticked. Measuring the time that might be running out.

For both of them.

ante stood in the flickering shadows, his bare feet pressing against the damp grit of the floor. He heaved in slow, shallow breaths, and took a moment to reflect.

Why did the shadows flicker? A light source? A way out?

He put a hand out to touch the brick work, his wrists bandaged with fragments of Domenico's shirt, but still dripping with blood. He closed his eyes, as though he were trying to feel the pulse of the architecture, treating the wall like a living organism. It steadied his breathing.

"You will not get away," groaned Domenico, slowly coming around to find himself trussed up in the same way Dante had been moments before.

"That is for God to decide, not us," Dante said, "but I shall try."

Dante's rage had kept him encased in its ice. It was not like the fire of his youth in Siciliy. It did not run. It walked. And it gave him time to think. Downland had, indeed, changed him.

He approached Domenico.

"I do not fear death," Domenico said, watching Dante, waiting for the killing blow.

oss and underboss did not speak, but the air had changed in the study. It was full. Thick. Laden with the familiar moments of what was shared at times like these. Shared but never openly mentioned. Enzo looked down at the Ottoman rugs. Reliving a memory of pain that in time had turned to pleasure.

Caruso asked, quietly, "Is the night still young, my son?"

"For another drink?" Enzo replied, knowingly. "Sì, papà, if it is prepared by your hands."

He saw Caruso harden under his robe, and turned to lock the door, before walking over to his drink on the desk. He handed it to Caruso, who took it and opening a drawer brought out a small sachet of powder. Tore its seam and tapped its white contents into the bourbon. Gave the glass and its contents a swirl.

Enzo lit a cigarette, took in a deep breath, held the burn, and then blew out smoke through his nostrils, as he watched the ritual he had seen a thousand times. First resisting. Then resentful. Finally relenting.

Caruso returned and handed over the glass. They never broke eye contact as Enzo took the drink and swallowed it down.

"I liked what you said about Odysseus," was all he said, as he crushed his cigarette out into a marble ashtray, and went over to the couch to take his usual position.

Saying nothing, but feeling everything, the Don followed behind him. With a sudden urgence, he grabbed at Enzo's belt and pulled his trousers down, exposing his bare behind. He smacked both hands on Enzo's rounded cheeks, and spread them wide, squeezing at the sinewy, muscled flesh.

It was time to ride the Devil.

"Bend your knees," Caruso said. His voice was hard. Stern. Commanding.

Enzo bent his knees as ordered, and as he sensed Caruso shift, he sucked in a deep breath. A moment later, Caruso forced his way into him with one long, deep thrust, the old man's fists pummelling at his back to arch and deepen his entry. Feeling its full length push to fill him as it emptied his soul, he gritted his teeth, bowed his head, and clenched his fingers into his palms, drawing blood.

The Don pushed. On repeat. Slowly. Relentlessly.

Again. And again.

But Enzo was dry. His body refused to yield. The drink had not helped. There was a third person between them. Down in the cellar. Chained and alone.

Enzo could not erase the image of Dante. The way he had looked at him. The question he could not answer.

Who have you killed for me?

"Relax, my son," Caruso growled, driving his hips further forward, leaning down to grab Enzo’s crotch, slowly massaging, but straining to harden him despite the Don's expertise.

It was all too clear that Enzo's body was unwelcoming, and it began to be painful for the both of them.

"Enough," Caruso said in a gruff tone, pulling away. "Leave me now. We will talk later, after it is all over."

Without making eye contact, Enzo picked himself up. He said hoarsely, "It's been a long day. I have a lot to deal wi-"

"I said enough." Caruso wrapped his robe around his waist, and turned his back on him. "Later. Go now."

"As you wish."

The conversation over, Enzo walked out without saying another word, his excuses left as unfinished as the Don's desires.

It looked like there were some promises the Devil could not deliver, after all.

                  ngelo knew the truth of what Baba Mamba was saying the moment he heard the name Enzo Caruso.

                           The Caruso family of the Casa Nera was one of the most feared syndicates in the city.

                            What he didn't understand was Dante's involvement with Enzo Caruso. "I never heard Dante mention—"

He stopped suddenly. Remembering. A moment with Dante. A last, sweet moment in Dante's kitchen. The last morning they had spent together.

Dean asked, "What is it?"

The dethroned king of his streets and his once loyal right hand man were sitting at the Antico Caffè Greco, nestled in the shade, in the heart of Rome, close to the Spanish Steps that descended towards the Piazza di Spagna. The old world charm of the coffee bar was etched into its marble and velvet papered interior, and contrasted with them and the modern world that fluttered past them as they sat; tourists, local shoppers and pigeons all cooing softly in unison, a symphony playing out amidst the hubbub of Roman life.

But Angelo was far away in their distant past. In a distant place. Downland. With the one they had called the Devil.

"Enzo is short for Lorenzo. Dante spoke about a Lorenzo in his past." Angelo did not say any more. But his hand went to his Mama's crucifix around his neck, instinctively.

"What the fuck could Dante have done to piss this Enzo off?"

"I do not think it is what he did, but what he did not do," Angelo said cryptically, not feeling the need to share Dante's personal matters any further. The conversation between them had been private. It would stay that way.

"Now whose being mysterious," Dean said, rolling his eyes, annoyed. "I told you how I came to find you."

"This is not the same," he replied, defensively.

"Indeed," said Dara, walking over with three caffè americanos. His huge frame attracted glances from the other customers at the bar. He ignored them. He was used to the attention.

Apparently, now even more so.

A blond Irish giant. A British black boy. A homeless Italian. The oldest cafe in Rome was hosting the oddest threesome within its ancient walls. Who could blame them for being curious?

aruso. When Enzo had been given the Don's family name, he had felt proud.

He finally had the power to change the world.

So he and Dante could live in it.

But when he went looking for him, he had not expected to find him in Ireland. Married and happy. With an Irish husband wearing the crucifix he had given Dante.

A token to remember their first experience of physical love under the stars. Celestial firmaments that tormented him every night afterwards. Reminding him of what he had left behind. Of what had left him behind.

He combed his hair back with his hand, in rough, frustrated motions. Looked up at the opulent ceiling. Of a mansion that would, in time, be his.

It seemed that Dante had not changed the world, but had changed himself enough to find happiness within it.

Without him.

What did the name of Caruso mean to him, without Dante to share it?

He sighed, took off his shirt. Cracked his knuckles. Stretched. His lean, muscular physique seemed to ripple under his skin.

He needed some sleep to recharge for the night ahead. He lay down on his ornate four-poster bed. His crucifix was back around his neck again. But he was not contented. He felt uneasy.

Even with Dante here, things were not going according to his plans.

All the nights in this bed, thinking how to bring Dante back into his life again, he had never envisaged it would turn out this way. With Dante chained up in the cellar of the Villa Nera. He should be here lying against him. Not some cold wall. Chained to him in bed. Submitting to him. Skin held captive to skin, soul bound to soul, linked so tightly together that not even Lucifer himself could break them apart. Sharing again what they once shared when the world was new to them.

Before Lorenzo had left for Rome. Before Vittorio Caruso had found him. Made him into this Enzo.

A man feared by all. A man who never failed. So, what had gone wrong? Was it the fault of their stars? Or the fault of their love?

No. Never their love. He remembered that night, again, how he had told Dante he was leaving for Rome, and how Dante had stood up, angrily. His naked body encircled by the moonlight. Shining like the brightest star amongst the dark pantheon of stars above him.

He remembered their words to each other.

We cannot change the world, Dante. We can only live in it.

I do not want to change the world. I only want to live in it as the man I am.

Then come with me. If you love me.

I cannot love a coward, Lorenzo. If you are brave, you will stay and I will see you tomorrow. If not, then do not ever come back.

He had not been brave. He had left. And had no intention of returning to their village. But as the years went on, it become apparent he could not love anyone else again. Dante had chained him to stars forever out of the reach of anyone else. Now he wanted Dante to wear his chains, but willingly. Submit to him freely. Out of love.

Until then, he could not bring himself to release him from his bonds below. Because he had to be sure he would not try to escape. Because of the question he could not answer.

Who have you killed for me?

He knew he would have to tell Dante of the fate of his family in Ireland, eventually. But he planned to tell him in his own time. After he had made him fall in love with him again. Made him forget his old life and embrace his new one. With him.

To tell him now, would be to light the fuse of hatred in those beautiful, defiant eyes, which he had first fallen in love with across a small village market place, and start a fire with no recourse.

He reached across to his bedside table to the stand of an antique lamp for the packet of cigarettes that lay there. He shook it.

Empty.

Irritated, he stood up, and went over to his jacket, draped across a studded, alligator leather ottoman at the end of his bed.

But love was a fire, too. He knew its burn only too well. He would fight fire with fire. Ignite his fire inside Dante to stop the other fire that had been lit under Don Caruso's orders from destroying their happiness.

I have killed for you.

Yes. He had killed for Dante. Killed the soldier that had planted the bomb without telling him. Every order went through the underboss, and yet Don Caruso had altered his plans and interfered in his dreams without his knowledge. He had mixed feelings about it, but how could he tell Dante he had no say in the killings? That would be a different type of betrayal. A betrayal of the man who made him. A betrayal of the Casa Nera. He loved all three.

Finding his cigarettes, he placed one between his lips. He flipped open the lid of a gold lighter. A present from Don Caruso. It did not light. After a few attempts, he threw it across the room.

He breathed in. Long and deep. Blew out empty air.

In his intial plans, Dante was just meant to disappear during one of his morning walks, with no one the wiser. It was only the Irishman they called the Bull that he had wanted to kill.

Because he knew the Bull was like him.

After Dante's disappearance, he would not have stopped looking. And he would have found him.

I would have done the same, he thought, going back to bed, his cigarette left unlit. He closed his eyes to welcome sleep, and the dreams of unchaining Dante.

Now, I must kill this Bull of Blacklion, or be killed by him, he thought, losing himself to starlight and fire.

For fate was a fire, too. And there could be only one outcome.

He refused to run away from it. He would face it.

Not as Enzo Caruso. But as a Sicilian. As Dante's Lorenzo.

Published 12 July, 2026

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