Chapter 142: The Birth of the Devil They Feared

TW: Graphic animal death/injury (mercy killing), blood.

?•???°???°???•-

[Lorenzo Castelli]

Lorenzo suddenly realized that telling his childhood story was going to be a lot trickier than threatening someone with a gun.

Maybe it was those gorgeous grey eyes of Alex’s, which had an annoying habit of making Lorenzo feel like every wall he’d built around himself was suddenly see-through.

Alex’s fingers gently traced one of the scars on Lorenzo’s chest, brushing the uneven edge in a way that made Lorenzo’s throat tighten.

Now, Alex was waiting patiently for Lorenzo to share his thoughts. He looked curious enough to fire off a dozen questions but considerate enough not to rush him.

Eventually, Lorenzo said, "I suppose I should tell you more about myself."

Alex’s expression softened. "That’s good, go ahead."

"People thought I was an odd kid long before anything bad happened to me."

Alex blinked before a smile broke out. "I can totally see that, Dracula. You turned out to be this intimidating mafia Don who treats smiles like they’re a rare luxury. I always figured you came into the world in a tailored suit, judging the doctors."

Lorenzo shot him a dry look, even as the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.

"I was just a normal baby, you know. Should I reconsider sharing this story?"

"No, keep going! I’m invested now and don’t want to miss out on exclusive childhood tales about my terrifying Dracula."

Lorenzo shook his head, but Alex’s playful expression lightened the mood, making the memory feel less daunting. His husband wasn’t laughing at him; that made all the difference.

"I was nine years old," he began, his voice lowering as he gazed out the window. "We still lived in the old mansion in Italy back then, before my father moved us to the estate we call home now."

As he spoke, the years between that quiet morning and his childhood started to blur.

???•?•???

The old Castelli mansion nestled in the Italian hills, surrounded by the trees and meticulously maintained gardens, where even the flowers seemed to behave.

The pale stone walls kept the rooms cool in summer, while the long corridors carried the scents of polished wood, expensive perfume, and whatever the kitchen was cooking that day.

Lorenzo had always a soft spot for the mansion, especially the library. The tall bookshelves and heavy curtains created a cozy little nook where all he had to do was turn pages quietly.

He had always been a serious child who preferred to observe first before diving into anything, a behavior that adults often found strange.

Kids were supposed to be noisy and sometimes destructive, which Lorenzo never understood.

He noticed things others missed, like how the maids would lower their voices when he walked into a room or how certain guests smiled at him with a sort of polite caution.

One maid, Teresa, always looked a bit relieved when he thanked her for his books, while another once crossed herself when she thought he wasn’t looking.

He even spent an afternoon wondering if he’d accidentally scared one of them by asking for an extra blanket.

His brothers, on the other hand, seemed to know how to put people at ease without even trying.

Dante, at eleven, could charm adults with a smile, while Matteo, bursting with enthusiasm at six, could drag anyone into his wacky ideas. Together, they turned gardens into pirate islands, hallways into battlegrounds, and daily objects into tools for elaborate secret missions.

Lorenzo often watched them from afar, convincing himself that their games were childish and overly complicated for no reason, even though he secretly admired Dante’s confidence and wished he knew how to make friends as easily as he did.

One day, he stumbled upon them crouched behind a statue with a map spread out on the grass.

"We’re planning a mission," Dante said when he spotted Lorenzo.

"Hm, I can see that," Lorenzo replied.

"We need someone to keep watch while we sneak into the enemy base."

"But there’s no enemy base."

Matteo looked at him with the pity reserved for people who fail to grasp something so obvious. "That’s why it’s a secret, Enzo!"

Lorenzo glanced at the empty garden, then at their map, which featured a horse that seemed to be wearing a hat.

"Your route goes right by the kitchen entrance," he pointed out. "The housekeeper will catch you before you reach the fountain."

Dante blinked at him for a second before folding up the map. "You always ruin everything by thinking!"

Though his tone was casual, Lorenzo felt the disappointment. He had been sort of hoping they’d invite him to tag along.

He returned to the library, spending the next hour trying to read but not absorbing anything, which was frustrating. He hated wasting time.

He wanted to be like his brothers, though he’d rather swallow a book whole than admit it.

Sometimes, he worried that there was something about him that made people hesitate to include him.

His father praised his discipline and manners, and the staff admired his smarts, but praise rarely turned into warmth.

Lorenzo suspected that people found him easiest to love when he was being useful, quiet, and super well-behaved.

He tried not to let it bother him.

But trying not to care turned out to be much harder than simply not caring, a distinction he would take years to grasp.

Days later, Lorenzo had ventured beyond the gardens into the woods near the family crypt, carrying a notebook and the pocketknife his father had given him for his ninth birthday a few weeks ago.

He had read about a rare beetle that sometimes showed up under decaying bark in damp woodland, and he intended to find one before dinner.

The thought of discovering something unusual filled him with a quiet excitement he didn’t know how to share with anyone else.

The woods surrounding the Castelli mansion were gorgeous in the late afternoon, with sunlight filtering through leaves and highlighting patches of moss.

He could hear birds chirping in the distance. The old family crypt was further up the path, its weathered stone entrance partly covered with ivy.

He was almost at a fallen tree when he stopped, alerted by a low, distressed whimper.

He followed the sound through the underbrush and found a dog caught in an old metal trap.

Its hind leg was brutally mangled, the rusty jaws of the trap sunk deep into bone and shredded muscle, twisting the limb at an unnatural, sickening angle.

Dark blood pulsed steadily from the wound, pooling on the forest floor and soaking into the dirt in a widening, sticky crimson patch.

The dog’s ribs heaved with shallow, agonized pants, foam and saliva dripping from its jaws as it whimpered pitifully.

Its eyes, wide with terror and pain, rolled back as it tried and failed to lift its head, the effort sending fresh spasms through its broken body.

For a few seconds, Lorenzo was frozen.

He’d seen injured animals before but never one so broken, and it terrified him in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

He knelt beside it, careful not to touch its injured leg, and tried to pry the trap open, but it was stuck tight, and every movement made the dog whimper louder, its cries turning into high-pitched, guttural screams that cut through the quiet woods.

"Wait," he whispered, unsure if he was speaking to the dog or himself. "I’ll help you."

He tried pulling the trap apart, then used a fallen branch to push against the mechanism, but nothing worked.

The poor dog’s breathing became more erratic, wet and rattling, blood now flecking its muzzle with every labored exhale.

The injury was catastrophic, far worse than anything he could fix with a bandage or what he’d read in books.

He thought about running back to the mansion for help, but would there be enough time?

What if the dog didn’t survive long enough for someone to come?

He recalled reading how animals could suffer for hours in traps, and the thought of leaving this one alone to die slowly made his stomach churn.

He was only nine years old, scared, and completely unprepared for the choice he had to make.

Yet he made it.

Lorenzo pulled out the pocketknife from his coat, his hands shaking so much he almost dropped it, and knelt by the dog. He awkwardly stroked its head, unsure of how to comfort another living being, then whispered an apology that felt really tiny in the silence of the woods.

"I’m so sorry," he said quietly. "I don’t want you...to hurt anymore."

He did what he believed was the kindest thing he could do.

When it was over, Lorenzo stayed beside the dog for a long time, staring numbly at the blood on his hands while the woods continued around him like nothing had happened.