Silence remained.
It was deafening.
"Urgh.."
Then a groan.
Tony scanned the surroundings as best as he could in his position.
Silver eyes sharp and narrowing.
Eyes went to the place where the bullets had come from—above the building across the streets.
But he couldn't see beyond the pierced, shattered wall glass.
'They've become frosted from the cracks. What kind of fucking glass is it? Reinforced?'
But he was thankful for that.
Add the fact that there are high awnings and big umbrellas scattered outside the front entrance.
It stretched up to the long and wide open courtyard of the hotel.
And it ended before the open parking lot with tall high gates, cutting the streets.
Alvaro was still under him—trembling like a leaf.
Tony immediately pulled him in an angle where they couldn't be seen from above, taking with them a leg of a table, making it topple.
Using it a shield.
Hiding behind it.
Out of the sniper's visuals.
'Thank God for the useless decor.'
In between the front wall glass entrance, and the middle of the room, stood a single freestanding glass panel—some minimalist decor piece etched with the hotel's crest.
Cutting the entrance corridor like a transparent veil.
'It's a waste of money, but now, I think I'm getting one just like this when I build a home.'
Tony winced.
His brother's white dress shirt's arms and shoulders were painted in blood from broken pieces of glass and bullets that grazed him.
Mirroring his own—although he still wore a Luchese's black suit jacket.
His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts.
The pain from the graze helped Tony ground back to reality.
Freezing his blood.
Shoving the past trauma down.
Instinct kicking in.
The whole restaurant was a mess.
Broken tables, chairs that fell down from its upside down position from earlier.
Some furniture with bullets.
Feathers flying softly.
Small debris.
Glass pieces.
Even the heavy mahogany mahjong table was not left unscathed.
Bullets were deep seated on the green felt.
Mahjong tiles scattered.
Then he spotted Leandro.
Sprawled on the floor.
Unmoving.
Unconscious.
'No..'
He felt his heart twisted.
'No no no no no!'
It burned something within him.
Tony's breathing changed.
His own trauma rising from his throat.
His body was getting heavy.
Sweat rolled down from his forehead.
'Come on, Leandro. You're not fucking dead yet are you?'
He pinched himself.
Stopping his thoughts from spiraling.
'This isn't the time, Tony!' he scolded himself.
Then his gaze shifted.
Don Leon.
The old lion was now on his back.
Groaning.
Bleeding.
But fucking alive!
And he was awake.
His mind started to race.
Tony turned quickly to his brother.
"Are you okay?" he asked, voice low but urgent.
But Alvaro didn't respond.
Tony turned his brother's body to face him.
He didn't know whose clammy's skin was it.
Cold.
Sticky.
He didn't know—
His or Alvaro's—
It didn't matter.
He looked at Alvaro—whose eyes were wide, dazed with terror—chest hitching in shallow gasps.
'Fuck.'
Cursing, he tried to calm his brother.
Tony clenched his jaw.
"Listen to me. This—is—a—fucking—emergency," enunciating every word.
His tone was harsh, but it was the only thing he knew that could snap Alvaro out of it.
"Listen. Hey—fucking listen to me!" he shook his brother's shoulder, avoiding the graze of the bullet in Alvaro's body.
But Alvaro started to murmur to himself, not listening.
'He's panicking.'
Whole body was trembling.
"Hey! Alvaro—look at me!"
He tried catching his brother's gaze.
No dice.
He gripped his brother's arms.
Hard.
Pressing on Alvaro's wounds.
"Aagh!" his brother yelped.
Then finally, Alvaro's eyes locked with his.
"Antonio…"
Some clarity returned.
"Check on Leandro," Tony said, firm and commanding.
Alvaro blinked.
Searched the room, seeing their father on the floor across from them.
He was about to stand up when Tony yanked him down.
"Goddammit, Alvaro! Stay down! Do you want to be feasted with bullets? Snap out of it!"
His irritation flared.
Tempered only by fear.
Alvaro could only nod.
Gulping.
Tony exhaled.
Then, his silver eyes softened.
"Check on our father," he said again.
Gentler.
"You can do it, cry baby. Right?" he used Alvaro's pet name.
Alvaro's lips quivered.
But he nodded again.
"Good. Crawl. Stay low. And be careful. Use your body."
Tony kept his voice calm.
Controlled.
"Do you have your cell with you?" he asked.
Alvaro fumbled with his pockets.
Hands trembling.
Eyes suddenly went to his coat that was supposed to be hanging on the coat rack that was now on the floor.
Tony's eyes followed Alvaro's gaze.
Then he reached down to his own ankle holster.
Pulling out his satellite phone.
He pressed it into Alvaro's hand.
He held his brother's hand tightly.
"You can do this. Call for help," Tony looked outside, trying to find Santa De Leones men.
But all he can see are men in suits, black and gray sprawled outside.
Some were dead, some still moving but wounded.
Then he looked back at Alvaro.
His eyes were determined.
"Call for help once you get to father. Crawl. Head down, then push a table on its side for cover," he said, his voice stern.
Then locking eyes with him again, he added:
"And be careful."
Tony's hand went to the back of Alvaro's neck.
He gripped it.
He knew it was painful.
But he has to make a point.
Their eyes met.
Silver to gray.
"Be careful."
A quiet, firm goodbye.
Alvaro could only nod, then he moved.
He crawled with his body.
Slowly at first.
Inching his way toward Leandro.
Head low, moving with purpose.
Tony watched every agonizing second.
His eyes are aware of the surroundings.
Every small crunch of glass and scrape of debris made Tony flinch.
Once Alvaro reached Leandro, only then did Tony release his breath.
Then his attention turned to Don Leon.
The rise and fall of the old man's chest had slowed.
Shallow.
Ragged.
Tony immediately crawled to the old lion, not wasting more of his time.
Eyes peeled open.
Then—
Blood.
That was the first thing that hit him.
The coppery tang—thick and sour—invaded his nose.
It pooled beneath Don Leon's back, like a spilled wine from a broken chalice—an offering turned to tragedy.
Once he reached the Don—Tony carefully rolled his grandfather slightly onto his side—away from the wound.
Then he pulled him away from the glass wall, to a table that fell on its side, using it as a shield.
Leaving a trail of blood on the marbled floor.
He cradled the old lion's upper body in his arms as if it were made of glass.
His fingers pressed into the Don's back—the smell of 'their blood' is making Tony nauseous.
Tony searched for other bullet wounds.
None.
Just one.
At the Don's back.
But it was bad.
His fingers immediately went slick.
Sticky.
Warm.
It's pouring.
Don Leon's breathing came in short, wet gasps.
But he was conscious.
Tony looked his grandfather in the eyes.
It was glassy and glinting with pain.
His own throat tightened.
Then—
"Don't you fucking die on me old man!" he hissed.
Don Leon tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat and turned into a gurgle of blood.
Tony demanded, "Who would have done this?"
The Don only stared at Tony's silver eyes.
"Antonio.." Don Leon started saying.
"Don't speak!" Tony snapped back.
"Is it the Luchese? Or another family?" Tony's eyes scanned the surroundings again.
His eyes flicked toward Don fucking Federico Luchese—slumped on the floor.
Bleeding but alive.
The perverted old man had been thrown from his wheelchair.
'Good.'
Two of his men were down.
Dead.
But Don Federico's eyes burned.
Fear and rage.
Tony shifted like he was about to confront him—but a sudden grip on his arm stopped him cold.
Don Leon's fingers clutched his arm tightly.
The force was strong, like a metal.
But Tony's eyes were still locked on Federico.
The gun tucked on his waist behind him felt itchy.
It's digging into his back.
As if telling Tony it was there.
Ready to be use.
'I'd fucking kill him myself,' Tony's jaw clenched.
His eyes—murderous.
Remembering all the things he hated about Federico.
"Forget him," the Don rasped, "It's not him."
Tony looked down.
"Then who is it?"
A beat.
Don Leon struggled to move and breathe.
Then came a name that Tony didn't expect:
"Bernardo."
Tony froze.
Surprised.
Truly surprised.
"...What?"
His mind reeled.
"Why?" he demanded, "Why would he do this?"
His mind was already racing.
Trying to connect dots.
Then Tony remembered something just the other day.
Before he came to this blasted hotel for the fucking dinner party.
Flashes of Bernardo standing behind the old lion's study room window.
Their silent staring contest.
The way Bernardo stared at him then.
He looks like a goddamn heir surveying what was stolen.
Then his mind shifted on that scene in the dining room.
Bernardo's amused reactions, as if he's seeing a comedy while Maria and Leandro were riled up, because of Tony calling Don Leon an 'old man'.
He was enjoying the mess, the chaos.
As if he had a hand on it.
Then the ominous feelings he felt.
That something was wrong.
But he shrugged it off.
He should've dug deeper.
Tony gritted his teeth.
Voice cracking.
"Why? Why would he do this?" his voice cracked.
Don Leon gasped for breath, wheezing.
"No!" Tony suddenly cut in.
Catching himself.
Changing his mind.
Withdrawing his rising curiosity.
"Don't tell me… I don't fucking care!"
Then in a pained voice, he added:
"I'm a fucking outsider, remember? You told me yourself."
But Don Leon's grip on him only tightened as if denying his own words.
Steel in his bones.
Blood on his mouth.
"I'll tell you now."
"No!" Tony shot back.
But Don Leon speaks anyway.
"He's my brother."
The words came out broken.
Frayed.
Tony's eyes widened, but didn't speak.
Don Leon's lips moved again—each word was like a splinter.
"My younger half-brother."
He didn't blink.
Couldn't.
Suddenly remembering his childhood memories of Bernardo inside his head.
How he laughed.
How he played with him and Antonia.
How he felt more like a father than Leandro.
The word rang like a gunshot.
It was a shocking revelation.
**