بعيدان جسدًا، لكن الوجع يجمعن
worlds apart, yet bound by ache

VITTORIO FALCONE was a man consumed by ambition.

It was something he could trace back to his father — a lineage of ruthless, and calculating men.

Intelligence and determination ran through their veins, and Vittorio was no exception.

Ask any of his associates, and these words would come up time and time again : cold-blooded, ruthless, smart, and determined.

It was the kind of description that stuck, and for good ( or bad ) reason.

Of all Carmine's children, Vittorio seemed to be the one most suited to carry the weight of the family's empire.

He was sharp, strategic, and, above all, driven.

But Vittorio's journey wasn't meant to lead him into the shadows of the Mafia.

He wasn't supposed to be the heir to Carmine's criminal kingdom.

No, there were different plans for him; plans carved out by his mother. She envisioned him in the halls of power, not the back alleys of organized crime.

She often spoke of his future, painting a picture of a life far removed from the family business. A senator, she'd say.

Maybe even president someday.

It was a future so different from what he found himself in, yet it felt distant, almost foreign now.

And yet, as much as he tried to push away those thoughts, he knew deep down that he'd always been aware of it. He'd listened to his mother's dreams for him, her hopes that he could rise above the chaos of his father's world.

His father, Carmine, had always had his own vision for his eldest son — a vision that was rooted in the family business, in his legacy.

Alberto, the joker of the family, could never fill that role.

His sister, the princess, was too far removed from the gritty reality of the empire.

And then there was him, caught somewhere between the dreams of his mother and the expectations of his father.

The weight of both pulled at him, shaping the man he was becoming.

Vittorio had always felt the tension, a quiet war between two worlds, one that promised power through influence and the other through sheer force. His mother's voice echoed in his mind, urging him toward the polished halls of politics, a life where his sharp mind could be his greatest asset.

But Carmine, had other plans.

His father never asked.

He never needed to.

The moment Vittorio was born, he had already been marked as the heir. There were no soft words or gentle expectations in Carmine's world; just the cold, calculating truth of what Vittorio was meant to be.

It was like the tale of Commodus, a child of privilege, molded and warped by the crushing burden of expectation. But Vittorio harbored no grandiose illusions; no, his rebellion was quieter, more desperate.

He longed to be like Maximus, a man of his own making, unshackled by destiny, clawing fiercely for the freedom to define himself.

Yet, life was a labyrinth designed by unseen hands, and every turn — no matter how cunning —led him back to the same haunting truth. He was bound, as surely as a thread woven into an ancient tapestry, by blood and by legacy.

The harder he fought, the tighter the threads seemed to pull, stitching him deeper into the fabric of a destiny he could never truly escape. Every act of defiance only seemed to reinforce the bonds, as if the very universe conspired to remind him of who he was meant to be.

So, at last, he stopped running.

If fate insisted on handing him the weight of it all — the responsibility, the burden — then he would carry it, not with resentment, but with resolve. He wouldn't waste his breath lamenting what could have been or cursing the inevitability of his lineage.

Instead, he squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and bore it like a champion.

Because if he was to walk this path, he'd do so with strength, shaping the role into something he could own, rather than something that owned him.

Alberto had always been the entertainer, the one who could bring a smile to anyone's face, but never the one who could shoulder the heaviness of a crime syndicate.

His sister, Sofia, with her porcelain beauty and an air of royalty, had always been sheltered from the dangers of their world.

She was untouchable, a vision of perfection — like a princess trapped in a castle of illusions.

But that was before Arkham.

Oh, how she had suffered.

He visited her every two days, doing his best to comfort her, to soothe the pain that seemed to have broken her spirit. The vibrant, carefree sister he once knew — the one who lived for the parties, the one who was the shining jewel of their world — was gone.

In her place was a woman shadowed by her scars, her light dimmed by what she'd endured.

And Vittorio ? He was the son who could get things done. He understood the delicate balance between fear and respect, the dance between loyalty and obedience. He learned the art of negotiation in shadows, and the subtlety of power in silence.

He became his father's son, not by choice, but by necessity.

The struggle was always there, though.

There were nights, long and quiet, when Vittorio would find himself alone with his thoughts, wondering what his life could have been like if he had taken his mother's path. If he'd followed her dream and stepped away from the bloody hands of the family business, would he have been happy? Would he have been content with a life filled with speeches, policies, and promises rather than violence and betrayal?

He couldn't answer that, not really.

What he did know was that no matter how hard he tried to resist, the life his father had built had a pull on him.

A magnetic force, drawing him in with every passing year.

Vittorio could lie to himself, tell himself he could walk away, but deep down, he knew there was no escaping the bloodlines that ran through his veins.

He sat in the drawing room of the shoreline loft at the Iceberg Lounge, a stack of logistics reports in one hand, a sleek metal pen in the other. The room smelled of saltwater and faintly of leather, the windows framing the bay in the distance.

His father's voice rumbled nearby, low and steady, as he spoke with one of his guards. Vittorio barely registered the conversation, his focus fixed on the neat columns of numbers before him.

The sound of footsteps grew closer, then stopped.

Vitto didn't need to look up to know who it was.

His father's presence was unmistakable, from the tailored suit to the ever-present dark sunglasses that never left his face.

Vittorio sometimes wondered if Carmine had worn them even in the delivery room, a permanent shield between him and the world.

"Still working on that?" Carmine's voice was gravelly, calm, but with an edge of curiosity.

His son didn't respond immediately. He adjusted the cigar in his mouth, the glow of the ember momentarily catching in the corner of his vision, and continued scribbling with his pen.

Their relationship was... complicated.

Strange, even.

Vittorio knew, deep down, that his father loved him. But it wasn't the love most people would understand.

Carmine's affection was twisted, a sort of ownership that came with strings attached. He saw Vittorio as an essential part of the puzzle — important, yes, but flawed, dispensable in certain ways.

There was always a distance in how his father spoke to him, a deliberate withholding of information, leaving Vittorio to fill in the blanks, to piece together the truth himself. It was maddening.

How was he supposed to do his job properly if his father couldn't trust him with the full picture? And Vittorio wasn't naïve; he knew that the mafia wasn't the glamorous world that books and movies painted.

It wasn't a place for dreams or glory.

It was ugly, brutal, a constant fight for survival.

The deeper you went, the more it became clear: this world wasn't a path to power — it was more like a punishment.

A price you paid for money and power, and there was no way out.

Because once you were in, there was no leaving. The chains were too heavy, the stakes too high.

They'd had their disagreements over the years, clashes of vision, of values — but through it all, his father had been... supportive, in his own way.

He had his own sense of what was worth fighting for, and while Vittorio's dream of going fully legitimate seemed impossible to most, Carmine saw the potential in it. He didn't outright oppose it; in fact, he agreed, in his own pragmatic, twisted way.

The family's criminal empire had built its wealth and power on shady deals, but even Carmine knew the world was changing. He saw that legitimacy could offer a different kind of strength—one that lasted.

Yet, he still kept the darker side of their world close, never fully letting go of the empire's roots.

Because, in the end, no matter how legitimate they tried to go, they were bound to the same blood-soaked soil that had planted them.

But Carmine, for all his affection, still had his doubts.

His son could sense it, feel it in the way his father's voice softened when they disagreed.

It wasn't doubt in his ability to handle the business — no he had proven himself capable time and time again. It was something deeper. A belief that Vittorio, sharp as he was, might be too soft.

Too human.

Too empathetic.

That word — empathetic — felt like a curse in their line of work.

It was a vulnerability, a liability.

And yet, Carmine couldn't deny that his son had learned to navigate their world with an ease that others couldn't. He had a way of seeing people, reading them, knowing what made them tick.

It made him effective.

Dangerous, even.

"I'm just tying up loose ends," Vittorio finally replied, voice measured, the cigar balanced between his fingers as he glanced up at his father.

Carmine stood with his hands clasped behind his back, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Approval.

Expectation.

A reminder.

Carmine let out a quiet groan as he eased into the chair across from Vittorio, settling in like a man who had all the time in the world. He adjusted his sunglasses—a habitual motion more than anything—and tilted his head, his sharp gaze fixed on his son.

"You've been off lately," he said, voice even, but carrying that edge of scrutiny Vittorio knew too well. He crossed one leg over the other, leaning back with the calm authority of someone who always got answers.

Vittorio scoffed, rolling his eyes as he leaned back in his own chair. "What do you mean?"

Carmine shrugged, the motion so subtle it was barely noticeable. "I don't know. You tell me, son."

"Nothing's wrong, Pa," Vittorio replied, setting his cigar down on the ashtray between them. The soft glow of the table lamp caught on the ink that snaked up his arms, the tattoos an intricate map of stories and symbols.

If his mother could see them, she'd have a fit. Isabella Falcone had despised tattoos — called them marks of rebellion and wasteful vanity. Vittorio could practically hear her sharp, disapproving tone, even now.

Carmine hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head just a fraction more, his expression unreadable behind the dark lenses.

For a moment, Vittorio thought the conversation was over. But then, after a beat of silence, his father spoke again.

"How's your girlfriend?"

Vittorio froze, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. He'd expected Carmine to circle back to business or numbers, not this.

"Fine," he said curtly, as though the word itself was a dismissal of the subject.

Valentina Caccione.

That's who his father was asking about.

They'd met through a mutual friend — a family connection, as these things often went.

North Italian, though he couldn't remember exactly where from. Blonde, pale, blue-eyed, and spoiled to the bone. She came from a family that had long-standing ties to theirs.

The kind of woman who, on paper, was perfect for a man like him.

She was very present, in the most exhausting sense of the word. Demanding, always needing something, and never shy about asking for it. She had a knack for intrusion and she loved to flaunt the fact that she was with him, her arrogance a badge of honor.

And Valentina had her routines.

She was always on him — drinking, whining, pulling him into bed. And Vittorio, ever the quiet executor of expectations, would oblige. A near table, the edge of a couch, occasionally a bed; it didn't matter. He preferred not to face her during sex, turning her away, her back to him as he went through the motions.

Always mechanical, never intimate.

It wasn't about connection for him; it was about relief. Like a task to complete, a burden to unload.

He supposed it worked.

Valentina seemed more than satisfied, crying out his name with a fervor that only grated on his nerves. His reputation for pleasing women clung to him like a second skin, a shadow he couldn't shake — and, if he were honest, didn't want to.

Though he was discreet about the attention it garnered, there was no denying the quiet boost it gave his ego.

And then there was her.

Every time Valentina clawed at him, kissed him, begged for more, his mind wandered.

He closed his eyes, blocking out the blonde hair, the blue eyes, the suffocating scent of alcohol and overpriced perfume.

Instead, he saw her.

Tan like sunlight kissed her skin, auburn-brown hair cascading down, eyes the color of warm earth. She smelled of rose water, soft and subtle.

Just the thought of Alma made his jaw tighten.

It was infuriating.

Why did she occupy so much of his mind? Why couldn't he push her away like all the others?

It had been more than a week since he'd heard from Alma.

No calls, no texts.

Just nothing.

He'd given her the space she asked for, respected her wishes even as it gnawed at him. A part of him thought she'd come back eventually, that maybe jealousy might pull her back to him.

So, to distract himself, he'd asked a friend to set him up with someone new.

And yet, here he was, no closer to forgetting.

Alma's absence was a void he couldn't ignore.

No other woman had ever made him feel like this — off-kilter, exposed.

She wasn't like the others, who came and went, and that made it worse.

She'd left a crack in his carefully constructed armor, and now it felt like the whole thing was on the verge of collapse.

The silence between them was unbearable, the thought of not hearing her voice, not feeling her skin, driving him mad.

It wasn't just annoying, it was suffocating.

Alma wasn't supposed to matter this much.

But she did.

"Just fine?" his father's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Honeyed, calm, yet laced with a quiet challenge.

"You met her," Vittorio replied, his tone flat, uninterested in indulging.

"So it's serious, I suppose?"

Vittorio clenched his jaw, his dark eyes still scanning the numbers in front of him. "I suppose."

His father clicked his tongue, the sound sharp in the stillness of the room. "Nah, I don't know. You don't look like you like her that much."

"You gonna teach me about women now, Pa?" Vittorio's tone cut like glass, his words deliberately pointed.

It was a jab, and Carmine Falcone knew it.

Vitto wasn't oblivious to the things his father had done in the clubs, the stories that trickled down like poison whispered in dark corners.

Women and power — his father saw them as interchangeable, tools to be used and discarded. It was a shame Vittorio carried silently, knowing that, no matter what, he was cut from the same cloth.

But were they really the same?

His parents' marriage was far from a fairy tale.

Vittorio had been old enough to see that clearly, to feel the tension simmering beneath the surface of their carefully curated appearances. He'd been close to his mother, perhaps because she gave her love so openly, filling the spaces his father's cold distance left behind. Carmine had loved, Vittorio supposed, but in a way that was foreign to him; detached, pragmatic, more like a transaction than an emotion.

Maybe that was why Vittorio never felt the need to seek out a partner for love.

As long as they fit the mold his life required, as long as they could navigate the ruthless demands of his world, that was enough — or so he told himself.

But unlike his father, there were lines Vittorio refused to cross.

He'd killed, tortured, and done things that would haunt most men for lifetimes.

Yet, he drew the line at women and children.

Something his father never did.

Carmine didn't respond immediately.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, a lazy smirk curling at his lips. He looked like a snake, poised to strike, savoring the moment before sinking its fangs. His fingers drummed idly on the armrest, the rhythm slow and calculated.

Then, almost carelessly, he said, "Well, I don't know. You're not as whipped as you were with that Halimi woman. What was her name again?" He snapped his fingers as if fishing through his memory, his tone drenched in mockery.

"Alma," Vittorio answered sharply, uncomfortable at the mention of her name. His shoulders stiffened as he set the pen down.

"Ah, Alma," Carmine drawled, letting the name linger on his tongue like a taunt. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, his eyes glinting with satisfaction as he caught the flicker of tension in Vittorio's face.

Vittorio didn't take the bait. Instead, he clasped his hands calmly in front of him, his expression unreadable.

He waited in silence, his steady gaze urging Carmine to get to whatever point he was circling.

"Just an observation, of course," Carmine said, his voice dripping with faux nonchalance. "But I saw the way your eyes were eating her up and down at the mayor's funeral. Never seen you like that before." He chuckled, glancing at his bodyguard, who gave a silent nod, as if affirming Carmine's point.

"Can't blame you, though," his father added, leaning forward slightly. "Those Halimi women —there's just something about them. Beautiful, hypnotic. Yeah, I don't know what it is, but it's like they cast a damn curse on anyone who lays eyes on them."

Vittorio's hands tightened into a clasp, the knuckles faintly white under the pressure, but his expression remained resolute.

He didn't flinch, didn't react — giving Carmine nothing to twist or use.

"And I thought the eldest was more your type," Carmine added with a teasing grin.

Vittorio rolled his eyes. "Barely."

"Not that it matters," his father continued with a shrug. "You wouldn't stand a chance. Someone already has his eyes on her. Seems pretty adamant about it too."

"Ah, yes. That Wayne boy," Vittorio said, leaning back and picking up the cigar from the table. He took a long drag, exhaling the smoke slowly.

Carmine hummed thoughtfully. "Goddamn, the way he was trailing after her, looking at her... I almost envy whatever they have between them." He laughed low, shaking his head. "That boy looks just like his father, you know. And the way his father used to look at his wife? Same damn thing."

Vittorio let out a snort, and for the first time that evening, a dry laugh slipped past his lips. "You think he's gonna marry her?"

"Probably," Carmine said with a nonchalant shrug, his tone casual, almost dismissive. "Whatever it is, those women have a way of making you boys lose your damn minds when they're around. Feral even." He chuckled, shaking his head as though the thought itself was a joke.  "Who knows? Maybe you'll end up as the brother-in-law to Gotham's prince."

Vittorio's grip on the cigar tightened, his knuckles whitening against the dark wrapper. "We were fucking just friends," he snapped, voice cutting through the room with sudden heat. His gaze bore into his father, the anger simmering beneath the surface spilling out. "Allies. Nothing more, Pa."

Carmine's smirk faded, expression flattening. His dark glasses obscured his eyes, but his silence said more than words could. "Sure, son."

"Why do you care, anyway?" Vittorio pressed, his tone sharp and defensive. "You made it clear she wasn't meant for our world. Don't you like Valentina?"

Carmine didn't answer immediately.

He only leaned back in his chair, face unreadable.

The silence between them stretched.

Vittorio turned back to the papers, but the tension lingered.

He forced his attention back to the numbers, but the conversation lingered in the air like the haze of cigar smoke. His father's lack of response was more telling than anything he could've said.

After a long pause, Carmine finally spoke, his tone quieter, more deliberate. "It's not about what I like, Vittorio. It's about what's best for you. You think I don't see it? That woman's been living in your head rent-free, and you're here, clinging to someone like Valentina to make her disappear. It's pathetic."

Vittorio's jaw tightened, pen pressing harder against the paper. "You don't know anything."

Carmine leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Don't I?" His voice dropped lower, a quiet menace creeping into his words. "Look at you, you think you can hide it, but I've been watching you since the day you were born, son. That Alma girl might be gone, but she's still got her claws in you. And you hate it. Don't you?"

Vittorio slammed the pen down on the table, the sound echoing in the room. "Enough!" He snapped with barely contained anger. "I don't need a lecture from you, Pa."

Carmine leaned back again, his smirk returning. "Sure, sure. You're your own man now, right? I'll let it go. Just remember — feelings make you weak in our world. Don't let them blind you."

He didn't respond.

His gaze burned holes into the papers in front of him, mind spinning with thoughts he didn't want to confront.

Carmine stood, brushing invisible dust from his tailored suit. "Well, you're a grown man now. Make your choices. Just don't come crying to me when they bite you in the ass."

His father's eyes locked on him, sharp and cold. "Oh, and son," Carmine said, his voice low, deliberate, and cutting in a way that made the words linger. "If you want to keep Alma out of this world, you'd better hope she stays far away. Because if she steps into our circle again, it won't just be you watching her."

Vittorio didn't flinch, didn't blink, didn't back down.

His jaw clenched, dark eyes holding his father's gaze with the kind of stubborn defiance that had always set him apart.

He wasn't afraid of Carmine Falcone — hadn't been in years.

Fear was the currency his father used to control everyone around him, and Vittorio had vowed a long time ago never to buy in.

The silence between them grew thick, heavy with words unsaid, but Carime broke it looking beside the shoulder of his son, with an exaggerated exclamation, voice clearly ringing with mock cheerfulness. "Well, look who it is!"

Vittorio turned his head toward the doorway.

A petite woman stood there, her frame deceptively small, her expression fierce and composed. Her eyes, sharp and probing, scanned the room before settling on Carmine.

Despite the calmness in her voice, her body carried a quiet tension, like she was walking a tightrope but determined not to waver.

"I was just wondering if I could... talk to you for a moment," she said, words careful but clear. Then her gaze flicked to Vittorio, a brief hesitation breaking her confidence. "Alone?"

Carmine's demeanor shifted effortlessly.

The charm came out like a well-rehearsed play, smooth and polished. "Of course, honey," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him as if he had all the time in the world.

Vittorio rose slowly, his movements deliberate, his gaze sliding from his father to the woman.

He didn't say anything at first, just grabbed his jacket from the back of the sofa.

Finally, he muttered, "I'll be at the pub."

He strode toward the door without waiting for a response, brushing past the woman without so much as a glance.

Her presence didn't matter to him — she didn't matter. She was just another piece in his father's endless game, and he'd learned a long time ago not to get involved with anyone caught in that web unless asked to.

That was the last time Vittorio saw his father alive.

The call came less than an hour later, interrupting the low hum of conversation at the pub.

His phone buzzed insistently on the bar's worn surface, and when he answered, the words hit him like a blow : "He's been arrested."

Vittorio barely had time to process the news before the bartender turned up the television.

There, on the screen, was Carmine Falcone, flanked by police officers and the fucking Bat bending him, his hands cuffed behind him.

Even in custody, Carmine looked untouchable, posture as confident as ever, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as if the whole thing was a mere inconvenience.

And then it happened.

The shot.

Out of nowhere.

It rang out like thunder, silencing the bar.

On the screen, Carmine crumpled, his body collapsing to the pavement in a slow, almost surreal fall.

Blood bloomed beneath him, vivid against the gray concrete, as chaos erupted in the background.

The smirk was gone.

Finally.

Vittorio didn't remember leaving the pub.

By the time he reached the hospital, the nurses didn't even need to speak. He saw it in their faces, in the way they avoided his gaze.

He knew.

The morgue was cold, sterile, and unnervingly quiet.

Vitto stood in front of the steel table where his father's body lay, covered with a sheet that didn't quite hide the lifelessness beneath.

He stared at Carmine's face, now stripped of its usual vitality and menace.

The man who had been larger than life, who had loomed over Vittorio's entire existence, now looked small, fragile even. The bullet had done what nothing else ever could.

It had silenced him.

For good.

Vitto sat down heavily in the chair beside the table, hands clasped in front of him.

He waited for something to come — for grief, for anger, for relief.

But instead, there was only emptiness.

A vast, hollow nothingness that pressed down on him like a weight he couldn't shrug off.

Carmine Falcone had been a monster.

Vittorio had known that for years, had seen it in the way his father treated people, in the lengths he would go to maintain power.

But he had also been his father.

That fact should have meant something.

Should have stirred some kind of feeling.

And yet, it didn't.

For a long time, Vittorio sat there, his gaze fixed on the man who had shaped him, for better or worse.

The black glasses and tailored suits were gone, leaving behind nothing but an old man.

Finally, he stood, movements slow and deliberate, and walked out of the room without looking back.

As he stepped into the cool night air, he felt something he hadn't expected, like a faint, flickering sense of freedom.

It wasn't joy, and it wasn't peace, but it was something.

And for now, that was enough.

A/N : Hey everyone !!! Sorry for the lack of updates this week — uni has been A LOT, and tbh everything happening around the world has been a lot to process :/

Anyway, to my American ( or any other nationality really ) mutuals : Can we talk about the TikTok ban for a second ? I was lowkey relieved it wasn't Wattpad. Like, imagine if that happened... the chaos !! 😭 ALSO I hope you're all holding up okay during these strange times. If you need to vent or share your thoughts, feel free to drop them here ( I'm all ears ) :

As for the chapter : This one dives a bit deeper into Vittorio's character, and I really hope you all found it interesting and not too slow. It's more of a filler chapter, but sometimes those are necessary, right? I'm also considering double or even triple updating tonight 👀 so stay tuned for that !!!

Catch you all later xx