𝕊𝕆𝕃𝕀𝕍𝔸𝔾𝔸ℕ𝕋║[ᴅ. ᴡᴀʏɴᴇ]

ᴀᴍʙɪᴠᴀʟᴇɴᴛ

Anna Bertinelli hadn't let her grandson alone since he had stumbled up their doorstep in his mother and father's supporting arms with an array of wounds, cuts, bruises, a single concussion, and an informal diagnosis of unconfessed lovesickness for black hair, tan skin, and green eyes.

Angelo Bertinelli had waited until he was alone with Vincent to allow a brief but warm side-hug with the boy. He had been livid at the sight of the dark contusions littering his grandson's face, but years of experience kept his face carefully blank. However, he couldn't mask the overwhelming relief that poured from the small embrace.

"Those we love never truly leave us. There are some things that Death cannot touch." He had said, his broad hands, littered with the same scars Vin was beginning to earn, placed firmly on his young shoulders. "You have befallen the Bertinelli fate. To cheat death until the final day."

"The final day?" A delirious but inquisitive Vin questioned him.

His grandfather hadn't responded right away. He looked off into the distance, out of the window, observing the hues of vivid reds, oranges, salmon, and the tip of blue, which would soon melt into night.

"The Bertinelli Fate," The old man began slowly. "For generations, we have been condemned to die protecting the other half of our soul."

The meager air in his lungs had been sucked out of him. "What?" His voice wavered.

"Natural deaths are seen as mercy. But our bloodstained legacy has since scorched any mercy Death may afford us. If we do not die, then our other half will. And, as you know-"

"-our lot has always been self-sacrificing." Vin finished quietly. "Is it true? Not one of us has been granted a peaceful death?"

His grandfather's face softened by an inch in his subtle sign of empathy. He latched an arm around the boy's aching shoulders and pulled his grandson into his side. "Like every table game, we are given certain cards in life." He turned to lock gazes with Vin. "However, just because we are dealt a poor deck doesn't mean we can't wrangle triumph from tragedy."

Vin nodded slowly, "Rise from ashes,"

"Overcome the heartache and the clashes," Michaelo recited.

"Bring rebirth from destruction,"

"We rise to persistence and construction,"

"Invoke success from failure,"

"Fight for the things you treasure,"

"Wrench resurrection from ruin,"

"We're Italian. How you doin'?" They echoed the final line together. Vin laughed quietly, and Michaelo nudged the boy with a small smirk.

Vin had endured the looks he's been receiving like a champ. The effortless apathy was mostly attested to the fact that he gave so few shits about the things these brats whispered about him.

Keeping this mindset had been easy. He always reminded himself that, while he'd been abducted, left to dangle from the ceiling, and painted black, blue, and more black for a week, these Richie Riches had been lying languidly on some pristine fucking beach in the Maldives with a football team of servants at their beck and call.

And let's not start with the acidic, chemical bath cleanse or the temporary amnesia.

Really, he's been handling this whole integration back into society pretty well. He only had to take his memories with the League of Assassins and toss them in the overflowing compartment with the rest of his unprocessed trauma. Of course, like an overpacked suitcase, he had to throw his mental weight against the door to get it to shut, but he pulled through.