Page 114 of Fratelli: Eternal Bloodlines

(Day Before Death)

“Pápa, dove sei?” Domencio’s voice blew through the suffocating stillness of the villa. Shadows shifted and changed along the walls as he passed. The once grand estate had been hollowed out. No mortal ever entered unless dragged inside. An echo of its former self. He felt the weight of loneliness in the darkness. And loneliness has been with him for some time.

“Pádre? It’s me, Domencio,” he said. He had grown tired of the search.

No answer.

The cellar beckoned. Its stone steps descended into darkness. He hesitated. He gripped the railing. Memories of the cellar’s horrors stirred in his gut. This was no place for children then, and certainly no place for his father now. But he descended anyway.

The smell hit him first—thick, metallic, nauseating. A stench that spoke of death, old blood, and despair. His inner childshivered as he brought the handkerchief to his face. He was a boy again, frozen at the top of these very steps, fearing the monsters his imagination had conjured from past trauma.

A body lay at the base of the stairwell, discarded like trash. The skin was pale and slick with blood. Domencio stepped over it. As he ventured deeper, the flicker of a single torchlight revealed the extent of the carnage. Bodies—dozens of them—scattered across the floor like broken dolls, their limbs twisted at grotesque angles, flesh torn from bone. Some were headless, others missing arms or legs. The feeding of the great Don had been brutal.

A snarl echoed in the distance. Low. Feral. Domencio clenched his jaw and reached for the predator within him to strengthen him. He raised his hand and ignited all the torches along the walls with a sharp flick of his wrist. It cast harsh light into the cavernous cellar.

Vittorio.

His father crouched over a corpse, face smeared with blood, eyes wild, distant. He was no longer the revered Master Vampire of his prime, the one who commanded respect with a glance. Now, he was something… else. Domencio felt his chest tighten, the breath all but left his lungs. He had not expected this. Notthismadness.

“Father?” Domencio’s voice trembled despite himself.

Vittorio’s head snapped up, his bloodied face a mask of confusion. He sniffed the air like an animal and searched for him by scent.

“Domen…Domencio?” his thick accented voice croaked.

Domencio forced himself to move, to do something. In silence, he stepped forward, careful not to disturb the bodies that littered the floor. Without a word, he reached for his father and pulled him to his feet. Vittorio, lost in whatever fracturedreality he occupied, did not resist. His once mighty hands trembled, stained with blood that was not his own.

Domencio took him out of the hell he created, and back into the barren home he and his brothers left him too. The guilt of Vittorio’s abandonment weighed heavy on him, just as Lucio’s plight tormented him. So, he did what he had never done before. He tried to make amends. Domencio cleaned his father. Bathed him. The act was almost surreal as if the grotesque cellar were miles away. He dressed his father in fine clothes, sat him in his favorite chair, and filled the room with the soft strains of opera, the familiar voice of his father’s beloved singer. Vittorio relaxed into it, as though the music alone could pull him from the edge of his madness.

For hours, they spoke. Vittorio’s voice was steady and lucid, as he told stories of the Roman Senate, of old wars, fierce gladiators, and the victories that had made him a legend. He even spoke of Domencio’s mother, the one subject that had always been off-limits. It was the first time Domencio had heard him mention her, the story of how they met, a tale that had been a mystery even to his brothers.

For those precious moments, it felt like he had his father back. The one he had always wanted. The man he had idolized.

But it didn’t last.

The shift came abruptly, like a door slammed shut. Vittorio’s face twisted, his eyes clouded with sudden anger. His fangs descended, sharp and gleaming. “Who are you?” he hissed, voice reverberated a mix of fury and confusion. “Why are you at my home?”

“It’s me, Father,” said Domencio. “Do you not see me?”

“Why are you here, ahead of your brothers,” replied Don Vittorio.

“They are not the answer. That is why,” said Domencio.

Vittorio snarled. He leaned back in his chair, and his cataract eyes glistened, then glowed from the internal fire of his Draca.

“Does it hurt, father?” Domencio asked.

“Are you mocking me?” Don Vittorio replied.

“No. I have no malice for you. Do you know why?”

The Don’s hands curled into fists. He did not trust Domencio. He did not trust any of his sons. The witch Julia Brown had warned that his boys could and would turn on him and then each other if he took them from the swamp. But he did not think his chosen son would ever allow it to happen. Lucio was the most loyal. These thoughts he did not speak. However, Domencio heard his thoughts loud and clear. An old jealousy and childhood wound was ripped open. He bled internally over it. Even in his father’s diseased mind, he was not good enough. Maybe he was never meant to be. Maybe the prophecy was right, and Lucio was the chosen. Domencio gave up on the fight.

“How can I make you comfortable?” Domencio asked. “What can I do, father?”

“Die,” Vittorio spat. “I should have let the feral’s eat you in that crypt. You are weak, a shadow of the strength I passed on. I can’t stand the sight of you.”

Despite his vow to just be of aid to his father, the words were hard to dismiss. Domencio tensed all over with restraint. “Lucio is no saint. None of us are. Did you know that right now he betrayed you? That he found the Chosen? That he kept her away from you. To let you rot. Did you!”

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