In a warehouse sitting in a back-alley somewhere deep in the slums, Angelo sat alone on a crate. Some people who lived nearby were confused on if it was abandoned or just looking for business, but to Angelo, it was just a safe haven. Nobody knew he would be here in this sort of place, this small warehouse full of crates and pallets, dust and cockroaches. No one, except for one person that he knew was coming.
He hadn't cried, hadn't spoke, hadn't even signed into the thin air. There was no one around to talk to, and no one there to vent his emotions with. Even if there was, then he probably still wouldn't. He was splattered in someone else's blood, with cracked skin on his knuckles and hands that were bruised. None of the blood was his own, and he counted that as a good thing. It meant that he was getting stronger.
Angelo kept thinking about the fight. Well, not the fight exactly, but the words used. The proclamation of his mother, the question on if she had begged. Every sentence, word for word, repeated in his head. He hated that he remembered what was said more than he did beating the crap out of the guy.
It hurt, and he didn't like that. Yet, at the same time, he did. He didn't like it because, who in the world would enjoy this emotional turmoil and distress? But he did like it because it meant he was still human. It meant the mafia hadn't taken it all away from him yet, that he still had part of him that was all heart and not just cold logic and value statistics.
As he was thinking of this, of how grateful he was that he still had a bit of human inside of him taught by his late mother, the door opened. He would have been angry no matter who it was, but thankfully, he was a little less annoyed since it was his mentor Jose. The only father figure in his life, the only man who ever taught him morals over money. He stalked down the warehouse with heavy footsteps, and any other person would have been intimidating – but Jose was just like that. The guy was just scary, but Angelo never really found him all that scary to him. He seemed more like a protector instead of an enforcer.
He didn't look surprised or angry when he reached him, but instead tired. Like he had a long day, maybe a long night, and was just finding this moment to relax around someone he trusted and actually look exhausted. He tossed a rag to Angelo, who smoothly caught it out of the air. It was wet, so he started cleaning the blood off his hands, refusing to make eye contact with Jose as he lit an old cigar.
"You hit him too hard." He said.
Angelo huffed, unamused. The guy deserved the pain for what he said. Who goes around insulting other people's mothers when they were murdered in front of them? Well, almost in front of them.
"Not that he didn't deserve it." Jose continued. "Guy's a tool. But next time, break his pride… not his nose. Makes for less cleanup."
Nodding silently, he refused to meet his eyes still. The guy was definitely a tool, and Jose was right. Next time, it would be better to break his pride… but it was hard to do that without words. Angelo would have to find a way to manage.
"Why'd you do it?" Jose asked.
Immediately, Jose shrunk away. He didn't want to explain – but according to that look in Jose's eye, he didn't have to. His mentor simply sighed, puffing out the cigar silently before he asked,
"Was it about her?"
Angelo hesitated, then nodded once, chewing on his lower lip. Jose took a breath, sighed, and took a longer drag from the cigar than before. After he was done, puffing out little bits of smoke, he looked over at him.
"You wanna throw fists over your mama…" He said. "Kid, I'm the last to stop ya. But do it with control. Otherwise they'll just call you a wild dog, ya hear me?"
Angelo sneered, signing, I'm not a dog.
Jose just smirked. "Exactly. Keep it that way. But learn to bark without a voice."
Hesitating for a moment, Angelo then signed to him. He asked if she begged. She didn't.
With a nod, his mentor grit his teeth. "She never did before then, neither."
Angelo tilted his head, signing gently. I want to know who she really was.
Jose took a breath, sitting down on a nearby crate as well. "She was proud. Strong. Never gave up on anything, or anyone."
With a squint, the Firestarter signed harder. You always say that. I want what I don't know.
"You ain't ready to know," His mentor practically snarled, as if trying to get him to back down.
However, Angelo didn't. Then make me ready.
Jose stared at him dangerously, the kind of look that screamed, you can try to win this fight but you ain't gonna look pretty afterwards. Angelo glared right back, no sign necessary to explain that he didn't give a single damn and he wanted to know.
"Not yet." Jose said slowly, not breaking the staring contest.
Angelo signed before he even finished. Am I not ready, or are you?
Jose glared at him harder, a moment of silence passing between them. Angelo didn't like how it had gotten so silent that the place was practically teeming with tension, but Jose soon enough took the last puff of his cigar away and flicked it to the ground. With a heavy stomp as he stood up, he looked away.
"Don't be late for the job tomorrow." He said.
Jose didn't give a chance for Angelo to respond, because he wasn't looking at him – in that way when you basically tell a deaf person you're covering your ears and singing, lalala! to get them to stop arguing or telling you a secret. Angelo's eye twitched angrily, but he let Jose walk away; leaving him once again, in silence.