Chapter 101 Chapter 101 Elio, I killed someone. ...

Gatlin's expression suddenly darkened, as if a bucket of cold water had been poured over him. Elio looked at Giotto again and saw that his face remained unchanged, still flushed. It seemed as if he had considered this issue long ago—or rather, he had indeed considered this issue long ago.

"So now we are like lambs," Giotto even smiled, "roasted on the fire. We can neither give in nor force our way through. What should we do?"

"What are you talking about, Giotto!" Gatlin frowned. "We've all been prepared for this day since we joined the militia!"

"Me too, Gatling," Giotto said gently. "Me too. But when the time comes, I still hope to save as many lives as possible. That's what we're all about, isn't it?"

By this time, daylight had fully broken. The first rays of light streamed in from outside, quickly illuminating the small bedroom. Aside from the bed with its corn-leaf mattress (like in other common homes of the era, this single bed was "designed" to accommodate the entire family), the wooden box and pottery beneath it, and a scratched alcove cabinet, there was nothing else. It was in this austere environment that a man like Giotto was born.

The other young people who volunteered to join the militia were in much the same boat. Their worlds were small, so small that they could only think about food. And after the Mafia's final blow, all they cared about was survival.

"We can't die just to live," Giotto said gently. "That would be putting the cart before the horse."

Gatlin sighed. "You want to negotiate with the Mafia using hostages? They have to accept the negotiation."

"If you want to negotiate with them," Elio frowned, "why are you so..."

"Stirring up their emotions?" Giotto said bluntly. "Despite their cheerful demeanor, everyone has been furious for a long time. They need an outlet for their emotions. So I think seeing blood will calm them down a bit."

Gatlin was clearly not surprised at all. Perhaps it was because he had spent more time with Giotto. Elio was puzzled for a moment, feeling that Giotto's grasp and control of human nature was truly terrifyingly precise, but he quickly put the matter aside and stopped thinking about it.

“So we have to find a way to negotiate with the Mafia, right?” Elio sighed. “And we have to find a way to convince everyone to agree to this, right?”

"I will be responsible for convincing everyone and negotiating with the Mafia," Giotto said. "As long as we can't come up with a better solution, we can only negotiate with the Mafia. But if they turn around and want to kill us, then we will have no choice but to fight them."

Gatlin nodded. Elio frowned, feeling the situation was likely to turn into a two-way fight. As he thought about it, he casually asked, "How many people are there?"

"Mafia?" Gatlin had already laid down. "About twenty or so people."

"What?"

Elio was stunned. He'd expected hundreds or thousands of men, but after all this time, there were only about twenty! But Giotto, perhaps misinterpreting his surprise, continued with a gloomy expression, "We can't take them down without shedding some blood."

"What are you worried about?" Gatlin said, "We have long ago sworn to follow you forever. A little bloodshed is nothing."

"I know, Gatlin," Giotto said softly, "but it still pains me to make this decision that will cause you to bleed."

Elio was still in a daze, but Giotto had already reached out and pulled him, motioning him to lie down and sleep.

"Go to sleep, Elio," he said. "You must have been tired today."

"You're the most tired," Elio said. But Giotto didn't respond. Elio turned and saw that Giotto and Gatlin had fallen asleep almost simultaneously, a feeling of both amusement and sadness. The assassin, accustomed to staying up late, quietly got up, not disturbing them, and slipped into the courtyard to sharpen his hidden blade on their usual whetstone. Hours later, when Giotto rolled out of bed, thinking it was already late, Elio was already in the kitchen, cooking soup as if nothing had happened.

"It's going to be a hard day," Elio said. "You'll need to eat more."

His words soon came true. At noon, when everyone gathered in the square, Giotto, who had rushed over and found the right moment to propose negotiations, naturally caused an uproar among the young people. However, after the elders' persuasion, the self-defense group, who had identified Giotto as a man, quickly heeded their advice; after all, it wasn't like they wouldn't fight; it depended on the situation!

In the afternoon, just as Giotto was counting the men, the Mafia sent someone to investigate. Only then did Elio realize that the "twenty or so men" Gatlin had mentioned included the seven they had already captured. Giotto continued to try to negotiate, but even his eloquence couldn't move people like the power of profit, and soon the fighting resumed.

At this point, the militia couldn't stand it any longer. They howled, grabbed their farm tools, and charged forward. The scene was chaotic, and even Elio found it a bit unbearable to watch, but after all, victory was everything. There were a few bloodied individuals, but it was nothing serious.

After this battle, Gatling even captured several flintlock rifles. As he was enthusiastically studying how to load gunpowder, Giotto, after checking on the wounded, happily announced, "Let's hurry up and attack the Mafia's lair!"

"He went to bed worried," Elio said.

"That's just the way he is," Gatlin said. "He's always thinking about it."

What they didn't know was that Giotto wasn't just jubilant. He simply thought they had to rush in and take down the Mafia leader while he wasn't reacting. That was the least bloody option. They couldn't wait for him to storm into town with his men, rifles in hand, before they launched their counterattack!

The outcome of this battle is self-evident. Giotto led the charge into the Mafia estate, startling the still-drinking leader so much that he nearly choked to death. He couldn't be blamed, though, as anyone seeing a man on fire charging in would likely react in the same way. It was a shame he didn't choke to death, or he wouldn't have seen Giotto and his men digging through the ground in his estate, returning with a hearty laugh and a full load.

Elio didn't see the scene, but he could imagine it. News trickled in from outside, saying that later that evening, Giotto had returned with the Mafia leader and was taking him to the wooden stage in the center of the square. Little Frank and the others had, of course, been waiting there long beforehand, crowding the small stage. Elio didn't join in the excitement, only hearing bursts of boisterous cheers from the square, followed by a muffled gunshot, a brief silence, and then even more enthusiastic cheers.

Elio was concentrating on figuring out how to make the eggplant stew more delicious. The limited ingredients and seasonings really restricted his creativity, so when Giotto came back alone, Elio was still frowning at the wooden spoon and almost didn't notice Giotto floating past him like a wandering spirit.

"Elio," said Giotto.

Elio was so frightened that he almost hit him with the spoon. Seeing his reaction, Giotto couldn't help but smile, but the smile quickly disappeared from his pale face.

"What's wrong?" Elio put the spoon back into the pot and asked curiously, "Why did you come back alone?"

You know, Giotto and Gatling were practically tied together. Elio had only seen them apart a few times. But Giotto just smiled and said to him in an unusually calm tone, "Elio, I killed someone."

"…Oh," Elio said, "First time?"

"Yes," said Giotto, "the first time."

They sat face to face for a moment in silence, the only sound being the bubbling of the stew in the pot, and for a moment Elio's memory drifted back to something from long ago, so that when he looked at Giotto, at the pale young man, he saw a part of himself.

"Let's eat something first," Elio said. He scooped out a bowl of stew from the pot, and Giotto took it without hesitation. But when he took his hands out from behind and held the wooden bowl, Elio noticed that his hands were shaking. Elio frowned, but didn't show anything. "Giotto, sit down."

Giotto sat down silently. Elio took the opportunity to take the bowl of stew from him and put it on the table. Giotto did not object, but just looked dazed. Then he suddenly asked, "Do you think I did the right thing?"

Elio turned his back and turned off the fire. "Which part do you mean?"

"all."

"I thought you had it all figured out."

Elio thought the same as everyone else in the town. As an outsider (at least, that was how Elio considered himself so far), Elio could see how Giotto resolutely led everyone forward, led everyone to rise up in rebellion, led everyone to take back what was rightfully theirs; and the others followed him with equal determination, holding a warm affection for him while also placing almost unconditional trust in Giotto and his brilliant, bright flame that fiercely split the road ahead in the darkness.

If he hadn't read about Giotto in history, Elio would have thought he was an emperor in the making. It was at this early age that men like Giotto began to shine.

"Yes," said Giotto, "I have already thought about it. But I still want to hear your opinion."

Since he said that, Elio started to think seriously. He figured it would be a long conversation, so he poured some wine, one for Giotto and one for him.

"What opinions?" Elio sat down. "The 'murder' aspect, or the 'public execution' aspect, or..."

Elio took a sip of his wine. Nineteenth-century wine was truly unpalatable, and he couldn't help but frown again. Giotto stared at him intently.

"Or is it 'Are you ready to take over the responsibilities that the Mafia once held?'" Elio said.

Hearing this, Giotto smiled bitterly.

“You’re so kind, Elio,” he said, “for not asking me outright if I want to be the next Mafioso.”