Alarico Este had everything a man could ever wish for. A beautiful wife, money and most importantly power.
However what would happen if he lost all he held pride in in a single instant?
What if those beneath him, were suddenly above him instead?
R...
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Dawn had long begun when Alarico entered the empty boulevard. The street lamps bathed the great, strolling man in their neon light and casted trembling, distorted shadows on the concrete. If an acquaintance would have seen him right now, he most definitely would have not linked the bowed, weak man with Alarico Domenico Este in his wildest dreams. Alarico only wore a low-fitting pair of dark jeans and a cheap white T-shirt that wasn't able to provide enough warmth in this chilly night at all.
The raven hair that would have normally been neatly styled clung messy to his sweaty forehead, the cold eyes stirred aimlessly into the distance, pupils dilated, breath heavy.
„Fuck" he hissed, his tongue like lead due to the influence of alcohol and his voice deep and rough with accent. Fortunately, his brother had the habit to store one or two bottles of whiskey in the glove compartments of all. of their cars. He stumbled over his own silly feet and was just able to cushion his fall right before would have met the pavement.
Not only his body control but also his dignity seemed to have vanished with every sip of alcohol he had drunken this night.
He threw a glance at his mobile display which was shattered now since he had smashed it into the wall of his apartment this morning, blinded by rage.
The clock chimed 11pm and he heard the buzz growing louder with every step he took towards the club district of the inner city.
It had been 3 days since Selena had packed all of her stuff without further comments and left the Este-mansion along with their son.
It had been 2 days since Salvatore had declared his damned cock sucking brother as his successor.
He ignored the nausea that flooded his body automatically while thinking about Lorenzo Este and he spat in a disgusted manner on the ground instead.
„Santa Maria", he started a short prayer until he couldn't remember the words any more.
The streets were more crowded now when he entered a new district. The loud bass was merely muffled by the walls of dozens of nightclubs, frisky people poured in and out in waves.
Alarico decided on just going with the flow eventually. What had he left to lose? His whole life had been dedicated to his legitimate place at top of the clan. Legitimate not only because he was the eldest son but also because he was a thousand times more qualified than his brother. An incompetent queer leading the most powerful family of the city! Who the hell would take them seriously when they followed Lorenzo like a pack of chihuahuas?
He wasn't able to abandon these thoughts when he entered the very first club that appeared next to him. Under normal circumstances nothing about this establishment would have ever appealed to him.
A horrible flashing sign stated the uncreative name, the sleek walls were made of black shining marble knock-off.
Two lightly-clad women bat their fake eyelashes at him when he passed them and the broad-shouldered, stereotypical bouncers without comment.
A few who were waiting within the long queue rose a hue and cry but the gorillas were smart enough to ignore Alarico. Although the young man conveyed a wretched impression in his sweat-soaked shirt and his trembling body, pale with coldness and alcohol, they were quick-witted enough to recognize his tattoos which shone through his shirt next to his collarbone.
The world around him played out like a bush-league movie of which the volume had been turned down completely.
Hundreds of party guests crowded the area, moving like one single organism to the beat of the loud, jarring music. Alarico felt the bass vibrating through every single muscle of his body but every sound surrounding him blurred into one loud rushing in the background. Solely his heartbeat boomed intrusive in his own ears. The quickly changing lights made it even more difficult for him to coordinate himself, that is why he was almost proud when he made his way towards the prominent bar.
Alarico was of narcissistic character in general. He looked better than the average man, even if he was that drunk and roughed up, and he knew it. Cockily, he transferred this pride to every other skill as well. Even if it might have been true, that he was indeed fit and ambitious, like he liked to see himself, he was for sure not even half as cunning or eloquent as he claimed to be.
He barely managed to sit down on the barstool in a clumsy motion when a young waitress appeared in his distorted range of vision.
She adorably smiled at him and fluttered her long, fake eye-lashes whilst she asked him for his order in a bell-like voice.
He stared at her for a brief moment since his nebulous brain needed a few seconds to progress what she just said.
"Vodka". The young woman glanced at the drunken man. It seemed like she was thinking if she should serve him, but she soon left with a shrug.
When she put a glass in front of him, he shook his head vigorously. "Ma no!", he slurred upset, "the bottle, dolcezza!"
He had not the slightest clue how this situation had arisen but everything his drunken mind was able to achieve was to duck away just before the blow hit his face.
„Fuck".
He felt nauseous, the world was spinning, including the four guys who had shoved him into the posterior part of the club. Had he offended them?
They offered enough potential for insults, with their bomber jacket, their ugly mugs and their hair shiny with gel, for sure.
Or had he puked one of them on the white Balenciagas?
He had no friggin idea.
His drunken ego had been dead set that those four muscular men would be no problem at all and had even been functioning well enough to produce a few provoking comments.
His sober self however would have perhaps indeed been capable to deal with these guys. Alarico was tall and athletic. His body fat percentage was low enough that every lingerie model would be jealous.
In contrast to his weak brother, he was more than just ambitious and disciplined. He wasn't wasting any of his time with trivialities, he was not humping around, he wasn't spending his weekends in stifling clubs.
But where did this lead him?
Left by his wife, betrayed over his legitimate place and utterly shitfaced in the middle of a bar fight.
On the brink he perceived how the half-full bottle of vodka bursted into thousands of fragments when he evaded a stroke rather clumsily whilst a second blow hit him right in his stomach and a kick met his thigh. He clenched his teeth to hinder himself from throwing up and ignored the feeling of hot blood that dripped from his wounds that the shards ripped into his skin when he hit the ground.
„Merda!".
The laughter of his torturers was drowned in the loud music. Angrily Alarico tried to hit them. He managed to strike one of them right into the crotch and heard the painful cry but he was not able to defend himself from the kick that hit him right into his rib cage. Horrified he registered that he couldn't breathe for a few seconds that felt like hours.
Since the world still didn't stop spinning in a crazy speed, he remained seated on the ground whilst the thugs scurried away.
He just managed to get his shit together and straighten himself when he was called by a familiar voice.
"Alarico". He was not able to classify any of the emotions neither the emotions that the voice contained nor the ones flooding his body by its sound.
The only thing he perceived was a warm, lean body that saved him from stumbling and a cold glass that was shoved into his trembling hands.
