They brought him soup, salad, a plate of fettuccini carbonara, and a dish of steamed lobster. Not a king’s spread but certainly better than anything he ever had in this place.
Dino ate slowly. He wanted to savour every bite, but they all tasted the same in his mouth. The food should have been nice, at least the pasta. Every Italian knew how to cook excellent pasta.
The bell tolled three. It only rang eight times a day—three, six, nine, twelve; a prisoner had no need to know about the lesser hours. A guard came in to remove the tray, his face a stony mask. Dino said thank you but earned himself nothing in return. He deserved nothing, in this world which had no place for people like him. He was a condemned man.
Now he waited. Last week had been Tsuna’s turn, and he wondered if his ‘little brother’ had tasted the same bitterness in his mouth. This was their choice, their own decision, even if it was only the lesser of two evils. One hundred of the big shots for thousands of the rest—quantity was all that mattered in the end, the only worthy standard of judgment. One would die so many others could have the chance to live. It was not insensible.
But if only.
The bell tolled six; the door to his cell slid open. It was time.
Others hailed their bloody glory and went down fighting, but Cavallone Decimo had no such privilege.