In his father's office, Marco Verri stood in front of the man who had once put a blade on his neck, the man who had a gun pointed to his head just then and begged for mercy. It was not the first time that Marco saw a man at his father's feet, crying and begging, but the first time that he couldn't stand what he saw. He didn't pity the man or his father. He pitied himself and the life he had chosen, a life that he had to leave if he didn't want to be the one pointing a gun at someone's head, if he didn't want to be like the man whom he had chosen as his father.
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