Pretending to Be an Untouchable Crime Boss-Chapter 43: Ghosts of Who We Were.

"Tell me, do you even recognize yourself anymore?"

James didn’t answer.

Marcello laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Guess that means no." He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Look, man. I don’t know what you’ve done to get here, and I’m not asking. But I need to knowl, are you still you?"

He didn’t answer right away. Then, after a long pause, he muttered, "I don’t think I am."

Marcello nodded slowly, as if he expected that answer.

"Then why the hell did you agree to meet me?"

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James finally looked back at him, something sharp in his gaze. "Because for a moment, I wanted to remember who I used to be."

"So, now that you’re here, what do you wanna do? Reminisce about the good old days? Act like nothing’s changed?" His voice carried a hint of bitterness.

"No." he said quietly. "I just wanted to see if you’d still look at me the same way."

Marcello stared at him, searching his face, then exhaled sharply. "And?"

James gave a small smirk. "You don’t."

Marcello frowned, shifting uncomfortably. "Can you blame me?"

James didn’t answer. He just gave him one last look, one that carried spoken words, and then turned to leave.

Marcello watched him go, feeling like he had just spoken to a ghost of someone he used to know.

He wasn’t sure what made him call out, but the words left his mouth before he could stop them.

"James."

He stopped, but he didn’t turn around.

Marcello hesitated, then ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "You really think I look at you differently?"

James tilted his head slightly, just enough for Marcello to catch the sharp edge of his profile. "Don’t you?"

Marcello swallowed. He wanted to say no. Wanted to say that nothing had changed, that they were still the same two idiots who used to laugh about their problems over cheap beer and overdue assignments.

But that wasn’t true.

James Bellini wasn’t the same James he knew.

The boy who used to crack jokes about failing his exams was gone. The man standing before him now carried an air of quiet authority, of something far more dangerous. His presence alone felt heavier, like the city itself bent around him.

Marcello sighed. "Yeah," he admitted. "I do."

James nodded once, like he expected that answer. Like he had already made peace with it.

"But that doesn’t mean I don’t still see you in there." Marcello added, taking a step closer.

For the first time that night, they looked eyes with eachother. And for a brief second, Marcello caught a flicker of something, something buried deep, beneath all the layers of power, control, and bloodstained reputation.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

James smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "You always were too sentimental."

Marcello scoffed. "And you always pretended like you weren’t."

Another silence.

James shifted, glancing up at the night sky, then back at Marcello. "Go home, Marcello." His voice was quieter now, almost tired. "This city isn’t for you."

Marcello clenched his fists. "And what about you? You think it’s for you?"

James didn’t answer.

Because they both already knew.

Marcello clenched his jaw. "You know, I used to think we’d figure things out together."

"We did. You just figured out one path, and I figured out another."

Marcello let out a bitter laugh. "Is that what you call it? You think this is just another path?" He gestured around them—the towering skyline, the expensive cars parked nearby, the men in suits standing just far enough to give James privacy but close enough to act if needed.

James didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.

Marcello shook his head. "You used to care about what came next. About making something of yourself. Now, all I hear when people talk about James Bellini is fear."

James smirked, a humorless thing. "Fear keeps people in line."

"Fear makes people turn on you." Marcello shot back. "It makes you alone."

"I remember what you told me," James continued, his tone unreadable. "Back then, when we were just a couple of broke kids with no clue what we were doing."

Marcello frowned. "What are you talking about?"

James’ gaze darkened, but there was something almost distant in it, like he was remembering something from another lifetime.

"You said not to forget about you when I’m at the top." He turned back adn walked toward Marcello pulling out a check. "It’s enough to start a new life, with no struggle." He held it out.

Marcello stared at the check in James hand. He didn’t even look at the number written on it, he didn’t need to. He knew it would be more money than he’d ever made in his life. More than enough to start over somewhere far away, just like James wanted.

But that wasn’t the point.

Marcello let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "You think this is what I want?"

James held the check out a little further. "It’s what you need."

Marcello scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "No. What I needed was my best friend not to turn into a ghost in a thousand-dollar suit."

James’ expression flickered, just for a second but then the mask came back, smooth and cold. "Take it, Marcello. Go."

Marcello’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t reach for it. "And if I don’t?"

James’ gaze hardened. "Then you’re making a mistake."

The city buzzed around them, but in that moment, it was just the two of them, standing on opposite sides of something neither of them could name.

Marcello stood his ground, his eyes steady. "Let me be your friend, James. I don’t want anything to do with the business, the money, the power. I just want my friend back. The guy who struggled with me, the guy who didn’t have everything figured out but still kept going."

James exhaled slowly, lowering the check. His fingers curled around it, crumpling the paper slightly. "You don’t understand, Marcello. That guy doesn’t exist anymore."

Marcello took a step closer. "Bullshit. He’s standing right in front of me."

James looked away, his jaw clenching. He wanted to believe that. Wanted to believe that after everything, after the blood, the violence, the weight of the Bellini name, he could still have something real. Something untouched by the world he’d built.

"Things aren’t that simple." James muttered.

"They are if you let them be."

James stayed silent, staring at the check in his hand like it held an answer he couldn’t find.

Finally, he sighed and slipped it back into his pocket.

"Fine." James said, his voice quieter now. "But don’t expect me to be the same."

Marcello smiled, small but real. "Wouldn’t have come if I did."

For the first time in a long time, James felt something shift, something he thought was long gone. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe, just maybe, some things didn’t have to be lost forever.

But it was the worst decision Marcello could have made.

Because he couldn’t handle it.

He thought he could. Though he could brush past the stories, the whispers, the news reports filled with blood and bodies. Though he could ignore the way James’ name was spoken in fear, the way his presence alone made people stiffen, shrink away.

He tried. God, he tried.

Tried to see James as the friend he once knew, the guy who struggled with him, the one who used to complain about classes and dream about a better life. But that James wasn’t there anymore.

Maybe he never was.

What stood in front of him now wasn’t just a man.

It was a kingpin. A murderer. A ghost of someone he used to know.

Marcello told himself it didn’t matter. That friendship meant holding on, no matter how much the other person changed. But the truth clawed at him every time they met. Every time James spoke about things in a way no normal man should.

Marcello cared too much.

And it got worse when the whispers started.

People spoke his name in hushed tones, the way they did with James.

They called him Marcello Bellini.

James Bellini’s right-hand man. His underboss. A ruthless enforcer who handled business in the shadows.

It was all a lie.

Marcello had never killed anyone. Never sold anything. Never fought a day in his life. But none of that mattered.

They saw him as James’ shadow. And in a world like this, shadows were just as feared as the man who cast them.

Marcello Bellini.

The silent killer. The man who spoke with James every day.

And no matter how much he denied it, no matter how far he tried to run from it, the world had already decided who he was.

And it was too much to handle.

Marcello tried to ignore it at first. Tried to laugh it off, pretend like it didn’t matter. But the weight of those whispers grew heavier with every passing day.

People looked at him differently. Friends hesitated before speaking his name. Strangers crossed the street when they saw him. Even the ones who used to struggle alongside him now spoke in hushed voices, like he was something dangerous, something untouchable.

It didn’t matter that he wasn’t part of James’ business. It didn’t matter that he had never pulled a trigger or given an order.

What mattered was perception.

And in the eyes of the world, Marcello Bellini was already a killer.

One night, he sat alone in his apartment, staring at his reflection in the dark screen of his phone. He didn’t recognize himself anymore.

James had given him a choice, to take the money and walk away, to start over. But Marcello had stayed. He had wanted to be James’ friend, nothing more.

And one day, it all cracked.

It wasn’t the rumors. It wasn’t the whispers in the streets or the headlines that painted him as something he wasn’t.

It was his family.

It was the way his sister hesitated at the door when he came to visit. The way she pulled her child closer, her grip tightening as if to shield them from him.

It was the way his mother wouldn’t meet his eyes, her gaze fixed on the floor, on the table—anywhere but at him.

It was the way his father’s voice, once strong and certain, now trembled when he spoke. Like Marcello was a stranger. Like he was something to be feared.

And that was when he knew.

The world had already decided who he was.

And so had his own family.

It was enough for Marcello.

The weight, the whispers, the looks from his own family. The feeling he had buried deep for so long surged up like a tidal wave, and one day, it finally swallowed him whole.

He checked into a hotel.

Alone.

No calls. No messages. No letters.

Just silence.

He sat in the chair by the window, staring at the city below, the city that had never been kind to him, the city that had given him a friend and then taken him away.

He thought about James.

About the boy he once knew. The boy who struggled beside him, who dreamed of something better. The friend who had laughed with him when there was nothing to laugh about, who had shared his failures, his fears.

That James was gone.

And maybe, Marcello thought, so was he.

He reached for the gun. The one James had given him. The one meant to keep him safe.

His hands didn’t shake.

There was no hesitation.

One last breath.

One last thought.

One last pull of the trigger.

And then—

Silence.

And with him, a piece of James was gone too.