Silas’s Madness.

Silas’s Madness.
Third Person POV

Alice’s voice floated through the halls of the DEVescori mansion like incense in a cathedral—sweet, sacred, and strangely out of place. 

In the west wing, where moonlight spilled through stained-glass windows and ghosts of the past had made their home, something was changing. For a home steeped in silence, death, and shadows, her song was an intrusion… or perhaps, a salvation. 

It wasn’t just music. It was balm on bruised and deceased souls. Blood on the marble floor felt less cold. And somewhere, deep within the bones of the house, all that had once screamed and bled now seemed to waltz to the melody of her soft, unearthly voice.

Nurse Emily, trembling in the aftermath of Silas’s wrath, had already called Tiberio. He was the only one who could withstand his brother’s violent episodes. Her call had been urgent, her voice shaking over the phone as she reported the escalation, her arm bleeding from a shard of glass flung in Silas’s rage.

Tiberio strode into the mansion, his polished shoes echoing on the marble floors, his presence a storm cloaked in tailored black. But as he crossed the threshold, he froze, a flicker of disorientation crossing his sharp features. 

The energy in his home felt transformed—charged with something divine, soft, almost sacred. It was as if the walls themselves exhaled, cleansed by an unseen force. 

Then he heard it: a high soprano, pure and haunting, entwined with the delicate cadence of piano keys, drifting through the west wing. For a moment, Tiberio didn’t recognize the voice as Alice’s, nor did he recall the music room tucked away in the mansion’s forgotten hallways. 

His brow furrowed, and he turned to Reid, his right-hand man, whose lean frame stood rigid beside him, gray eyes scanning the shadows. 

“Is there a newly built church nearby?” Tiberio asked, his voice low, half-serious, the absurdity of the question hanging in the air.

Reid’s brow arched, a rare crack in his stoic facade, and he shook his head. His ears, sharper than most, caught the source of the sound. 

“It’s coming from here, Don,” he said, his tone clipped but certain.

Tiberio’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t linger on the mystery. 

“Check on that,” he ordered the two bodyguards trailing behind, their black suits blending into the dim light. 

With a curt nod, he ascended the grand staircase, Reid at his side, his focus shifting to the chaos awaiting him in Silas’s quarters.

The growls and crashes grew louder as they approached the hallway designated for Silas, a wing shrouded in secrecy and pain. 

At the end of the corridor, Emily sat crumpled on the cold tiles, her nurse’s uniform stained with blood that trickled from a gash on her arm. Tears streaked her pale face, her eyes wide with fear and exhaustion. 

Blood was no stranger to Tiberio, nor was the act of hurting others, but the sight of the devoted nurse—loyal despite the horrors she endured—twisted something in his chest, a rare pang of guilt he quickly buried.

As if sensing their arrival, Emily’s head snapped up, her voice trembling. 

“Don Tiberio,” she stammered, her eyes pleading for salvation he couldn’t offer.

Tiberio’s gaze slid past her, locking onto the open door of Silas’s room, where chaos reigned. 

“Reid, take care of her injuries,” he commanded, his tone flat, betraying none of the turmoil within.

“Yes, Don,” Reid replied, kneeling beside Emily with a gentleness that belied his lethal reputation, his hands already moving to assess her wound.

Tiberio stepped into Silas’s room, the air thick with the scent of shattered glass and upturned earth from a potted plant now strewn across the floor. Books, papers, and splintered furniture littered the space.

The man who commanded fear in Milan’s underworld, cowered in a corner, crouched like a wounded beast. His muscular frame quivered, and his jaw clenched so tightly his face burned red. His gray eyes were wild, lost in a torment only he could see. 

“Don’t touch me! Let me go!” Silas roared. “I won’t tell anyone. I promised. I never told anyone! It’s been twenty years! Just let me go.” His voice cracked, raw and haunted.

Tiberio stood still, just inside the doorway, watching the man his brother had become. Or what was left of him.

Silas’s hands clutched his head, digging into his scalp, trying to silence whatever torment was ringing inside his skull. He rocked slightly, muttering incoherent words in a language only he understood.

Tiberio’s heart twisted, a dull ache he’d carried for twenty-one years, since Silas’s condition first surfaced, three years before their father’s death. 

Diagnosed as a mysterious mental affliction, it had only worsened, chaining Silas to a cage within his own mind. 

Tiberio stood motionless, his hands tucked into his pockets, his face a mask of control. He couldn’t heal his brother, couldn’t erase the pain, he could only stand to watch him suffer.

He wondered, not for the first time, if their mother—cruel and manipulative before she abandoned them—had planted the seed of this madness. The thought lingered, bitter and unanswerable.

Tiberio approached cautiously, his steps deliberate, his voice a soft growl meant to pierce the fog. 

“Fratello,” (brother) he called, the word heavy with unspoken love and frustration.

Silas didn’t respond, his body trembling, his mind still ensnared. 

Tiberio placed a hand on his shoulder, but Silas flinched violently, his eyes flashing with panic. 

For a moment, clarity flickered, as if Silas recognized his brother, but then the torment surged back, and he erupted into another outburst, thrashing against the wall, his fists slamming into the plaster.

Tiberio stepped back, his jaw tight, his hands returning to his pockets. 

He knew the pattern—Silas’s episodes cycled between lucidity and chaos, always circling back to that one phrase: “It’s been twenty years, and I still haven’t told anyone.” 

Somewhere in that buried memory lay the truth. A secret so vile, so deep, it shattered Silas’s mind—and it held the key to either his redemption or his damnation.

If Tiberio could uncover it, could pull the pieces together, he might free his brother from this cage. But twenty-one years had passed, and the truth remained elusive. No matter how hard he tried to piece things together, the answers never came. He had tried everything, but it was always a dead end.

Every attempt to ask Silas was futile. It would always lead to confusion, and frustration that pushed him closer to the edge, triggering a spiral that ended in rage, broken glass, and bloodied knuckles.

Tiberio didn’t speak again. He simply stood there, watching as his brother slowly slipped back into silence, whispering to ghosts only he could see.