Chapter Text
Italy had always been Vincenzo’s home, but even with Babel destroyed, he couldn’t bring himself to leave Korea. Things had fallen into place far too neatly for his liking. It made him wonder if there were still things he needed to see through, which was how he found himself sitting across from Hwang Min-seong.
“Do you need anything else, Tae Ho?” Min-seong asked, chewing on his lower lip. His hands were folded neatly in his lap, but Vincenzo could feel how the metal table shook as the former bank president tapped his foot anxiously. “Sorry, I mean Vincenzo,” he corrected himself after a few moments of silence. “It’s just that I’ve already given you everything I can about my father and that housekeeper, Oh Gyeong-ja. I’ve told you about my mother, too.”
“Everything is in order,” Vincenzo replied calmly. “Your mother is on her way to a jail much like this one. I came here to discuss your case.”
The last part was a lie. Vincenzo didn’t know how else to explain his need to see Min-seong again, his instincts screaming that there was more to the situation. He was ready to cover for his pathetic attempt at an excuse with a chuckle and a quick bow as he left the room, but Min-seong froze at the Italian’s words. His back went ramrod straight, and his shoulders tensed. Vincenzo hadn’t overlooked the fact that Min-seong had shuffled into the room sheepishly, as if he was a cornered rabbit rather than the former president of a successful bank.
“There’s nothing else to discuss about my case, Vincenzo,” Min-seong mumbled, eyes locked to the table.
The consigliere sighed. “Is that why you’ve accepted your sentence with no resistance?”
Min-seong nodded wordlessly.
“Except you did resist, when you were first arrested,” Vincenzo noted. Min-seong paled further, if it was even possible. “You were insistent that you weren’t a criminal.”
“Just let it go, Tae Ho—Vincenzo!” Min-seong had curled over onto himself, dark hair falling into his eyes messily.
Vincenzo did not let it go; frankly, that was a habit he was going to have to break, eventually. “You look more terrified of me investigating your case than of spending a few years in prison,” he accused. “Are you hiding something, Mr. Hwang?”
“Everyone is hiding something,” Min-seong replied bitterly. “Babel has been destroyed, and Shinkwang will be soon enough. What more do you want?”
Vincenzo leaned forward, peering at the other man through the glass. “I want the truth.”
He left Min-seong without another word, heading back to Jipuragi before he forgot any details of their meeting. He had managed to convince Cha-young to let him visit Min-seong alone on the condition that he would tell her everything about the encounter. When he arrived back at the plaza, Cha-young and Mr. Nam were drinking instant coffee in the law office, reviewing documents that were quickly set aside upon his arrival.
“Did Min-seong try to make a deal?” Cha-young asked loudly, noticing Vincenzo first. “I always knew that scoundrel would try to weasel his way out of jail!”
“The opposite, actually,” Vincenzo corrected her, taking off his jacket and moving to prepare himself a cup of coffee. “He insisted that I not look further into his case. He seemed desperate, actually.”
“You’re going to do the opposite, aren’t you?” Cha-young asked, smirking.
“I’m going to find out what he’s been hiding from us,” the mafioso confirmed. “He shied away from the prison guards when I arrived, and he walked into the room rather uncomfortably, almost as if he was limping.”
“Do you think some of the other inmates have roughed him up a bit?” Mr. Nam asked. “Maybe they’re upset with Shinkwang bank.”
“Maybe,” Vincenzo muttered, taking a sip of his coffee. He didn’t want to consider what else would explain the ex-president’s behavior. “After I had drinks with him, I asked some of my contacts in Korea—ones I acquired through my association with Mr. Cho—to look into his case, specifically, the victims.”
“There were four of them, right?” Cha-young interjected.
The Italian nodded. “Three of them had superficial wounds: bruises on their bodies, small cuts on their faces, and scratches on their arms. The fourth, the man who was most severely injured, ended up blinded, and the police reports state that his eyes were slashed with a shard of glass from a beer bottle,” he said. “Who beats someone up by scratching them with their fingernails? And blinding someone with a broken bottle? That seems desperate for an assailant.”
“So what?” Cha-young asked, impatient as always. “Just because he beat them unconventionally doesn’t mean he didn’t beat them.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Vincenzo said with a shrug. “But the four victims all claimed he assaulted them on the same night. What are the odds of Min-seong asking out four men, only to be rejected and beat them all in one evening?”
“You think the victims lied?” Cha-young said, leaning forward in her chair. “Why would they do that? Male domestic abuse victims aren’t taken seriously, and they sued Hwang Min-seong! It would be a death sentence for their reputations.”
“Unless what they actually did was worse,” Vincenzo proposed, finally voicing his suspicions. “According to police records, Min-seong was never examined after the assaults, but I had my contacts dig into it a bit more. First responders found bruises on his arms and torso, and they noted he was visibly shaken, apparently contacting social services,” he explained. “Prosecutor Choi shut down any further investigation and erased the documentation from every database she could reach.”
“You think Min-seong was a victim himself,” Mr. Nam concluded.
“Too much of this case has been built by Choi Myung-hee, and we already know she tried to blackmail him.” Vincenzo hid his grimace by taking another sip of coffee. “Why wouldn’t she obstruct justice too?”
He didn’t tell them that Min-seong had been far too warm on their dates, or that the former bank president had been far too clingy at the amusement park. He had seemed starved of affection, and every move he had made to earn it had been more eager than aggressive. The more Vincenzo revisited those memories, the more he feared that they had made a mistake.
“Cha-young, can we pull security footage for the back room of Min-seong’s club?” Vincenzo asked.
She laughed sardonically. “Of course we can, if we ask its owner, Hwang Min-seong! Do you want me to call your boyfriend?”
“Very funny,” Vincenzo quipped. “I’m going to talk to the club’s manager.”
The club wasn’t open yet by the time Vincenzo arrived, but the manager let him in without protest. She seemed wary of his presence, but after a few moments, she smiled at him in recognition.
“You went on a date with Mr. Hwang, right?” she asked.
“I did. I’m Vincenzo, and I’m actually here to look at your security footage.”
The young woman blanched. “Is this about Mr. Hwang’s arrest?”
“I’m a lawyer, and I believe the footage you have can see him acquitted,” Vincenzo said, pushing away the sinking feeling in his gut. “Prosecutor Choi can’t harm you or your family anymore; you can show me what truly happened,” he added nervously, praying he was right.
The manager fell into a chair, thoroughly shaken at the implications. “I didn’t mean to hurt Mr. Hwang,” she said, looking up at Vincenzo with despair. “He was always so kind, but that prosecutor told me that she would get me thrown in jail if I said anything about the security cameras.”
“Miss, you aren’t in trouble,” the Italian assured her. “Can you please show me the security tapes?”
She nodded and led him to the back office, pulling up the video of that night as if she had reviewed it a thousand times before. He suspected she had done so out of guilt, berating herself for how events had played out. Fortunately, the footage was clear, depicting Min-seong and four young men in high definition. Vincenzo watched as the tallest of the group—the one who had been blinded, he recalled—flirted with Min-seong, buying him drinks obviously unaware that he owned the club.
The moment things took a turn for the worst seared itself into the mafioso’s memory. He watched Min-seong smile nervously and bid the other man a good evening. The stranger’s gaze darkened at that, his fists clenching. His three companions sauntered up to the table, all superficial smiles and casual confidence; Min-seong looked flustered, but he clearly knew he was outnumbered as he let himself be pushed through an unassuming door. The Min-seong in the video knew as well as Vincenzo did that the club’s back room was almost entirely concealed from the rest of the building, and his heart hammered wildly as the manager muttered a quiet apology and switched to another video, this one taken from a different camera.
One of the men set a bottle of beer down on a table while the apparent leader of the group pushed Min-seong down on a couch. Vincenzo could hardly bear to watch as the banker was pinned against the cushions, two men holding each of his wrists. The leader climbed on top of Min-seong, kissing him violently while starting to take off his belt. Min-seong looked terrified in the footage, but he made no move to stop what was happening. He was probably in shock, if the far-away look in his eyes was any indication. The men—his assailants—got his shirt off within minutes, and the moment the leader’s fingers touched his skin, Min-seong flinched. Vincenzo watched his panic change form, Min-seong squirming as he attempted to break the vice-like grip on his arms. He got his left arm free first, ramming his fist into the taller man’s nose. The leader stumbled back, and Min-seong used his position to pull the man on his right down onto the sofa, wrapping his fingers around the assailant’s throat. Vincenzo remembered finger-shaped bruises from the photographs, but he had foolishly assumed they were from when Min-seong had assaulted the other man.
This, Vincenzo thought, had to have been when the assailants decided to change their story. Not a single one of them looked prepared to fight Min-seong; they hadn’t expected him to be strong enough to pose a threat. Only one—the man who had been flirting with the former bank president to begin with—was bold enough to approach him again. He wrenched Min-seong’s fingers from around his companion’s neck, landing a blow to the banker’s ribs. As he attempted to pull out his phone—presumably to call the police—Min-seong smashed the beer bottle against the side of the table, swinging what remained haphazardly.
The man who had restrained his left side was cut as he scrambled back, but the leader of the group held up an arm to shield himself as he moved closer regardless. Vincenzo watched in horror as the assailant threw himself onto Min-seong, trying to take advantage of his height to pin the smaller man down. Min-seong thrashed desperately, slashing the other man’s eyes with the jagged glass he still held. He seemed to realize what he had done once he managed to shove the other man off of him, shakily looking up at the fourth member of the group, who had merely watched.
Vincenzo knew better than to hope this fourth man would apologize and go home; he had seen the photographs from that night. Min-seong stood on unsteady feet, half undressed and entirely disheveled. The Italian had been part of the mafia long enough to know the difference between vulnerability and weakness, but the man in the video did not. He lunged at Min-seong recklessly, wrapping his arms around the younger man’s waist. He was broader than Min-seong, and the banker drove the broken glass into his shoulder futilely. Even if it hurt, it was a flesh wound, and it only made the other man angrier. Min-seong turned wild in his resistance, clawing at the other man’s skin; his nails found purchase, leaving bloody crescents on his neck, but it made little difference. The stranger rammed his fists into Min-seong’s side, and Vincenzo was certain the blows had left fractured ribs in their wake, injuries that had never made it into official police records. Finally, Min-seong wrapped his fingers around a decorative vase, and Vincenzo let out a sigh of relief when he used it to bludgeon his assailant, sending the other man crumpling to the ground.
Min-seong looked around the room, shaking visibly. It took Vincenzo a few moments too long to realize Min-seong was sobbing. He knelt down on the floor, littered with broken glass and shards of porcelain, and wailed. He ran his hands through his dark hair, clutching at his scalp as he cried.
Vincenzo wanted to break the bones of the police officers who had come across this scene and trusted the word of four barely conscious drunks over that of Min-seong. He wanted to take his lighter to the skin of the lawyers who had accused Min-seong of domestic abuse after seeing how parts of his suit had been carelessly discarded on the floor, his shirt missing half of its buttons.
“I’m going to need a copy of all of this video footage,” he said instead. Seeing Min-seong freed would have to be enough, for now.