A ghost from the past

A strangled cry escaped Carlo's lips. Don Giovanni? The man who'd taught him to fish, who'd amused him with stories of faraway lands, a murderer? The image of his father, stern but loving, arguing with the jovial Don Giovanni, twisted in his mind. The world tilted on its axis, the sterile white walls of the interrogation room threatening to close in on him.

He grabbed a metal chair, its coldness a stark contrast to the hell raging within him. He sank onto it, the harsh clang echoing in the tense silence. A million questions swirled in his head, a suffocating storm threatening to erupt. Why did Dante say he killed them? 

"Why?" he rasped, his voice barely a whisper above a growl. 

"Why would Don Giovanni…" The words died in his throat, choked by the raw emotion coursing through him.

Luca, his young face pale and streaked with tears, flinched at the Don's barely contained fury. He took a shuddering breath, his voice trembling as he spoke.