Chapter 2

Ever since their identities had been exposed, ever since their mother had died before their eyes, ever since their father had taken them away from that gilded cage, they had learned many things: how to rummage through garbage for something they could still swallow, how to lift coins from a drunkard's belt, how to drive a sharpened strip of wood into someone's thigh while being chased and beaten.

But they had never tried stealing from under the noses of two old sea dogs, especially aboard this ship-whose boatswain was famous for his sharp ears, supposedly able to hear a rat stirring through two decks.

Rossi stared at the scratches.

The lamplight stretched their shadows across the cabin wall, where they swayed like a silent dance.

He reached out and brushed his fingertips over "kitchen,"

then lightly tapped his ear.

Silence.

Complete, absolute silence.

Doflamingo followed his gesture and remained silent for several seconds.

Then he slowly straightened, moved his finger to the scratch representing the "boatswain's room," and drew a circle around it with his nail.

A silent circle that enveloped everything.

On the ship's lowest level, the cramped cabin reeked of poultry droppings mixed with moldy feed.

By the faint moonlight filtering through the porthole, two huddled figures scraped their nails across the grime-covered floor.

"We go around the outside." Rossi lowered his voice, tracing a curved route with his fingertip.

Hunger coiled around his stomach like red-hot wire, each breath tugging at a dull ache.

He knew this body would not last three more days unless he found food.

Doflamingo pushed up the sunglasses that had slipped halfway down his nose, his gaze settling on those rough lines behind the lenses.

He remembered the rusty iron hook in the storeroom, remembered the rear window he had glimpsed while cleaning the hull-cooking fumes seeped out through it, mingled with the seared aroma of fried meat.

When those sailors dumped the filthiest jobs on him, they would never have imagined that this silent boy memorized when every window opened and closed.

"I can get the hook."

Doflamingo's voice held a dryness that did not belong at his age. "The rear window opens for fifteen minutes every evening."

They did not discuss what would happen if they were caught.

On these seas, there was no essential difference between a wooden box flying a merchant flag and a skiff flying a skull and crossbones.

A knife slipped between the ribs faster than anyone could offer a defense, and the arc of a shark's fin cutting through the waves was more direct than any judgment.

It was the year 1494 of the Sea Circle Calendar. The declaration that would shake the world had yet to be shouted, but the salty tang of the sea was already steeped in the scent of plunder.

Rossi stared at the route he had drawn.

They would crawl out through a gunport and move along the damp wooden hull on the starboard side; the hook would have to catch the upper railing on the first try.

Slightly stronger wind and waves would slap them into the deep sea or smash their bones against the hull.

"Better than starving."

He heard himself say it.

Doflamingo did not answer, merely pushed his sunglasses up again.

That gesture suddenly made Rossi realize how long it had been since this brother of his had cried.

Since that night of towering flames, something soft had peeled away from Doflamingo, replaced by the gaze of a beast guarding its food-watching every scrap about to enter his mouth, every weapon at a passerby's waist, any sail that might appear on the horizon.

"You're different."

Doflamingo spoke suddenly.

Rossi paused, his nail unconsciously scraping the floor with a faint hiss.

From the depths of the cabin came the sound of rats gnawing wood, overlapping with the distant rhythm of waves striking the hull.

"People have to change."

In the end, that was all he said. "Let's do it."

The moonlight shifted a few degrees, and the patch shining through the porthole crept onto Doflamingo's knees.

He stood, the rustle of fabric especially clear in the silence.

Rossi stood after him, swaying on weak legs. Doflamingo's hand immediately clamped around his elbow-with a strength that hardly seemed a child's.

They slipped out of the cabin one after the other.

A sailor's snores drifted from the end of the corridor, like the broken notes of some flute.

Doflamingo had long since ruined the storeroom lock with a piece of wire. He gave the door only a gentle push, and the rusty hinges swallowed their **.

The iron hook lay among a heap of hemp rope in the corner, its point giving off a cold, hard, dull gleam.

Doflamingo tucked it inside his shirt, its sharp outline protruding beneath the fabric.

As he turned, a glint skimmed the edge of his sunglasses. In that instant, Rossi saw the narrowed eyes behind the lenses-like a feline prowling at night, pupils contracted into dangerous slits.

They moved close to the wall, carefully avoiding the floorboards that would creak beneath their feet.

Sea wind poured through the gunport, carrying the biting chill of late night.

Rossi crawled out first, half his body hanging beyond the ship's side, white foam churning in the dark water below.

Doflamingo followed close behind. The iron hook spun once in his hand, the rope already wrapped around his wrist.

The hook made almost no sound as he threw it.

The waves perfectly swallowed the dull thud as it caught the upper railing.

Doflamingo tested its hold, then nodded to Rossi.

Rossi swung across first.

The instant his body left its support, his stomach cramped with weightlessness, and the cold wind pouring into his collar raised goose bumps across his skin.

He struck the hull, a dull pain flaring in his ribs, but his fingers had already caught the windowsill.

Sure enough, the kitchen window stood slightly open.

Cooking fumes seeped through the gap, mingled with the sour smell of soup left over from the night before.

Rossi pushed the window open with his fingertips, and the greasy smell of fat hit him in the face.

He climbed inside, his boot soles slipping on the congealed grease coating the floor.

Doflamingo landed behind him, more lightly.

The eyes behind his sunglasses swiftly swept the dim kitchen: smoked meat hanging from a beam, sacks of potatoes piled in a corner, and half a loaf of hard bread on the chopping board.

They did not speak, each pulling down smoked meat and stuffing potatoes into his shirt.

The bread broke into two halves, crumbs falling to the floor.

Rossi bit into his share. The dry lump of flour swelled in his mouth and scraped his throat as he swallowed.

He heard Doflamingo chewing too, fast and urgent, like a starving young beast.

Footsteps sounded outside the window.

Both froze at once.

Doflamingo pressed a hand to the iron hook, while Rossi slowly crouched, hiding in the shadow cast by the stove.

The footsteps paused outside the door, followed by the jingle of keys and a man's indistinct humming.

The humming gradually receded.

Doflamingo released the hook and wiped his palm on his trouser leg.

Rossi saw fine beads of sweat at his temple, but his breathing had already steadied.

They continued stuffing food into their shirts until the bulges could no longer be concealed.

The return journey was harder than the trip over.

The weight dragging against their chests made every movement dangerous.

Rossi climbed out first. Doflamingo passed him the iron hook, then slid straight down with the food in his arms-the burning pain of rope scraping his palms made him clench his teeth.

They landed on the edge of the gunport one after the other, breathing out almost simultaneously as they rolled into the ship.

The corridor was still silent, the snoring continuing.

They crept back to the cabin on the lowest level. Only when they reached behind them and slid the bolt home did their backs finally settle against the wall.

The food lay spread across the ** floor.

Doflamingo tore off a piece of smoked meat, the sound of his teeth ripping through its fibers especially clear in the darkness.

Rossi slowly chewed a potato, the sweetness of starch dissolving at the back of his tongue.

The cramps in his stomach began to ease, replaced by the dull heaviness of exhaustion.

Doflamingo suddenly stopped.

He turned his head. His sunglasses had slipped unnoticed to the tip of his nose, exposing eyes that remained sharp even in the dimness.

"You never used to think about these things."

He said, "Climbing through windows, making hooks, working out the timing."

Rossi swallowed the food in his mouth.

The potato's aftertaste carried the raw tang of earth.

"We never used to need to steal food."

He answered.

Doflamingo stared at him for several seconds, then pushed his sunglasses back up and continued gnawing the meat in his hand.

His profile was half lit and half shadowed in the moonlight, the outline of his cheekbones shifting as he chewed.

Silence returned to the cabin.

There was only the faint sound of teeth cutting through food, and the endless surge of distant waves.

Rossi leaned against the wall, feeling warmth return to his body little by little.

The potatoes in his shirt still held the cellar's chill, but his fingertips had stopped trembling.

He closed his eyes.

What surfaced in the darkness was not the kitchen's greasy stove, but another night-flames licking the outlines of the mansion, thick smoke stinging his eyes, and those arms clutching farm tools and torches, those figures who had once bowed to their father.

Doflamingo's voice suddenly pierced the darkness:

"Next time, I'll get the rope.

Hemp stands out too much. Palm fiber would be better."

Rossi did not open his eyes.

"All right."

He said.

The moonlight continued to shift, finally leaving the porthole altogether.

The cabin sank into complete darkness, leaving only two figures sitting side by side against the wall, and the stolen food in their arms, slowly warmed by their bodies.

Icy sea wind poured through the gunport as two thin, small bodies emerged from the depths of the lowest hold.

They did not disturb the sailors whose snores rose and fell in their hammocks, instead edging along the bulkhead toward the neatly arranged gun positions.

When Doflamingo passed over the iron hook at the end of the rope, Rossi was wedged at the edge of the narrow gunport.

He took the hook and swung it twice, then held his arm suspended without making a move-the effortless throws in those stories had become nothing but clumsy hesitation in reality.

The gaze behind the sunglasses swept toward him, and Doflamingo patted his younger brother's shoulder.

In the dimness, the gesture was clearer than words: Let me.

The iron hook spun into a blurred gray shadow in Doflamingo's hand.

The instant it left his hand, an invisible force enveloped the area.

The whistle of its spinning vanished. The hook's collision with the starboard railing should have startled night birds, but now it was like a pebble sinking into the deep sea.

Rossi pressed his lips together. The Calm-Calm Fruit's power was spreading a fragile barrier around him.

"I'll go first."

He secured the second rope around his waist and clenched the spine of the ** between his teeth.

Doflamingo caught his wrist and tightened his grip, but in the end, he only released his fingers.

The barrier's range was too small, only large enough to envelop him alone.

If he failed, the splash would tear through the night like an alarm bell.

If he succeeded... the burning cramps in his stomach made the choice for him.

The tightened belt of the person beside him dug deep beneath his ribs, a sight more persuasive than any threat.

The sea wind tugged at the rope.

At his first push, his entire body hung suspended between darkness and waves.

The outline of the stern rapidly enlarged in his vision, the grain of the planks growing clearer-

The impact came silently and violently.

The instant his back slammed into the hull, the world held only two states: before the impact, and after.

Numbness exploded from the point of impact, swiftly swallowing the left half of his body.

Then heat surged up, as though someone had pressed a red-hot iron block into his flesh.

Only last came pain, fine and sharp, crawling along his spine toward his limbs.

His teeth sank into his lower lip, and the taste of blood filled his mouth.

His fingers clenched the rope until his knuckles whitened, his legs instinctively winding around it.

Time lost its measure. It might have been several heartbeats, or a long stretch of suffocation.

Only when his lungs began working again did he realize he was still hanging from the rope.

Three slight tremors traveled through the rope around his waist.

He turned his head and pulled at the corners of his mouth toward the blurred figure at the gunport.

The ** moved from between his teeth to his right hand, its tip making a faint splintering sound as he wedged it between the planks.

Swinging through the kitchen window in one perfect arc? That happened in stories.

Reality demanded carving footholds one stab at a time, flattening his body like a gecko, fighting the chill of a North Blue night as it seeped into his marrow.

Goose bumps rose beneath his thin clothing, and every movement made his muscles give a **.