"Manhunt" (Part 5)
The room was quieter now.
The baby had finally drifted to sleep in his crib. His tiny, impossibly small, and delicate fingers were still curled tightly around the corner of a thin, frayed blanket. His chest's faintest rise and fall betrayed his peaceful slumber, but even in sleep, his face bore the faint remnants of earlier tears, red-rimmed eyes, and a furrowed brow that hadn't yet smoothed completely.
But beyond the bedroom walls, the house was anything but peaceful.
In the living room, Nate sat on a wooden chair positioned in the center of the space. He straddled it like he owned it, arms draped over the backrest casually, though there was nothing casual about the sharpness in his eyes or the rigid way his jaw set. His boot rested heavily on one of the lower rungs of the chair. Its mud-caked sole scraping against the wood with a faint squeak as he shifted his weight.
His gaze was locked on his father, who sat in a recliner across from him. Next to him sat the woman, her wrists similarly tied, her head lolling slightly forward as if her own body could no longer bear its weight. Her lips were tight shut, but her silence didn't feel submissive. It felt volatile.
Nate exhaled slowly through his nose, his gaze still fixed on Daniel as if staring hard enough might crack him open. His fingers tapped against the chair in a slow, methodical rhythm. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, bore into the man before him. "You had a son," he said.
Daniel's lips twitched upward, but the expression was cold, just a cruel mockery of a smile. "So what?" he drawled, his tone indifferent.
Nate blinked. "So what?" he repeated, his voice quieter now, but the disbelief in it was palpable.
Daniel shrugged, or at least tried to, restrained as he was to the chair. The leather straps creaked under the weight of his careless movements. "Women get knocked up," he said, his voice casual as though discussing the weather. "Kids happen. What's your point?"
For a moment, Nate didn't respond. His fingers continued their steady rhythm against the wooden armrest, each tap louder than the last. Then, they stopped abruptly. "You just left him there," Nate said, his voice dropping an octave, colder now, sharper. "In that fucking room." The words hung in the air, bitter and suffocating.
Daniel rolled his eyes as if Nate were being overly dramatic. "He's fine," he said with an exaggerated sigh. "He eats, he sleeps, he breathes."
Nate's jaw tightened visibly. The muscle in his cheek twitched as he leaned forward ever so slightly, as though closing the distance between them would make Daniel's apathy less unbearable. "You mean when he's not screaming his lungs out because no one gives a shit?" His voice cracked slightly on the last word, not out of weakness but sheer rage he barely managed to contain.
Daniel's mouth curled into something grotesque, an ugly sneer that revealed teeth yellowed from years of neglect. "Who knows..." he shot back venomously. "Maybe this one will turn out better than the last one, right?" He paused for effect, letting the insult settle into the cracks of the room like poison gas.
The tapping stopped entirely. Nate's hand hovered over the armrest for a heartbeat too long before slowly curling into a fist. His knuckles whitened as his nails dug into his palm.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was ice-cold. There was no anger in it now, just a bone-deep weariness that cut deeper than any shout ever could. "You're a fucking disease."
Silence followed, heavy and oppressive. Even Daniel seemed momentarily caught off guard by it. His smirk faltered for just a second before returning weaker than before.
"You wanna make me feel bad?" Daniel asked after a moment, trying to regain control of the conversation. He leaned back as far as his restraints would allow and let out a humorless chuckle. "Good luck, kid." His words came out sharp and smug, daring Nate to try harder.
Nate didn't rise to the bait this time. Instead, he leaned forward until their faces were mere inches apart. Then, slowly, something flickered in Daniel's eyes, a brief flash of uncertainty that disappeared almost as quickly as it came. For once, he didn't have an immediate retort.
Nate's lips curved into a small smile if it could even be that. "That's the thing about you, isn't it?" he said quietly. "No guilt. Not a single fucking moment in your wasted, pathetic life where you've stopped to think...that maybe you were the problem." His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to.
Daniel scoffed loudly and shook his head like Nate had just told him some ridiculous joke. "Give me a fucking break," he muttered under his breath.
"Sure," Nate replied evenly, standing up straight again but keeping his gaze locked on Daniel's face. "Just like you gave my mother a break, right? Just like you gave me one." He let those words linger for half a beat before adding with quiet venom. "Just like you're giving that kid back there." His voice cracked slightly on the last word.
For once in his life, Daniel had nothing to say. His mouth opened slightly as if to form some rebuttal but closed again without uttering a sound. The silence that followed was deafening. Nate let it stretch out for as long as he could stand it before finally turning away from him altogether.
He moved toward the woman sitting slumped in her chair. Her arms were covered in needle bruises so dark they looked almost black. Her pupils, blown wide from whatever cocktail of drugs still coursed through her system, made her seem more ghost than human at this point.
Nate crouched before her, his knees creaking against the worn wooden floor. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at her, his eyes searching hers, combing through the wreckage of what she had become. His breath hitched as he studied her face: the gaunt cheeks, the hollowed eyes that once held fire but now reflected nothing but exhaustion. He was trying to piece together the fragments, scraps of memory, flickers of who she might have been.
Her shoulders hunched forward protectively, and she shifted slightly under his gaze. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but firm, cutting through the oppressive tension like a blade. "Name."
She didn't respond right away. Her cracked lips twitched as if forming words was a distant memory. She blinked slowly, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. Her pupils seemed unfocused, swimming in fog he couldn't see through.
"What's your name?" Nate repeated, leaning in closer now and snapping his fingers in front of her face. His tone was sharper this time, more insistent.
Her mouth opened slightly, her chapped lips parting as if she were about to speak. He thought she might answer, but then whatever syllables had formed dissolved into a slurred murmur, a sound so faint and broken that it barely reached his ears.
Nate's jaw tightened. His eyes flicked downward, catching sight of the bruises on her arms, purple and green smudges blooming like grotesque flowers against her pale skin. His stomach churned with anger and disgust. He swallowed hard, his voice dropping low as he hissed, "How the fuck do you live with yourself?"
The woman's head tilted slightly at his words, and something sparked behind her glassy stare for the first time since she'd burst out of the bedroom door. Her lips curled into a faint smirk, not one born of amusement but something colder, sharper. "Piss off," she rasped finally, her voice hoarse and raw.
Then, she spat.
The warm glob landed squarely on Nate's cheek.
Nate didn't move. His body remained eerily calm, every muscle locked in place as though his mind hadn't caught up to what had just happened. Behind him, Enzo shifted uneasily by the doorway. His shoulders tensed beneath his jacket as if bracing himself for an explosion. Nearby, Daniel let out a low chuckle, soaked in sarcasm and pride.
"Atta, girl," Daniel muttered.
Still crouched in front of her, Nate reached up slowly and wiped his face with his hand. His expression didn't change, not anger, shock, or even disgust.
Then he stood. "Let's put them in the car," he said flatly as he turned toward Enzo.
Enzo blinked at him incredulously, his brows knitting together in confusion. "What?"
"You heard me." Nate's voice was steady, a dangerous constant that brooked no argument.
Enzo hesitated for a beat too long. "Nate," he started cautiously, "this wasn't the fucking plan."
"Plans change," Nate snapped without missing a beat.
But Enzo wasn't ready to back down yet. His hesitation lingered before he asked quietly but pointedly: "And the kid?"
Nate froze mid-step as though someone had struck him across the face. The air seemed to shift around him.
The baby.
His baby brother.
The fragile bundle of innocence lying somewhere in this godforsaken house, a place rotted through with poison and violence and memories that should've been buried long ago. That baby was the only thing left untouched by it all, worth saving.
Enzo took a slow breath behind him and repeated softly, almost like a plea: "Nate."
But Nate was beyond reasoning at this point, and Enzo knew.
He had made up his mind already.
*
(Hours later)
Nate's boots sank into the soft, unsettled soil with every step, the weight of his body pressing deep into the earth as he worked. Each plunge of the shovel into the dirt came with a dull, gritty crunch, his motions mechanical, relentless. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the chill that bit through his jacket and stung his exposed skin. Every muscle in his body screamed for rest, but he ignored the pain.
He couldn't stop, not now.
Not yet.
Beside him, a fresh mound of dirt lay haphazardly piled, uneven, and raw like a wound torn open and hastily stitched back together. The first grave was filled, its occupant anonymous in death as she'd been. The woman, her name lost to time, her sins buried along with her broken body, was now little more than a memory swallowed by the earth. Nate didn't look at it. There was no use dwelling on what was done.
The shovel trembled slightly in his hands as he paused to catch his breath, his fingers tightening instinctively around its worn wooden handle. His gaze flicked toward Enzo, who leaned lazily against the car parked a few feet away. Enzo's arms were crossed over his chest, his posture almost casual as if they weren't standing in the middle of a makeshift graveyard under the indifferent gaze of the moon.
Nate's voice cut through the stillness like a whip crack. "You gonna fucking help, or what?" His tone was sharp, laced with frustration and exhaustion.
Enzo didn't so much as twitch. He tilted his head slightly. "Your mess," he drawled. "You clean it up." His lips curled into a faint smirk that stoked Nate's simmering anger.
Nate's nostrils flared as he exhaled sharply through his nose. "Jesus Christ." The curse slipped out under his breath, more to himself than anyone else. He unnecessarily jabbed the shovel into the ground before spinning on his heel and stalking toward the car. "Get him out," he barked over his shoulder without breaking stride.
Enzo sighed theatrically, pushing off the car exaggeratedly as if Nate's demand were an unbearable inconvenience. "Right, right," he muttered with a lazy stretch of his arms.
He reached for Daniel, who was slumped awkwardly in the back seat, his wrists bound tightly behind him with coarse rope that bit into his skin. Enzo grabbed him by the collar of his tattered flannel shirt and hauled him out with little regard for gentleness. Daniel groaned as he hit the ground hard on his knees, dirt clinging to the fabric of his jeans. He swayed slightly before steadying himself, lifting his head just enough to glare up at Enzo with bloodshot eyes full of defiance.
"Move," Enzo snapped, punctuating the command with a sharp kick to the back of Daniel's legs. The older man stumbled forward onto all fours before collapsing beside the second grave-in-progress. He coughed once, a dry, rattling sound, before spitting into the dirt at Enzo's boots.
Nate circled back toward them slowly, savoring every moment leading up to what was about to unfold. When he reached the car again, he leaned inside and pulled out a shotgun. Its cold steel gleamed as he let its weight settle in his hands. For a moment, he stood there, running his fingers along the barrel with an almost reverent touch before clicking it open and sliding a single shell into place. He turned back toward Daniel and walked over to where he knelt in the dirt, crouching until they were at eye level. The shotgun rested casually against Nate's knee, though nothing was casual about the tension radiating from him.
Daniel lifted his chin defiantly, even as blood trickled from a split lip. "Killing me won't fix you," he rasped, his voice rough but steady despite everything.
Nate let out a low chuckle that didn't reach his eyes. "Who said I needed fixing?" His voice was quiet but carried an edge sharp enough to cut through steel. He leaned in closer, then lowered his voice until it was barely more than a whisper, a dagger aimed straight at Daniel's heart.
"Remember what I told you?"
Daniel sneered despite everything, the bruises, the ropes cutting into his wrists, the shotgun resting so casually within arm's reach of ending him forever, and tilted his head slightly in mock curiosity.
"What?"
Nate's lips curved into something resembling a smile, a cold thing devoid of warmth or humor. Confusion flickered across Daniel's face for just a fraction of a second, so brief it might have been imagined.
Nate's voice dropped lower as he delivered his final words. "That my face would be the last thing you'd ever see."
For once, perhaps for the first time in Daniel's life, he had no response. It wasn't fear that clouded his expression at that moment, not exactly, but it was close enough for Nate. He exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the restless whispers of the wind that swept through the barren construction site.
"Death is mercy, old man." He paused, his gaze fixed on the hollow, bloodshot eyes of the man before him. The words came out clipped, each syllable like a stone dropping into a still pond. "You don't deserve it."
Daniel flinched slightly, though he tried to mask it with a sneer. But something in his eyes betrayed him. Fear? Regret? It didn't matter to Nate.
He could feel the years of bitterness and rage coursing through him, boiling beneath the surface, but his voice remained calm. "But...you took my mother away from me." His throat tightened on the words, but he forced them out anyway. "And if there's one thing I believe in... it's retribution." He cocked the shotgun with a deliberate motion. The metallic clack reverberated in the silence like a clock striking midnight.
Time had run out for Daniel.
"One day," Nate continued, his tone slightly softening, a confession meant more for himself than anyone else. "I'll face mine." He let those words hang in the air, tasting their bitter truth.
He knew they were coming for him eventually, the ghosts of his choices, but not tonight. Not now.
The barrel of the shotgun pressed against Daniel's forehead, cool steel meeting damp skin as beads of sweat slid down the older man's temples. Daniel's breathing quickened, shallow, and uneven, but he didn't move. Couldn't move. Nate leaned in closer until they were mere inches apart, his shadow swallowing Daniel.
"But today is not that day."
The shotgun roar shattered the night like glass breaking underfoot. This violent crack echoed across the empty lot and seemed to carry on forever before finally fading into silence.
Daniel's body jerked violently from the impact before slumping backward into the open grave behind him. His lifeless frame hit the dirt with a heavy thud, and his arms sprawled awkwardly as though even in death, he resisted surrendering to gravity's pull. Blood seeped through his shirt in dark rivulets, pooling beneath him as if the earth itself was eager to swallow him whole.
For a moment, there was only quiet. Nate's chest heaved as he let out a slow breath—one that felt like it had been trapped inside him for years, clawing at his ribcage for release. Relief washed over him, not joy, not satisfaction, but relief nonetheless. It was a hollow kind of victory, one that left an ache rather than filling a void.
But it was done.
(Another hour later)
The shovel finally hit the dirt one last time.
Enzo stood motionless momentarily, his hands gripping the wooden handle. His chest heaved with every breath, lungs burning from exertion. Sweat dripped down his temples and into his eyes, stinging as he blinked it away. His shirt, once white, was now damp and streaked with dirt. His muscles screamed in protest, his arms trembling from the relentless repetition of digging and burying. Enzo glanced down at the mounds of freshly turned soil, his jaw tightening. He swiped a hand across his forehead, smearing dirt across his brow as he exhaled sharply through his nose. Turning on his heel, he trudged back toward the car parked at the edge of the site.
Inside the car, Nate was sprawled across the back seat like he didn't have a care in the world. He looked like someone who'd spent a long day fixing fences on a farm rather than someone who had just executed his own father and buried two bodies in unmarked graves.
But it wasn't Nate who made Enzo stop mid-step.
It was him.
The baby.
The tiny boy sat perched on Nate's chest like some odd trophy or prize, a surreal contrast to everything else about this cursed night. His chubby cheeks glowed pale in the moonlight as he stared up at Nate with wide green eyes that seemed too knowing for someone so small. His tiny hands curled and uncurled as if testing their strength or exploring their new surroundings, occasionally tugging at Nate's shirt with surprising determination.
Nate grinned down at him, an expression so foreign that Enzo almost didn't recognize him for a moment. The smile wasn't sly or cocky. It wasn't even tinged with that usual hint of sarcasm that Nate carried like armor. No, this smile was pure. Unfiltered joy radiated from him as his roughened fingers brushed against the baby's soft cheek in a gentle motion that seemed out of place for a man who had so effortlessly pulled a trigger hours earlier.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Enzo's voice came low and sharp as he finally reached them, breaking through whatever strange spell had settled over Nate.
Nate didn't look up immediately. He focused on the baby, who gurgled softly in response to his touch. "What does it look like?" he replied after a beat, his tone infuriatingly casual.
Enzo snapped, dragging a hand down his face as frustration bubbled over. "Jesus Christ, Nate...what the fuck are you gonna do with that baby?"
At this, Nate finally shifted enough to glance up at Enzo through half-lidded eyes, still smirking, always smirking, as none fazed him. "I dunno," he said with a lazy shrug that jostled the baby slightly before he adjusted him again. "I should probably stop by the store and get some formula or something. He's probably starving." Nate said.
"Formula?" Enzo's voice rose an octave as disbelief hit him square in the chest. He exasperatedly threw his arms out wide before letting them fall limply to his sides. "What is wrong with you?" Nate's attention drifted back to the baby as if Enzo's words were background noise. The infant had now latched onto one of Nate's fingers, gripping it tightly with surprising strength for someone so small. "You should've left him," Enzo muttered darkly after moments of tense silence between them.
That got Nate's attention.
"Say that again," Nate murmured softly, so softly it was almost inaudible, but steel was beneath those words. A threat wrapped in quiet fury.
"Nate…" Enzo began cautiously.
"Say it again," Nate interrupted coldly, his voice dropping lower still. Enzo hesitated too long. "I swear to God," Nate continued when no response came immediately from Enzo's lips, "I'll put you in the fucking ground next to them."
A muscle in Enzo's jaw twitched, the tension rippling through his face. "You really think Father's gonna let you keep the kid?" he pressed, his voice low and sharp, each word laced with warning.
Nate didn't flinch, didn't even look at Enzo. Instead, his hands shifted almost instinctively, adjusting the baby higher on his chest with a gentleness that seemed incongruous to his nature. The baby stirred slightly but settled quickly against Nate's steady heartbeat, tiny fingers curling unconsciously into his shirt. The gesture anchored Nate more firmly than any argument ever could.
"Don't worry about your father," Nate said, his voice steady but quiet as if he were speaking less to Enzo and more to himself or the baby. "I'll take care of it."
Enzo's shoulders sagged slightly as though he'd been expecting that answer but still hated hearing it aloud. He shook his head slowly, muttering something under his breath that Nate didn't catch or didn't care to acknowledge. By then, Nate's attention had shifted again entirely to the baby, the little boy who blinked at him now with wide eyes full of trust and innocence. There was no fear, no hesitation, just pure, unfiltered faith in the man holding him.
And that faith broke something open in Nate's chest.
"Don't worry, kiddo," he murmured softly, leaning down to press a featherlight kiss to the baby's cheek. His voice dropped even further then, low and tender, meant only for those tiny ears to hear. "I'm going to take care of you." The baby cooed softly in response, a sound so small yet full of life it made Nate's throat tighten unexpectedly.
It wasn't just a promise but a vow etched into Nate's soul. His arms tightened protectively around the child as though daring anyone, Giorgio Taletti or otherwise, to try and take him away.
"Nothing bad is ever going to happen to you," he whispered against the baby's forehead, his lips brushing softly against delicate skin as he spoke the words like a prayer, like a truth he would carve into reality if necessary.
"Not while I'm here."
*
(A week later)
Giorgio's house loomed, rather than sat, a fortress of wealth and power surveying the city below like a monarch appraising his subjects. The street where it sat seemed to bow under the weight of the estate, its steep incline carved into a meticulously paved driveway that wound upwards in elegant curves, flanked by manicured hedges and towering cypress trees. At the summit, a sprawling, two-story masterpiece of Italian architecture.
The entrance was guarded by iron gates—massive and ornate, their design an intricate web of vines and thorns. They were not merely decorative. They were imposing, a barrier meant to intimidate as much as to protect. A pair of men stood on either side, their suits crisp, their gazes sharp and unwavering. They didn't just watch. They assessed and judged, silently cataloging every movement of those who dared approach. Above them, cameras swiveled smoothly on hidden mounts, their lenses unblinking sentinels in Giorgio's ever-watchful dominion.
Inside, the air shifted. It wasn't merely a home. It was a museum of power and legacy. Antique furniture was polished to a mirror-like shine, and marble floors and heavy drapes adorned the space.
In the study, the atmosphere grew heavier. The room smelled of leather and faint cigar smoke. Giorgio's desk demanded attention, not just for its sheer size but for its craftsmanship. Papers lay neatly stacked on one side, a fountain pen resting atop them as though poised for a signature that could alter destinies.
Behind the desk sat Giorgio himself.
When Nate stepped inside, something flickered across Giorgio's face, a crack in the marble façade he wore so effortlessly. His steely composure faltered enough for Nate to catch it: a softness in his eyes that wasn't meant for anyone else to see.
"Ah, Nathaniel," Giorgio said. His tone was different, something almost tender beneath the gravelly edge. Nate nodded in acknowledgment but didn't speak immediately. He'd learned long ago that silence could be just as powerful as words in this house. Giorgio leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk as he studied Nate with an intensity that felt like being dissected under a microscope. "Is it done?" he said at last, his words more statement than a question. But then his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, a hunter sensing something amiss in his prey.
Nate's throat tightened, but he forced himself to meet Giorgio's gaze head-on. "Yeah," he said.
Giorgio exhaled slowly through his nose, a sound more akin to a growl than a sigh, as he leaned back into his chair. His fingers drummed softly against the armrest in an almost accusatory rhythm. "Perché quella faccia preoccupata?" Giorgio asked after another beat of silence.
Nate hesitated, one that felt like an eternity stretched thin over seconds. His mind raced through everything he'd seen and done in those last few hours.
"There was a baby," he said quietly. Giorgio's brows lifted slightly, not enough to betray genuine surprise, but enough for Nate to know he'd caught him off guard. "My father's kid," Nate clarified before Giorgio could ask. "Barely a year old."
The room fell silent again.
When Giorgio finally spoke again, his voice was colder than before, harder, sharper. "Get rid of it," he said evenly.
The words struck Nate like a physical blow. "No," he said firmly, too firmly perhaps, but he didn't care anymore about maintaining calm or decorum.
Giorgio's gaze sharpened instantly, a predator catching sudden movement in its periphery. "No?" he repeated slowly, testing whether he'd heard correctly.
"I'm keeping him," Nate replied without hesitation this time, his voice unwavering.
Giorgio studied him intently, the subtle shift in Nate's posture catching his eye first, the way his shoulders squared just slightly, as though he were bracing himself for a blow that hadn't yet come. The edge in Nate's voice hadn't gone unnoticed either. It was sharper than usual, tinged with a determination Giorgio wasn't accustomed to having thrown back at him. It wasn't the wavering tone of a soldier asking permission. No, this was something else entirely.
"Nathaniel," Giorgio began slowly. Each word was measured and deliberate. "You want to raise a child in this world?" He gestured vaguely around them with one hand. "You think you can protect him from what we do? From who we are?"
Nate didn't flinch under Giorgio's scrutiny. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his hands curling into fists at his sides as though physically willing himself not to falter. "I won't raise him in this world," he shot back. "I'll keep him away from it. He'll have a normal life."
Giorgio tilted his head ever so slightly, his lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile. It was too bitter for that but nonetheless carried the faintest trace of amusement. "Normal?" he repeated, letting out a low chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest. The sound was almost mocking. "There is no normal in the life we lead, Nathaniel."
Nate stood taller now, defiance flickering in his eyes. "Then I'll make one for him," he said firmly, each word steady and deliberate as though daring Giorgio to challenge him further.
For a moment, Giorgio said nothing. He exhaled slowly, a small plume of smoke escaping between his teeth before dissipating. His gaze shifted to Nate again, not as a boss scrutinizing an underling but as something far more personal and fraught with complexity.
That fire in Nate's eyes. Giorgio couldn't deny that it stirred something in him, a mixture of pride and frustration. For the first time since he'd taken Nate under his wing all those years ago, he saw him not as the boy he had rescued from ruin or even as the loyal soldier who had served him without question. No, this was different.
This was a young man standing before him now, with something to fight for and something to lose.
Giorgio saw an asset.
Possibly two.
Nate's following words came quietly but carried an unshakable weight: "I'll do anything you ask of me. I'll give you everything. My life..." He paused briefly before continuing, "...on one condition."
Giorgio arched an eyebrow at that, leaning back slightly in his chair to evaluate Nate from a new angle. "And what's that?" he asked coolly, though there was an unmistakable edge of curiosity beneath his calm demeanor.
"You let me raise him," Nate said without hesitation. His voice grew firmer with each following word: "Away from this. Away from all of it."
The silence between them stretched so thick that it seemed to press down on both men like an invisible weight. Only the faint crackle of the fireplace across the room broke through its oppressive stillness.
Finally, Giorgio moved, not hurriedly but with deliberate purpose, as he leaned forward to carefully place his half-burned cigar into the ashtray on his desk. Then, slowly but surely, he rose from his chair and walked around the desk until he stood directly in front of Nate, close enough that Nate could see every line etched into Giorgio's face.
Giorgio stared at him for a long moment, then he lifted one hand, one that had built empires and destroyed lives, and brushed his palm lightly against Nate's face. The gesture was unexpectedly gentle, almost fatherly, as his thumb wiped away the faint dampness gathering at the corner of Nate's eye.
"I love you like a son," Giorgio murmured softly, his voice carrying none of its usual sharpness but a quiet sincerity that cut straight to Nate's heart. "But you'll regret this choice."
Nate swallowed hard against the lump rising in his throat as Giorgio's words settled over him. "I don't care," Nate whispered fiercely after a beat of hesitation.
Giorgio let out another breath before reclaiming his cigar from where it rested in the ashtray. Giorgio took another long drag before speaking again. "Very well. Keep the boy. Raise him," he said at last, exhaling smoke as though releasing whatever resistance still lingered within him.
Relief surged through Nate like a tidal wave, powerful and overwhelming, but he forced himself not to let it show too much beyond the slight easing of tension in his posture. "Thank you," he said simply before turning toward the door.
But as his fingers wrapped around the handle and twisted, Giorgio's voice spoke from behind him.
"Nathaniel." Giorgio's quiet authority stopped Nate in his tracks instantly. Slowly turning back around, he again met that steady gaze. "What's the boy's name?" Giorgio asked evenly.
Nate hesitated for only a fraction of a second before a small smile ghosted across his lips, tinged with hope and something deeper still.
"I was thinking...Caleb," he replied softly.
Giorgio nodded once, just once, as though sealing some unspoken agreement between them.
"Caleb," he repeated thoughtfully before leaning back into his chair.
Without another word exchanged between them, Nate turned back toward the door again and stepped through it—closing it quietly behind him.
*
(Present time)
Caleb stumbled through the open desert, his boots sinking into the loose dirt with every uneven step. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling as though the air he fought to inhale was poisoned. The horizon wavered before him, shimmering under the relentless sun. Still, it wasn't the heat that blurred his vision but the weight of a truth so devastating that it had splintered the foundation of his life.
Nausea came in waves, rolling through him until his stomach twisted violently. His throat tightened, bile rising like a bitter tide he couldn't swallow back. He staggered forward a few more steps before his knees buckled beneath him, sending him crashing.
His hands fisted at his sides as his body convulsed, heaving uncontrollably. He retched once, then again, his entire body wracked with spasms until there was nothing left but acid burning its way up his throat. The taste of it lingered on his tongue, sharp and acrid, but it was nothing compared to the ache carving itself into his chest. He doubled over, clutching at his stomach as though he could hold himself together by sheer force of will. But no matter how tightly he held on, he couldn't stop what was happening inside him. Everything he thought he was had shattered into a million pieces.
Nate wasn't his father.
The words rang in his ears like a bell tolling for the dead, loud, unrelenting, impossible to ignore.
Nate was his brother.
A shudder rippled through Caleb's frame as the truth settled deeper into him, its weight unbearable. Every moment they'd shared had been built on a lie. A beautiful lie that had wrapped around Caleb's heart like a warm blanket, only to be ripped away without warning.
But if he wasn't Nate's son, then who was he?
Tears stung at the corners of his eyes before spilling over in hot trails down his cheeks. He didn't bother wiping them away. What was the point?
Behind him came a sudden sound. A door slamming open with enough force to rattle its hinges. Caleb didn't turn around. He didn't need to look to know who it was.
"Let him go." Enzo's gruff but steady voice carried across the dry air.
But Ryan didn't listen.
He never did when it came to Caleb.
Instead of stopping, he swiftly and decisively cut through the sand like a man on a mission. His pulse hammered as he closed the distance between them, but he kept his breathing steady and controlled, even as something inside him twisted at the sight of Caleb crumpled on the ground ahead of him. He slowed as he approached, not wanting to startle Caleb, and stopped just a few feet away. For a long moment, he didn't speak, reach out, or do anything except stand there and watch as Caleb's shoulders trembled under the weight of emotions too big for one person to carry alone.
Then Caleb stood up again and began to walk. Ryan resisted the urge to reach out. He just followed. His sneakers crunched quietly on the gritty dirt as he kept a steady pace behind Caleb.
He followed.
No interference.
No pressure.
Simply walking alongside him.
Caleb's shoulders quivered slightly, and each step seemed unsteady, yet he pressed undeterred.
And so did Ryan.
*
The desert stretched endlessly before them, an infinite sea of amber and ochre dunes.
The day's heat had finally softened, retreating into memory as a gentle warmth lingered. A whisper of wind stirred now and then, lifting fine grains of sand that tickled their cheeks, teasing their hair. The quiet felt sacred, as though the world was holding its breath.
Caleb and Ryan sat on a flat rock that jutted out from the dunes like an island in a golden ocean. Their clothes were streaked with dust, and their sneakers were scuffed and caked with grit. Their gazes were fixed forward, locked on the horizon, where the sun continued its slow descent.
Neither had spoken for what felt like an eternity. By now, the silence between them wasn't strained or awkward anymore, turned into an old coat worn through harsh winters. They didn't need to fill the void with words anymore because they both understood what lay within it.
"He's not perfect, you know," Ryan finally uttered. His words hung there momentarily, carried off slightly by the breeze before sinking between them.
Caleb's fingers stilled where they'd traced absent patterns in the dirt beside him. "I never said he was," Caleb replied after a beat, his tone quiet but firm.
Ryan turned his head slightly to study Caleb's profile. He shifted on the rock, one shoe nudging a loose stone over the edge. It tumbled down with a series of soft thuds before being swallowed by the sand below. "No," Ryan muttered, his gaze returning to the horizon as he leaned back on his hands. "But you believed he was."
The words struck something raw in Caleb. His shoulders stiffened as he drew in a sharp breath through his nose. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, finally, Caleb exhaled through gritted teeth and ran a hand through his curls, leaving them even messier than before. "He lied to me." His voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying more than he intended.
Ryan slowly nodded as if he'd expected this response. "Sure," he admitted, his tone devoid of judgment or defense. "But he did it to protect you." He lifted a hand and gestured vaguely at the vast emptiness surrounding them, the unending dunes, the endless sky above them that felt too big to bear. "From this," he said quietly. "From feeling like this."
The words hit harder than Caleb wanted to admit, and his anger faltered. He turned away again, swallowing thickly as he stared at nothing, particularly the grains of sand beneath his shoes suddenly fascinating.
The wind picked up slightly then, brushing over them like a ghostly hand. When Caleb finally moved, it wasn't to argue or lash out but to lean sideways until his shoulder pressed against Ryan's, who froze for half a second before instinct took over. He lifted his arm and draped it around Caleb's shoulders, softening into something natural as he pulled Caleb closer.
"Are you scared?" Ryan asked after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper.
Caleb hesitated. His cheek rested against Ryan's shoulder, where he could feel his breaths steadily rise and fall. "No," he murmured eventually.
Ryan didn't push further. Instead, he nodded, satisfied with that answer, even if he didn't entirely believe it.
After a beat of silence, Ryan smirked faintly to himself. "So wait...you and Nate are brothers." His voice carried a teasing lilt now that cut through some of the weight. "So that means that you fucked your dad, your brother, AND your stepbrother," Ryan quipped. "Damn, nerd. That's like the incest triathlon," he mocked.
Caleb groaned audibly but couldn't stop himself from sitting up straighter, a sure sign that Ryan had succeeded in cutting through whatever storm had been brewing inside him moments ago.
"And here I thought we were having a moment," Caleb muttered as he straightened his spine.
"We were having a moment," Ryan corrected with exaggerated indignation before breaking into an easy grin. "Until I realized you're just Nate 2.0...with a better hair routine."
Caleb arched an eyebrow at him but couldn't entirely suppress the slight tug at the corner of his lips. "I don't have a hair routine," he said defensively.
"Bullshit," Ryan shot back immediately without missing a beat.
Caleb opened his mouth to argue but then hesitated before shrugging sheepishly instead. “Okay…well…I condition," he admitted grudgingly after a pause before adding quickly: "But that doesn't count."
"It absolutely counts," Ryan grinned. "That's like Nate trying to pretend he doesn't manscape."
Caleb blinked. "Jesus Christ, Ryan."
"What? You've seen him shirtless, right? The dude is strategically hairy."
Caleb groaned, standing up. "That's it. I'm leaving."
"Don't fight it, nerd, it's science!" Ryan called after him, laughing.
Caleb turned, walking backward as he smirked. "Yeah, well, science can go fuck itself."
Ryan snickered, jogging alongside Caleb. "Science might fuck itself, but I bet it'll still call you in the morning."
Caleb rolled his gaze skyward. "You're insufferable."
"Insufferably charming, you mean," Ryan quipped, playfully nudging Caleb's shoulder.
"About as charming as a root canal," Caleb retorted, dodging Ryan's elbow.
Ryan clutched his chest in mock hurt. "Ouch, nerd. You wound me. I'll have you know I'm smoother than a freshly waxed...well, Nate."
And just like that, the world's weight felt a little lighter.
They eventually walked back.
And this time, when they reached Enzo's trailer, Caleb didn't bother knocking. He shoved the door open with such force that it slammed against the metal wall.
"Who wants him dead?" Caleb's voice questioned.
Enzo exhaled heavily, setting his drink down on the table. He looked between Caleb and Ryan, his eyes narrowing as if weighing his options. Then, as though deciding there was no point in delaying what was coming, he leaned back in his chair and sighed.
"My father," he said finally, his tone flat but tinged with something darker.
Caleb blinked in confusion, his brow furrowing as he tried to process what he'd just heard. "What?"
Enzo leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table as he clarified: "Giorgio. Taletti." He paused for effect, watching their reactions carefully before continuing.
The words hit like a bomb detonating in the room. For a moment, neither Caleb nor Ryan could speak. They just stared at Enzo as if waiting for him to laugh and say it was all some sick joke.
But Enzo didn't smile. He didn't even blink.
Caleb stumbled back a step as if physically struck by the revelation. "Why?" His voice cracked slightly on the word, betraying how blindsided he was.
Enzo let out a dry chuckle that held no humor whatsoever. "Why does a man like Giorgio want someone dead? Pick a reason." He grabbed his beer again and tilted it lazily as if ticking off possibilities. "Betrayal, money, power...or maybe just a bad fucking mood." He took another swig before adding bitterly. "But in this case? Nate stole from him."
Ryan's head snapped toward Enzo so fast it was a miracle he didn't get whiplash. "Bullshit," he spat, his voice rising with indignation. "Nate wouldn't..."
"Oh," Enzo interrupted sharply, cutting him off mid-sentence with an icy glare that could freeze fire. "He would." His voice turned cold and matter-of-fact as he leaned closer to them across the table. "And he did. I should know...I helped him do it." He gestured vaguely with the neck of his beer bottle. "Nate pulled all the money from the last construction company they sold."
Caleb frowned deeply at that, confusion etched into his face as he tried to piece things together. "But...they build..."
"They don't build shit," Enzo snapped before Caleb could finish. "They launder." His words were laced with a sharp edge born of years spent navigating this dangerous web of lies and crime. "Ghost companies." He dragged on his cigarette for emphasis before continuing in a grim tone: "They're there to wash my father's dirty money clean." Ryan's face paled as realization started to dawn on him, pieces of a puzzle he hadn't even known he was solving falling into place all at once. Enzo pressed on relentlessly. "And who do you think has been running them for years?"
Caleb and Ryan exchanged a look filled with equal parts dread and understanding. "Nate," Ryan muttered under his breath.
Enzo pointed at him with two fingers still holding his cigarette as if he'd just won first prize. "Bingo."
He leaned back again and took another drag from his cigarette before continuing: "He's been running my father's financial operations for years. Every move, every relocation? That was us." He pointed between himself and some invisible third party only he could see in this memory playing out in his mind's eye. "Me… Nate…and Victor."
The name hit Caleb like another punch to the gut. His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he locked onto Enzo's face. "Victor?"
Enzo gave him a curt nod without hesitation. "Yeah. Victor and I were in charge of setting up everything every time we moved the new fronts...new locations… all of it."
Ryan suddenly stiffened beside Caleb as something clicked in his mind. "Wait…the guys we saw at the company…"
Enzo's expression darkened noticeably as he nodded grimly once more. "Taletti's men," he confirmed heavily. "They were tracing your Dad's moves."
Ryan's jaw tightened visibly as his thoughts raced ahead, connecting dots faster than he could process them fully aloud, but one name rose unbidden to his lips. "Jenna."
Caleb snapped his head toward him. His eyes narrowed, searching Ryan's face for clarity or confirmation. "What?" His voice was low and clipped, but there was an edge to it like a wire pulled too tight.
Ryan's lips pressed into a thin line as he leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the table. "They got to her," he muttered, almost as though he were thinking aloud instead of answering Caleb directly. "They probably bribed her off." His jaw clenched after the words left his mouth as he hated even voicing the possibility.
Enzo let out a long, tired sigh, dragging a hand down his face as if trying to wipe away the exhaustion etched into his features. "Nate knew that," he said, his voice rough but steady. "So he called in an old favor."
His words hung in the air, heavy with implications. Caleb's brows furrowed as he tried to piece it all together and make sense of what felt like a puzzle missing half its pieces. "Victor... that's why he was at the house. He was stalling her." His voice was just above a whisper now, suspicion creeping into his tone.
"Smart boy," Enzo replied, his lips stretching into a proud smile.
Ryan shook his head sharply, the movement abrupt, almost agitated. "No." His voice rose before he repeated himself more firmly: "No. No, this doesn't make sense." He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further as frustration bled into his expression. "Why now?" His blue eyes flicked between Enzo and Caleb as if daring them to offer an answer that made sense. "Nate's been doing this for years. If he wanted out, he could've done it at any time. So why would he risk everything now?"
The room fell silent except for Ryan's uneven breathing. Enzo didn't respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, studying Caleb with an expression of equal parts exasperation and something softer, something almost like pity.
Then Enzo smirked, a tired, knowing smirk. "Because of you," he said simply. Caleb stiffened as though Enzo had struck him across the face. The words hit harder than they should have, harder than he wanted them to, but there was no denying their impact. Enzo tilted his head slightly, studying Caleb like he was trying to decide whether or not to spell it out for him. Finally, he chuckled, a low, humorless sound that made Caleb's stomach churn. "C'mon, kid," Enzo said dryly, shaking his head as if Caleb were being particularly slow on the uptake. "There's only one thing in this entire fucking world that could make Nate go against my father." He paused for effect, letting the words sink in.
Caleb's stomach twisted violently as realization dawned on him like a cold slap. He didn't want to answer, not out loud, but the truth clawed its way to the forefront of his mind anyway. There was only one answer that made sense. Caleb's entire life, everything, had been manipulated, moved like pieces on a chessboard by hands he hadn't even known were there until now. Nate. Giorgio. Forces much larger than himself had shaped every corner of his existence. And now they were clashing.
"We don't have much time," Caleb finally said. His voice was raw but steady, like steel hammered into shape under pressure, and carried a weight of determination that surprised even him. "If he's waiting for us, we need to get to him. Fast."
*
The wind stirred lazily, kicking up small eddies of dust that danced across the cracked desert floor in ghostly spirals before settling again. The surrounding silence was profound, broken only by the occasional creak of the cooling car and the faint whisper of the breeze through brittle scrub. Caleb leaned against the car door, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his gaze shifting between Ryan and Enzo.
Ryan had already shaken Enzo's hand, a brisk movement full of purpose but devoid of sentimentality. "We owe you, man," Ryan said, his voice low but firm. He walked back to the car and gave Caleb a pointed look through the open window, one that said, "Let's get moving." But Caleb lingered by the car, his shoes scuffing against the dirt as he turned back toward Enzo.
He studied Enzo with an intensity that bordered on reverence, his sharp green eyes tracing every detail. Caleb didn't know why he felt compelled to memorize him like this, as though this moment might be their last, but he couldn't stop himself. Before doubt could creep in and stop him, Caleb closed the distance between them with two purposeful strides. Without hesitation, he reached out and pulled Enzo into a firm embrace. It wasn't tentative or cautious. It was solid and grounding, a gesture filled with all the gratitude and respect Caleb couldn't put into words.
Enzo stiffened under the sudden contact, his body rigid for half a heartbeat as if unsure how to respond. But then he exhaled, an audible release of breath that carried something unspoken with it, and his arms came up to return the hug. His grip was strong but brief, as though allowing himself even this much vulnerability was an act of defiance against whatever walls he had built around himself over the years.
"Thank you," Caleb murmured against Enzo's shoulder, his voice rough with sincerity. "For helping us. For helping him."
Enzo didn't reply right away. Instead, he drew back slightly, his eyes meeting Caleb's for a fleeting moment that felt longer than it was. There was something raw there, unspoken and jagged, but he swallowed hard and nodded once. His jaw tightened as he clapped Caleb on the back with a hand that lingered just a second too long to be casual.
"Take care," Enzo said, his voice low and gravelly.
Caleb nodded wordlessly before stepping back toward the car. He opened the passenger door without looking back and climbed in beside Ryan. The engine rumbled to life beneath them as Ryan turned the key in the ignition, its growl breaking through the stillness of the desert night like a reluctant goodbye.
As they pulled away, Caleb glanced in the side mirror just once to see Enzo standing exactly where they had left him. The dust kicked up by their departure swirled around him like smoke before dispersing into nothingness. Enzo didn't move until their red taillights disappeared, and even then, it was slow, as though every step carried a memory too heavy to leave behind.
Inside his trailer, Enzo locked the door behind him with a click. He turned slowly toward his modest living quarters. Half-empty, the whiskey bottle sat on the counter where he had left it earlier that evening. Enzo reached for it without hesitation or ceremony. There was no ritual here, no pretense of savoring anything about this moment. The glass clinked softly against his calloused fingers as he poured himself a generous measure before setting down both bottle and glass with precise care.
He took a long sip without grimacing at its sharp burn. It wasn't about taste anymore. It hadn't been for years, and he let out a slow breath as he moved toward the armchair tucked into one corner of the room. The chair groaned under his weight as he sank into it heavily, leaning back with a sigh so deep it seemed to come from somewhere far beyond his lungs. He sat there motionless for several moments except for the rhythmic swirl and clink of whiskey in its glass as he tilted it absently from side to side. Then, deliberately, he set it down on the small table beside him and reached into his pocket.
His fingers closed around something small and familiar: a photograph folded so many times its edges had grown soft like fabric over time. When he unfolded it carefully, almost reverently, it revealed two young men grinning at each other outside Giorgio's bar: himself and Nate.
They were impossibly young in that image, barely more than boys, with cigarettes dangling from their mouths like they owned every inch of the world. Enzo stared at Nate's face longer than his own, brushing his thumb over faded ink where Nate's cheek dimpled mid-laugh.
He had loved him.
Not in how friends love each other or even in how brothers do. Those words felt too small, too incapable of holding the weight of what he'd carried for so long. It wasn't camaraderie or familial obligation. It wasn't something you could name without distilling it into something lesser than it was.
No, he had loved Nate.
Loved him in a way that was impossible to say out loud without tearing himself apart. In a way, that felt selfish. To take the way Nate slung an arm over his shoulder and wished it lingered just a second longer? To study the freckles scattered across Nate's nose and wonder if they connected as constellations only Enzo could see? It was a love that lived silently beneath his ribs, hot and aching, growing louder each year but never loud enough to escape his lips.
And now, it didn't matter anymore.
Slowly, with a lingering hesitation that seemed to stretch the moment into eternity, he set the photograph aside.
Reaching for his phone felt like lifting a boulder. Every muscle in his hand resisted, but he forced himself to do it anyway. His thumb hovered over the screen, shaking slightly, unsure whether to follow through. A number he hadn't dialed in years floated to the surface of his mind like a ghost rising from a shallow grave. He exhaled sharply through his nose and punched in the digits before he could change his mind again.
The call rang once. Twice. Then, click. "The number you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please leave a message."
The automated voice was crisp and detached, a cold reminder that even now, the person on the other side kept himself at arm's length from everything and everyone. And then came the beep.
Enzo closed his eyes as if bracing himself for impact. His heart hammered against his ribs, each beat echoing louder in his ears than it should have been. He drew in a breath slowly through his nose, steadying himself like a boxer before stepping into the ring.
"Hey, Papà. It's me." His voice cracked slightly, but he pushed forward anyway, as he always did. "Guess it's been a while, huh?" He let out a dry laugh that sounded more like an exhale than amusement. "I doubt you even thought I'd call. Hell, maybe you won't even hear this." He paused momentarily, running a hand down his face as though wiping something invisible away. "But just in case you do..." His voice softened here, dipping into something almost fragile before hardening again.
The silence on the other end was deafening. No static offered comfort.
"I've been thinking a lot...about all of it," he said, his words slow and deliberate like they were being dragged out of him against their will. "About the shit you made me grow up in." His free hand clenched into a fist on the armrest of his chair. "You and your fucking empire," he spat bitterly before catching himself and letting out another hollow chuckle that held no humor at all. "Your goddamn expectations." He leaned forward now, his elbows resting on his knees, as though curling inward might make this easier. "I did everything I could to be what you wanted," he said quietly but firmly, the kind of quiet that carries more weight than shouting ever could. "Everything."
His voice wavered here, not enough to crack fully, but enough that anyone listening closely would hear it.
"And still... still, I was never enough." Enzo sucked in another sharp breath through gritted teeth before continuing. "You didn't even pretend," he said bitterly now, anger creeping into his tone like poison seeping under closed doors. "Did you? You never saw me, not really." His jaw tightened visibly even though no one was there to see it. "Not like you saw Nate..."
And there it was, the name that cut deeper than any blade ever could. He let out another bitter laugh here, shorter but just as hollow this time.
"I don't blame you...because fuck me if I didn't love him too." The words surprised even him. They escaped unbidden but felt truer than anything he'd said. His voice cracked here despite every effort not to let it, but he didn't stop. He couldn't afford to. "And that's the thing, right?" He paused, almost as if waiting for an answer that would never come. "That was the problem, wasn't it?" He let out a bitter laugh, low and humorless, shaking his head as though reproaching himself for stating something so obvious. His fingers tightened around the phone, his knuckles blanching.
A long silence stretched between him and the voicemail, an endless chasm filled with everything unsaid between father and son over the years. Enzo's chest burned with emotions too tangled to name: anger, grief, defiance, and something quieter, something closer to resignation.
"I know you're coming," he said finally, his voice firmer now, colder. The image of his father loomed large in his mind, a man who moved through life like a storm, calculating and unrelenting. "I know you, Papà," Enzo continued. His jaw clenched as his free hand curled into a fist against his thigh. "I know the way you move. And I know you'll come looking for me first." The thought sent a shiver down his spine, but it wasn't fear anymore. It was something darker, something sharper. "You're thinking maybe I'm weak enough to fold," Enzo said through gritted teeth. His grip on the phone tightened until it threatened to crack under the pressure of his anger. "That I'll trade my life for his." He shook his head slowly, a hollow laugh escaping him as he leaned back in the chair. "But if you taught me anything," he said, his voice rising slightly before dipping into something colder than ice. "It was the meaning of loyalty."
He took a shuddering breath then, dragging a hand down his face. His other hand fell to the gun resting in his lap, a sleek black thing that felt heavier than it looked. "So let me be clear," he said after a moment, each word deliberate and razor-sharp. He stared down at the gun as though addressing it directly or perhaps addressing everything it represented: choices made and bridges burned beyond repair. "My loyalty is with him," he finished, and there was no hesitation in those words now, only certainty. "Guess this is goodbye," Enzo murmured. "Not that it really matters," he added after a pause. "We said goodbye a long time ago... didn't we?" His voice trailed off into nothingness then, and for a moment, there was only silence again.
He stared up at the ceiling above him, the cracked plaster mottled by water stains from leaks long ignored, and felt everything pressing down on him all at once: every choice made, every path not taken, every word left unsaid until now. Enzo pressed 'end call' and let the phone slide from fingers gone slack with exhaustion. His lips twitched faintly then—a ghost of something that might have been joy flickering briefly across them before fading again into nothingness.
"See you on the other side…fratello," he murmured softly.
To Nate.
To himself.
To whatever lay ahead beyond this moment.
Then, he reached down.
His fingers brushed against the cold steel surface of the gun, and for a moment, he hesitated. Just a fraction of a second. It wasn't fear that made his movements falter. It was resignation.
He opened the cylinder, revealing a single bullet inside.
That was all he needed.
He took a final breath, lifted the gun, and placed the barrel inside his mouth. Then, he pulled.
BANG.
The sound tore through the night like a thunderclap yet fizzled out almost immediately in the vast emptiness surrounding him.
Outside, the desert remained untouched. The stars blinked, indifferent.
Inside the small, quiet trailer, the photograph of two boys, once full of promise, now only ghosts of the past, sat undisturbed, waiting for time to turn it into dust.
*
The border crossing had been easier than expected, almost too easy, as if the universe wanted them to keep going. The guards at the checkpoint had barely glanced at their papers, their eyes heavy with boredom and the sun's weight. Ryan had kept his face neutral, his hands steady on the wheel, while Caleb sat rigid in the passenger seat, his breath shallow and measured, as though even exhaling too loudly might arouse suspicion. But no one stopped them, no alarms were raised, and soon, they were coasting down a lonely stretch of road.
The asphalt shimmered in the heat, snaking its way through a barren expanse of desert. The land was harsh but strangely beautiful, with jagged mountains of rust and ochre. Dust kicked up behind the car, swirling in golden clouds before settling again into stillness.
Ryan's fingers drummed against the steering wheel, a restless rhythm betraying his outward calm. "You think this is it?" he asked, his voice cutting through the low hum of the engine.
Caleb didn't answer immediately. His gaze was fixed where the desert began to give way to something softer, greener. "It has to be," he said finally, though his tone was more uncertain than he intended. He ran a hand through his hair, already damp with sweat. "Enzo wouldn't send us out here for nothing."
Ryan gave a noncommittal grunt but didn't press further. He adjusted his grip on the wheel and pushed a little harder on the gas. The car surged forward, eating up the miles.
As they continued south, the landscape began to change. The stark desolation of the desert softened into rolling dunes fringed with scrubby vegetation. And then, almost imperceptibly at first, came signs of life, small clusters of buildings scattered along the road, their walls sun-bleached and weathered by years of salt air and wind.
The closer they got to Puerto Peñasco, the more vibrant everything became. The dusty highway transformed into narrow streets that twisted and turned like rivers through a town bursting with color and sound. Tiny stucco houses lined the roads, each painted a different shade, coral pinks, turquoise blues, and sun-faded yellows that seemed to hold onto light long after it had gone.
Caleb leaned forward in his seat as they passed an open-air market bustling with activity. Vendors called out to passersby in rapid Spanish, their voices rising above the clatter of metal pans and laughter.
"Smell that?" Caleb said suddenly, breaking his silence. There was an edge of wonder in his voice.
Ryan inhaled deeply through his nose. He nodded but didn't say anything.
They drove past cantinas, where old men sat outside on plastic chairs, nursing beer bottles. Their faces were lined with years and sunburns. Caleb's pulse thrummed in his ears like a storm gathering strength, loud and insistent. They were close now. He could feel it.
Enzo's instructions had been maddeningly vague.
"Follow the shore. Find the white house. Then, the boats. He'll be waiting."
That was it. No name for who they were supposed to meet, no clear address or landmark, just those cryptic words.
But finally, after circling streets that all looked maddeningly similar, they finally saw it.
The house wasn't much to look at by most standards: small, unassuming, nestled just yards from where golden sand met impossibly blue water. Its whitewashed walls gleamed in the sunlight, offset by a roof lined with deep red clay tiles that looked like they'd seen decades of storms and sun alike. A hammock swayed lazily between two wooden posts on the porch as if beckoning them to forget everything and rest for a moment.
Ryan pulled over and cut the engine.
Neither of them moved at first. Caleb stared at the house like it might vanish if he blinked too hard. Ryan kept his hands on the wheel even after turning off the ignition as though letting go might undo everything that had brought them here.
Finally, Caleb exhaled sharply and opened his door. The sound startled Ryan out of his trance. They approached cautiously, their footsteps crunching softly against the sand until they reached the porch steps. Each creak of wood beneath their weight seemed amplified against an almost oppressive quietness, with no voices from inside and no music spilling out as it had from every other house they'd passed.
Caleb raised a hand and knocked once, firm but not aggressive.
Nothing.
He glanced at Ryan before knocking again, harder this time.
Still nothing.
The silence felt wrong now, not peaceful but loaded with something just out of reach. An absence too deliberate to be accidental. A prickle of unease crawled up his spine, sharp and insistent, like the ghost of icy fingers tracing his vertebrae. Caleb instinctively straightened, his shoulders tensing as if bracing for an unseen blow.
"Maybe he's not here," Ryan muttered, breaking the fragile silence. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, his fingers pressing into the taut muscles as though trying to knead away his unease. His tone was hopeful, almost pleading, but there was an edge to it, a thin thread of doubt that betrayed him. "Maybe..."
Before he could finish, a sharp and fluid voice rang out in rapid Spanish, like a stone skipping across water. Both boys turned sharply toward the sound, their movements stiff and wary. Caleb's heart jumped, thudding hard against his ribs as adrenaline spiked.
A local man strolled by, wearing a straw hat with a jagged shadow over his weathered face. His faded white tank top clung to his lean frame, stained with traces of salt and sweat. His dark eyes flicked over them curiously, lingering just long enough to make Caleb wonder what he saw, a pair of outsiders too far from home, maybe? Suspicious strangers?
Caleb stepped forward hesitantly, lifting a hand in an awkward attempt at communication. "Hola?" he asked, his voice tight, each word weighted with quiet desperation. He gestured vaguely, trying to bridge the gap between language and understanding. "Hum...uno hombre en esta...casa? Muy grande?" he tried to explain, his arms and hands edging on desperation now.
The man squinted at them, his expression unreadable as he shook his head slowly.
Ryan cleared his throat and stepped closer. "Nathaniel?" he tried again, more firmly this time.
At that, something shifted in the man's face, a flicker of recognition gone almost as quickly as it came. His eyes widened slightly, and for a brief moment, Caleb thought he saw something akin to sympathy or caution flash across his features. The man nodded once and gestured for them to follow him without another word. Caleb shot Ryan a quick glance. Ryan's lips thinned as he nodded back.
They had no choice but to trust this stranger.
The man led them away from the house and down a winding path carved into the sand. The ocean stretched endlessly before them now, a vast expanse of deep blue. Boats dotted the horizon like tiny splinters against the water's surface, their sails catching glints of light as they drifted lazily in and out of view. The path narrowed further as they approached a cluster of old fishing boats resting near the shore. Their hulls were weathered and scarred, and faded paint peeled away in patches to reveal bare wood beneath. A group of fishermen gathered nearby, their voices low and murmuring. They worked methodically, laying out today's catch, silver-scaled fish as if performing some ancient ritual. The man stopped abruptly and pointed toward one particular boat near the edge of the waterline without bothering to explain himself further. Then, without a backward glance or farewell gesture, he turned on his heel and walked away.
Caleb froze where he stood, unable to take another step forward. His breath hit painfully in his chest as conflicting emotions surged, hope warring with fear until neither could claim victory.
Ryan lingered behind him, his fingers twitching at his sides as if itching to grab Caleb's arm and pull him back before they could go further.
And then, he appeared.
From behind the shadowed recesses of the fishing boat, Nate emerged.
As he stepped into view, time seemed to stutter, letting every detail settle in Caleb's mind: the way his linen shirt draped over his chest like a gentle breeze lingering on a summer afternoon. His hair, an untamed sea tangled by the wind. And a beard that whispered tales of sleepless nights. Yet those storm-gray eyes remained unchanged, eyes that could silence a room or spark life with just one glance.
When those eyes locked onto Caleb's, he felt frozen in place. Inside him, something gave way, a dam under too much pressure, and emotions flooded forth: love knotted with anger, hope tightening itself around despair, relief slamming against resentment as waves violently crash upon jagged rocks.
Nate stood still at first as if weighing some hidden truth between them. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he allowed his lips to shape into something honest and new, far removed from the casual smirks of the past. It was as if the earth had shifted slightly off its axis for that moment.
A smile meant just for Caleb.
"I was peaceful and happy because we loved each other. People say young love, or love of the moment, isn't real. But I think the only love is the first." in A Boy's Own Story by Edmund White
(To be concluded…)
Casual Wanderer © 2025
All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and specific other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
