Man Up!

"Manhunt" (Part 4)

(23 years earlier)

Nate sat slouched on the edge of a weathered wooden bench, the paint long since peeled away to reveal splintered grain beneath. A cigarette dangled lazily between his fingers, the ember glowing as he took a slow drag. His eyes scanned the playground with sharp precision, moving from face to face like a predator surveying its domain. The smoke curled from his lips in thin tendrils, breaking apart in the warm breeze before dissipating into nothing. Around him, the usual crew was scattered, some sprawled on the grass, others perched on benches or leaning against tree trunks. They weren't doing much of anything. They never were. This was their time to exist without expectation.

Then Nate's gaze snagged on something, or rather, someone.

A kid he didn't recognize. Someone new.

The boy wandered too close to their territory. Nate's posture stiffened almost imperceptibly as he watched, his fingers tightening slightly around the cigarette before he flicked it onto the ground and crushed it underfoot. He stood with fluid confidence, brushing his palms against his jeans as he moved. The group around him seemed to sense his shift in focus and instinctively parted as he strode through them, their conversations softening into whispers as they turned to watch.

The kid stood out immediately. He was tall for his age, lanky but not awkward. There was a certain ease in how he carried himself, suggesting he wasn't unfamiliar with standing alone in unfamiliar places. His sneakers were spotless, and his shirt looked expensive. And then there was his hair: dark, slicked back neatly like he'd stepped out of some glossy magazine ad rather than into their corner of town. He didn't look scared, which was clear, but his stance was not arrogant either. He gave off an air of quiet confidence, like someone who knew how to handle trouble if it came but wasn't foolish enough to go looking for it.

Nate stepped directly into the boy's path, planting himself firmly in front of him. "You lost?" His voice was low and steady, each word clipped just enough to carry an edge.

The boy stopped short but didn't flinch. Instead, he blinked at Nate with calm curiosity before letting a slight smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. "No."

Nate tilted his head slightly, studying him more closely now. "Then what are you doing here?" The question wasn't shouted or barked. It didn't need to be. 

The boy took his time answering. When he finally spoke, his words rolled out smooth and measured, tinged with an accent Nate couldn't quite place. "Just looking around," he said, shrugging one shoulder in an almost dismissive gesture. "Didn't know I needed a permission slip."

A murmur rippled through the group, now watching from nearby, with low chuckles and sharp intakes of breath as they waited for Nate's reaction. Nobody talked back to Nate like that, not unless they wanted trouble.

Nate's jaw tightened slightly as he stared at the boy, his eyes narrowing like he was trying to peel back layers and figure out what he was dealing with. But the kid didn't waver, not in stance or expression.

After a moment, it was the boy who broke the silence first. He exhaled softly through his nose, shaking his head as if amused by something only he understood. "Jesus," he muttered under his breath before meeting Nate's gaze again with a faint grin. "You're like a stray dog."

The insult landed like a spark on a dry tinder, igniting instant tension in Nate's chest. His fists clenched reflexively at his sides as heat flared up behind his sternum.

But before Nate could lash out or even form a retort, the boy chuckled, a low sound that somehow diffused some of the tension rather than adding to it, and tilted his head slightly as if appraising Nate anew. "I like that," he said.

The unexpected comment threw Nate off balance for half a heartbeat. His frown deepened as he tried to parse whether this kid was mocking him.

"What?" The word came out sharper than intended.

The boy shrugged again and extended a hand toward him, the gesture as casual as everything else about him so far but somehow carrying an odd weight nonetheless. "I'm Enzo," he introduced himself without hesitation. Nate stared at the offered hand skeptically for several seconds before finally reaching out to clasp it briefly, a firm grip that wasn't meant for pleasantries so much as testing boundaries. "Stray dog's fine too," Enzo added lightly when Nate didn't immediately respond with his name.

Nate rolled his eyes but relented after another beat of silence. "Nate," he muttered grudgingly.

Enzo nodded once as though filing away this information for later use. "Good," he said simply before letting go of Nate's hand and slipping his own back into his pocket. "Now that we've cleared that up, you gonna show me around this dump or what?"

Nate snorted despite himself, a short burst of air that might've been amusement if it hadn't been so begrudgingly earned, and shook his head slightly. "You always this annoying?"

"Only when I meet someone interesting," Enzo shot back without missing a beat.

For reasons Nate couldn't quite pin down yet, that answer didn't irritate him nearly as much as it should have and maybe even made him smirk slightly in return. "Are you from around here?" he asked, his tone carrying just a hint of challenge, like he was already braced for whatever answer might come.

Enzo stood there, unfazed. "Moved last week," he said, his voice smooth and even as he tilted his head slightly toward Nate. "My old man decided we needed somewhere quieter."

"This place? Quiet?" Nate said, raising an eyebrow. His lips quirked into something that wasn't quite a smile but wasn't entirely hostile either.

Enzo's mouth curved into a smirk. It was subtle, almost lazy, but a spark of something sharp was behind it. "Depends on what kind of noise you're used to," he replied, his tone carrying just enough edge to make Nate pause.

For some reason, that answer landed differently than Nate expected. He couldn't understand why, but it didn't feel like a comeback meant to shut him down. It felt like an open door, an invitation to figure out what made this guy tick. Nate jerked his chin toward the far edge of the playground, where a cluster of battered benches sat beneath a crooked oak tree. The bark was carved with initials and crude symbols from years of bored kids passing through. 

"We usually hang out here after school," Nate said, his voice gruff but not unfriendly. He shrugged as though it didn't matter one way or another if Enzo showed up. "Unless you got somewhere better to be."

Enzo raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening to something closer to genuine amusement. "That an invitation?" he asked lightly, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his expression.

"Call it what you want," Nate muttered, shrugging again as if to dismiss the question altogether. But a flicker of heat in his chest, a strange mix of irritation and intrigue, made it hard to meet Enzo's gaze for too long.

Enzo chuckled then, the sound low and unhurried. It wasn't mocking. It was more like he'd figured out something interesting about Nate but wouldn't say what. "Alright, Nate," he said quickly, nodding once as though sealing some unspoken agreement between them. "See you tomorrow, then."

And just like that, Enzo turned on his heel and walked away without waiting for a response. 

Nate stood there longer than he meant to, watching him go. For the first time in what felt like forever, something stirred inside him that wasn't tied to dominance or intimidation, the two currencies most kids around here traded in to survive. This was different.

It wasn't about power or fear or even respect.

It was curiosity.

*

Nate shoved his way out of the house, the screen door creaking in protest before slamming shut behind him. He didn't like mornings, not here, not in this house. The stale stench of cigarettes and spilled beer lingered from the night before, clinging to the walls and furniture inside like a ghost of his father's failures. And his father? Still sprawled on the couch, mouth slightly open, snoring loud enough to rattle the empty beer cans on the coffee table. His mother hadn't stirred from her room, probably too drained to even notice Nate was gone.  

He didn't wait for anyone to stop him. No one ever did.  

As he shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and took that first step down the porch stairs, he nearly stumbled to a halt, his sneakers scraping against the concrete.  

Enzo was waiting for him.  

Leaning casually against the porch railing like he had every right to be there, his arms crossed over his chest, one foot propped up behind him. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and his smirk, damn that smirk, was already firmly in place, teasing and self-assured all at once.  

"What the hell are you doing here?" Nate barked, frowning as he took a wary step back toward the door. His voice came out sharper than intended, but Enzo's presence on his porch threw him off balance. Nate disliked surprises, especially those with slick smiles and sharp cheekbones.  

Enzo shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Waiting for you."  

"Waiting for me?" Nate repeated incredulously, narrowing his eyes as if trying to dissect whatever game Enzo was playing. "How do you even know where I live?"  

Enzo pushed off the railing with effortless grace, falling into step beside Nate as if it were already decided they'd be walking together. "I asked around," he said nonchalantly, as though casually prying into someone's life was no big deal.  

"You asked?" Nate scoffed, incredulous. His pace quickened as if putting some distance between them might give him back control of this bizarre situation.

Enzo shot him a sidelong glance, his smirk deepening into something bordering on smug amusement. "People talk," he replied, his tone light but laced with something sharper beneath it. "You just gotta know who to ask." He nudged Nate's shoulder with his own playfully, breaking through Nate's mounting irritation.

Nate scowled but kept walking. "I was supposed to meet the guys at the park," he muttered, more to himself than to Enzo.  

"The park?" Enzo stopped dead in his tracks, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation before shaking his head dramatically. "Nah," he said slowly as if explaining something painfully simple to a child who wasn't getting it. "You're too good for the park."  

The words hit Nate like a sucker punch, not because of what they meant, but because no one had ever said anything like that to him before. Too good? For anything? His life had always been defined by being not enough. He was not strong enough to stand up to his dad, not smart enough to escape this neighborhood, and not important enough for anyone to notice.  

The pause in Nate's stride was all Enzo needed. With a sudden burst of energy, he took off running down the street without warning, his laughter trailing behind him like sparks from a firework.  

"Keep up, stray dog!" he called over his shoulder, mischief dancing in his voice.

For half a second, Nate hesitated, his feet rooted to the spot as if debating whether or not to take the bait, but instinct won out over thought. His legs moved before he could stop them, propelling him forward into a sprint after Enzo. They tore through the neighborhood together like two reckless kids with no rules and no plan, cutting down alleys and darting between parked cars while shoving each other off course whenever they got too close. At one point, Enzo grabbed the back of Nate's hoodie and yanked hard enough to make him stumble. Nate retaliated by slamming into Enzo's side with enough force to send them both skidding across someone's lawn in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

It wasn't until they finally slowed down outside an old bar, its faded sign crooked above a battered wooden door, that Nate realized how long it had been since he'd done something like this. Not fought. He was not postured or defended himself or tried desperately to prove something, but played.

Breathless and slightly flushed from exertion, he glanced up at the building towering over them and frowned in recognition. "I know this place," he said between gasps for air. "It used to belong to this old guy…Frankie or something. He moved away a couple of weeks ago."  

"Yeah," Enzo said casually, his smirk softening into something almost secretive as he reached for the door handle. "I know."  

Nate's brow furrowed as suspicion coiled tight in his gut like a spring about to snap. "How do you know?"  

Enzo turned back toward him with that same unreadable glint in his eyes, which made it impossible to tell whether he was about to joke or confess something deadly serious. "Because now it belongs to my father," he replied before swinging open the door. "Come on," he said with a grin that dared Nate to hesitate even for a second longer than necessary. 

The moment they stepped inside, the room seemed to exhale, its warmth and weight pressing against Nate like an old friend's embrace. The scent hit first, bold and unapologetic, a swirling mixture of tobacco, rich espresso, and the sharp edge of whiskey. 

The air buzzed with conversation, not polite chatter, but deep voices layered with heavy Italian accents. These weren't men who spoke casually. Their words carried weight, punctuated by sweeping hand gestures that seemed to sculpt their meaning out of the atmosphere. Nate could hear snippets of discussions, some lighthearted, others serious, all delivered with the kind of fervor that made you lean in to catch every word.

The walls were adorned with faded photographs in mismatched frames, black-and-white glimpses into another time. A younger version of one of the bar's men stared back from a photo, his arm slung around a woman holding a baby. A vintage clock ticked softly above an arched doorway, though no one seemed to pay it any mind. 

Clusters of men gathered throughout the room, their postures relaxed but deliberate. Some leaned against counters, flipping through newspapers with headlines Nate couldn't read but felt were important. Others stood in tight circles, espresso cups balanced in their hands while cigars smoldered between their fingers. 

And there were no outsiders here. That much was clear. This wasn't where strangers wandered off the street for a quick drink or idle conversation. This was a haven, a home you didn't find unless someone wanted you to.

The moment Enzo crossed the threshold, something shifted. Conversations dipped for the briefest heartbeat before resuming, but now with an undercurrent of acknowledgment. Heads turned subtly in his direction, some expressions curious, others openly amused, but all carrying a thread of recognition.

"Enzo!" one of the men called out, his voice booming across the room like a clap of thunder breaking the tension. His grin was wide and infectious, his arms spreading like he might pull Enzo into a bear hug from across the bar.

"Eccolo qui! Finally, you show your face," another chimed in, his tone teasing but warm.

A cascade of greetings followed. Some clapped Enzo on the back as he passed, while others patted his dark hair playfully. It wasn't just a welcome but a celebration, as if his presence alone had elevated the mood.

Nate stood frozen inside the doorway, watching it all unfold with awe and confusion. He had known Enzo was confident and charming, but this? This was something else entirely. The way Enzo moved through the room with effortless grace, returning smiles and slapping shoulders like he'd been born to this life. It was mesmerizing. He belonged here in a way Nate couldn't quite put into words.

One man caught Nate's attention, a hulking figure leaning casually against the bar's edge. His thick forearms were inked with faded tattoos hinting at stories Nate could only imagine, anchors, dates, and symbols whose meanings felt just out of reach. He looked Nate over, his gaze sharp and assessing as he lit a cigar.

"Chi è questo?" he asked finally, his voice low and gravelly but not unkind.

Enzo didn't miss a beat. His smirk widened as he jerked a thumb toward Nate without glancing back. "This is Nate."

The man tilted his head slightly, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled lazily into the air between them. Enzo turned then, meeting the man's gaze with unwavering confidence. His smirk softened just enough to make it clear he wasn't being flippant but firm. "Where's father?"

"In the back," the man said, pointing his head towards it, a small gesture that might have gone unnoticed if Nate hadn't been watching so intently. He returned to his cigar without another word. Around them, no one questioned it further. If Enzo implied Nate belonged there, then that was enough.

Enzo's smirk softened further into something almost resembling kindness, or at least what passed for it with him. "Relax," he said quietly, his tone carrying more weight than such a simple word should have.

Relax? Nate couldn't remember anyone ever telling him that before, not in a way that made him believe they meant it. Still uncertain but unwilling to stand there like an idiot any longer, Nate moved toward the back of the bar and stood beside Enzo before following him further inside.

The noise faded as the heavy oak door in the back of the room swung shut, leaving a muted, almost reverent silence. The air was thick, oppressive even. This wasn't just a room. It felt more like a sanctum, a place carved out of time for dealings that carried weight. Here, laughter felt out of place, and frivolity didn't dare tread. Where words were measured, where decisions had consequences. At the center of it all stood a massive wooden desk, its surface polished to a mirror finish. It dominated the room like a monarch's throne, commanding attention and respect. Papers lay scattered on its surface in neat disarray alongside an ashtray with the faint swirl of smoke rising from a freshly stubbed-out cigar.

Behind that desk sat Enzo's father.

Even seated, his presence filled the room. His shoulders were broad beneath the sharp cut of his tailored black suit, which fit him so perfectly it might as well have been stitched to his skin. The suit was undoubtedly too formal for a bar, but it felt right on him, like armor on a warrior. His hair was slicked back with precision, not a single strand out of place, emphasizing the hard lines of his face. His features were striking, his jaw square and firm, carved from granite, his cheekbones high and severe. Deep-set eyes pierced through with an intensity that made you feel like he could see straight through you, peeling back every layer you tried to hide behind. His lips were full but rarely moved into anything resembling warmth. Smiles seemed an afterthought for a man like him.

Nate hesitated at the room's threshold, his chest tightening instinctively under that gaze. If he hadn't known any better, if no one had told him otherwise, he would've sworn this man wasn't just someone important but 'the' man who ran everything worth running around those parts. On the other hand, Enzo stepped forward without hesitation, his stride casual but confident in a way that only someone completely at ease in this environment could manage. Nate envied that ease, though he'd never admit it aloud.

"Papà," Enzo said smoothly, his voice breaking through the quiet. "This is Nate."

The man didn't speak right away. Instead, he lifted his gaze slowly from whatever papers occupied him and diligently studied Nate. It felt less like being looked at and more like being assessed, as though Nate was some unfamiliar chess piece placed on his board for inspection. The silence stretched just long enough for Nate's palms to start sweating before the man finally nodded once.

"Nathaniel," he said evenly.

The sound of his full name made Nate's spine stiffen involuntarily, the syllables landing heavier than they should have. He wasn't accustomed to hearing it, not like that, anyway, with such weight behind it.

Enzo's smirk slid into view like clockwork as he caught Nate's reaction. "He goes by Nate," Enzo offered casually, clearly enjoying himself.

His father dismissed the comment with a wave as though names were far too important to be trifled with by preference or habit. "Names are important," he stated firmly, his voice deep and deliberate, each word chosen carefully. "You should take pride in it."

A muscle twitched in Nate's jaw as he forced himself not to bristle under those words. "Yeah, well," he muttered after a beat too long. "Guess I never had much reason to."

The older man hummed thoughtfully at that, a low sound rumbling from deep in his chest as if filing away Nate's response for later use. Then he leaned back slightly in his chair and gestured toward one of the leather armchairs opposite him.

"Sit, Nathaniel."

It wasn't phrased as an invitation. It was an order dressed up as civility. For a moment, Nate considered defying it out of sheer principle. He didn't take kindly to being told what to do, but something about the man's tone made defiance seem juvenile, even foolish. So, with reluctant steps and squared shoulders, Nate crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair directly across from Enzo's father. 

Enzo moved to lean casually against the edge of the desk nearby, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched the interaction unfold with quiet amusement. It was like this was some private experiment with results he couldn't wait to see. Enzo's father studied Nate again in silence for several long moments, his expression unreadable but undeniably sharp. Finally, he exhaled slowly through his nose.

"You fight a lot," he said abruptly.

The statement caught Nate off guard enough that he tensed slightly before responding defensively. "I hold my own," he countered evenly.

"No." The older man's lips pressed together into a thin line as he shook his head faintly. "You fight," he repeated firmly. "There's a difference." Nate didn't respond immediately. Enzo's father leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "I bet you think it makes you strong," he continued calmly but pointedly. "That fear earns respect."

"It does," Nate bit out before he could stop himself.

The older man tilted his head marginally at that, a subtle movement that somehow felt razor-sharp, and narrowed his eyes slightly. "Maybe among boys," he replied coolly.

The words landed heavier than Nate expected and struck something raw inside him. 

But Enzo's father wasn't done yet.

"Respect isn't given because of fear," he said afterward. His voice remained calm and measured, but there was no mistaking its firmness or conviction. "Respect is given when a man has something others cannot take away."

"And what's that?" Nate asked tightly through gritted teeth.

A pause followed, a deliberate one, as though Enzo's father wanted to ensure Nate would remember whatever came next.

"Loyalty," he said finally.

*

The neighborhood had changed.  

Or maybe it was Nate who had.  

Two months ago, he'd been just another kid, a wiry, sharp-eyed shadow darting through the streets, head down and fists clenched, trying to etch out a corner where his name carried enough weight to keep the trouble at bay. Back then, the pavement felt cold and unforgiving beneath his worn sneakers, like it was daring him to fall. And people? People looked through him, past him, or worse, at him with pity and disdain reserved for stray dogs chasing scraps.  

But now?  

Now, he walked those same streets with a newfound purpose, his chin angled upward as if daring the world to meet his gaze. His shoulders no longer curled inward like a shield. They were squared and broad beneath the tailored lines of a dark wool coat. The crisp white button-down he wore gleamed, its collar sharp and clean as if cut from the fabric of someone important. Gone were the frayed jeans sagging at his hips. Now, sleek slacks clung to his legs, paired with leather loafers that clicked against the sidewalk in a rhythm that sounded like confidence and ownership. Even the air seemed different when he walked. It was less hostile and more watchful.  

And people noticed.  

The shopkeepers who once squinted suspiciously now offered nods of acknowledgment, their eyes lingering just long enough to say they saw him differently. The younger kids who used to scatter at his sight now watched from doorways and stoops, their gazes curious, almost reverent. As he passed, women whispered behind gloved hands, their voices carrying faint notes of intrigue and speculation. Men who'd once dismissed him as another scrappy kid not worth their time now tilted their heads in subtle gestures of respect, respect Nate hadn't asked for but was now granted to him.  

It wasn't just the clothes that made them look twice. It was who he was with.  

"You like how they look at you, don't you?" Enzo's voice cut through the hum of the street like a knife wrapped in silk, smooth but sharp enough to draw blood.  

Nate glanced sideways at him, catching the smirk tugging at the corner of Enzo's mouth. Enzo always carried himself like he owned every step he took like swagger was something built into his bones rather than borrowed for effect. Today was no different. 

Nate let his smirk bloom slowly across his face, a mirror of Enzo's confidence but edged with something rawer, something still learning how to fit into this new skin. "I don't mind it," he admitted, slipping his hands into his coat pockets as if to ground himself against the weight of all those stares.  

Enzo chuckled, a low, gravelly sound that carried amusement and approval. "Yeah, well," he said, tilting his head toward Nate without breaking stride, "get used to it. You're one of us now."  

One of us.  

Those words would've tasted bitter on Nate's tongue two months ago. He'd spent years convincing himself that belonging to anyone or anything was a trap disguised as safety, a leash masquerading as loyalty. But this? This didn't feel like submission or surrender. This felt like power, a slow-burning ember that had finally caught fire inside him.  

They stopped outside a small butcher shop wedged between two tenement buildings whose bricks sagged under decades of grime and weathering. A bell jingled faintly as they pushed through the door, stepping into a space that smelled overwhelmingly of raw meat and sawdust. Behind the counter stood an older man with tired eyes and hands stained red from years of handling carcasses and cleavers. His gaze flicked to Enzo first, always Enzo, and then to Nate, assessing him for half a second before offering a stiff nod and disappearing into the back without a word.  
Nate leaned casually against the counter, letting his fingers drum lightly on its surface. At the same time, his eyes wandered over the room: hooks dangling ominously from the ceiling, slabs of meat wrapped in brown paper lining refrigerated cases. "What's in the bag today?" he asked after a moment, keeping his tone light but tinged with curiosity he knew better than to fully voice.  

Enzo's lips curved into a smirk as he glanced at Nate from the corner of his eye. "That's not for us to know," he said smoothly, his voice carrying just enough edge to remind Nate of the rules without making it feel like a reprimand. "Stray dog."  
Nate rolled his eyes but didn't push further. He'd learned relatively quickly that some doors were better left unopened. Still, he couldn't help muttering as he straightened up from the counter: "I'm not a stray anymore."  

The butcher returned moments later with a tightly wrapped package cradled in his calloused hands. He slid it across the counter toward Enzo without meeting either of their eyes. "Tell your father it's taken care of," he muttered gruffly before retreating back into the shadows of his shop.

Enzo picked up the package with one hand, tucking it neatly into the leather satchel slung over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. Without so much as a thank-you or goodbye, he turned on his heel and headed for the door, Nate falling into step beside him.

"Where to next?" Nate asked once they were back on the street, his breath puffing out in white clouds against the crisp winter air.

"The docks," Enzo said, adjusting his coat as they walked. "Father wants us to pick up another package."

Nate snorted softly but couldn't hide the grin tugging at his lips. "We're just a couple of delivery boys now, huh?"

Enzo laughed, a deep sound that rolled through him like thunder breaking far off in the distance. "For now," he replied, casting Nate a sidelong glance.

The docks were quiet except for the occasional waves crashing against the wooden pilings. A faint mist hung low over the water, curling around crates and barrels that sat abandoned along the edges of the pier. The pickup had been simple, almost too simple. One exchange, a nod, and a package slipped into Enzo's satchel. There was no hesitation or wasted movement. They were in and out before anyone noticed. With their task complete, they moved away from the quiet dockside and toward the main street. 

But the moment they pushed through the bar's heavy wooden doors, Nate instantly knew something was wrong. The usual low murmur of conversation, the comforting background noise he'd expected, was replaced by something rougher and angrier. Voices carried from the back room, sharp and raised. 

They hadn't taken more than two steps inside when two older men moved into their path. Nate recognized them immediately, fixtures of this place, men who usually greeted Enzo with wide grins and hearty slaps on the back. But not tonight. Tonight, their faces were stern, their eyes wary as they blocked Enzo's way with an unspoken warning etched into every line of their weathered features.

"Enzo," one of them said gruffly, a man with graying hair and a scar running from his jawline to his collarbone like a jagged fault line across his skin. "Not now."

Enzo's jaw tightened visibly, his lips pressing into a thin line as he stopped short. "What's going on?" His voice was calm on the surface but carried an edge beneath it.

Scar-Jaw quickly glanced toward the back room before meeting Enzo's gaze again. "Stiamo solo...occupandoci di alcuni affari," he said firmly, though there was something almost apologetic in his tone.

Nate shifted closer to him instinctively, his green eyes narrowing as he scanned the room again. He didn't like this, not one bit. "What's happening?" he asked sharply, his voice cutting through the tension like a whip crack.

Scar-Jaw exhaled heavily through his nose and muttered, "Giorgio Taletti's collecting a debt."

The name hit Nate like a weight dropping into his stomach. Giorgio Taletti. No one ever called him anything else—not Mr. Taletti, Boss, or any other title that might soften his reputation. Just Giorgio Taletti, his name alone, carrying enough weight to press down on their small corner of the world like an anchor dragging through the silt.

"A debt?" Nate echoed cautiously, his gaze flicking toward the closed door at the back of the bar.

Before Scar-Jaw could answer, a muffled sound broke through, the unmistakable thud of something heavy hitting flesh, followed by a raw cry that made Nate's stomach twist into knots. It wasn't loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear clearly over their hushed conversations, but loud enough for those paying attention and those who knew what kind of business Giorgio Taletti handled behind closed doors.

"It's nothing for you to worry about," Scar-Jaw said again, softer this time but no less firm, as he glanced between Enzo and Nate with something almost akin to pity in his eyes. "You two should go."

Enzo didn't move. If anything, he looked ready to walk past them if it meant getting to that door. But before he could try, another man stepped forward from nearby, a figure named Salvatore, who Nate had seen around before but never spoken to directly. Salvatore wasn't like most of them. There was something quieter about him, not softer exactly, but more thoughtful in how he carried himself. He always watched more than he spoke, and more than once, Nate had caught him watching him specifically with an intensity that made him feel exposed.

Salvatore placed a firm hand on Nate's shoulder, a gesture oddly personal given how little interaction they'd had before, and leaned in slightly as if to speak just to him.

"Randagio," Salvatore said quietly in. Nate hesitated for half a beat before moving closer to him, glancing briefly at Enzo as if for reassurance before focusing back on Salvatore. "You want to be part of this world?" Salvatore asked softly but firmly, his eyes boring into Nate's with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. "You want respect? Power? Good." He paused for emphasis before continuing in a tone that dropped lower, colder somehow despite its quiet delivery. "But you need to understand something first."

Nate swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat but held Salvatore's gaze steady. "What?" he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Everything you do comes back to you," Salvatore said slowly as if each word carried its own weight meant to sink deep into Nate's bones, where they would linger long after this moment passed. "Sooner or later."

Another cry echoed from behind that door, a sharp plea followed by another heavy thud, but neither Salvatore nor Nate flinched this time despite how much Nate's pulse hammered beneath his skin.

"This life," Salvatore continued evenly as if nothing had interrupted him, "is about debts, boy…" He let the words hang heavy between them long enough before finishing quietly. "…and the debt always comes due."

Nate didn't respond immediately because, beneath all his bravado and determination, he already knew Salvatore was right.

Before he could say anything, though, Enzo grabbed his arm abruptly and pulled him toward the door. "Come on," Enzo muttered, his voice tight with urgency, leaving no room for argument. "Ciao, Victor," he waved back.

Reluctantly and unable to shake Salvatore's words from his mind, Nate let himself be dragged outside. 

Minutes later, after parting ways with Enzo and as he walked back home, Nate's thoughts were as tangled as the labyrinth of alleys he passed through, replaying Salvatore's words inside his head. 

Was this becoming his world, Nate thought?

He stopped abruptly at the corner, his breath catching. Across the street, framed by the pale yellow glow of fluorescent lights, was the small convenience store where his mother worked. She stood inside, her figure illuminated behind a slightly smudged pane of glass. She was stocking shelves with soup cans. Her fingers smoothed each label to align perfectly, her touch gentle but purposeful. It had an almost meditative quality as if she was trying to impose order on something, anything, in a world that seemed determined to unravel.

It was such a small thing. Mundane. Unremarkable to anyone else who might have seen her. But Nate couldn't look away.  

Because those were the same hands that had once cradled his face when he'd skinned his knee for the first time on the playground. The same hands that had wiped blood from his split lip after his first fight. The same hands used to trace lullabies against his back on sleepless nights. 

A faint smile tugged at his lips before he realized it was there. But then she turned toward him. And he saw it.

The bruise, darkening her cheekbone. It wasn't fresh. He could tell its edges had already begun to fade into an ugly, mottled purple, but it hadn't been there yesterday. It curled beneath her eye like a shadow that had sunk too deep to be scrubbed away.

And just like that, the rage was back.

Without thinking, without even registering how fast his feet were moving, Nate crossed the street and pushed open the store's door. The bell jingled softly, its cheerful chime mocking the fire roaring in his chest.

His mother looked up at the sound, her face lighting up instantly despite everything. "Nathaniel!" she exclaimed, hurrying toward him with a bright smile that almost made him forget about the bruise for half a second.

Almost.

She wrapped her arms around him before he could say anything, pulling him close and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. He stiffened in her embrace, his muscles taut with barely restrained anger. "Estas fuera tarde," she said lightly as she pulled back, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulders like always.

Nate didn't return her smile or hug. His hands stayed stubbornly at his sides, clenched tight enough for his nails to bite into his palms. His voice came out low and steady, but there was no mistaking the edge beneath it. "He hit you again."

Her smile faltered for a moment, and she quickly glanced over her shoulder toward the empty aisles behind her before leaning in closer to him. "Nate," she hissed, pleading but firm, "not here."

"Stop doing that." His voice dropped even lower, each word sharper than the last.

Her hand came up instinctively, brushing down his arm in that familiar way she always did when she wanted to calm him down, to smooth out whatever rough edges life had carved into him that day. "It's nothing," she said quietly, but an exhaustion in her voice betrayed her words. "Cariño…it's nothing."

"It's not nothing," Nate replied, his jaw clenching. He forced himself to take a slow breath through flared nostrils before speaking again. "I'll wait for you," he said, each word deliberate and unyielding. "Walk you home."

Her eyes searched his face for several long seconds, searching for what exactly, he wasn't sure, but eventually, she sighed and nodded softly. "Alright."

He sank onto the small bench by the front window as she returned to her tasks behind the counter: counting bills, restocking stray items left, and wiping down surfaces already clean just for something to do with her hands. Every so often, she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, worry etched into every line of her face despite how hard she tried to hide it. But Nate stayed where he was. When she finally finished and locked up for the night, they stepped outside together.

They walked home side by side without speaking, not because there wasn't anything to say but because neither of them trusted themselves not to say too much. Nate kept his gaze fixed on some distant point only he could see. But somewhere along their path through lit streets lined with sleeping houses, he reached for her hand.

And without hesitation, she took it.

Her fingers curled around his like they always had when he was small, warm, and familiar despite everything life had tried to take from them both, and held on tightly enough to make up for everything that was never said. Nate didn't look at her directly, but he didn't have to see her face to know she was crying quietly beside him. He could feel how her grip tightened around his own, in every tiny, shaky breath she tried so hard to swallow before it escaped.

But somehow, he knew these weren't tears from sadness or despair. They were tears born from relief, gratitude, and a love so fierce it refused to let itself be broken no matter how battered it became over time.

It wasn't long before their house loomed before them. The windows were dark voids as Nate and his mother approached. She fumbled with her keys, her hands trembling enough for Nate to notice. He noticed everything these days. The lock clicked, and she pushed the door open. It creaked on its hinges, a long, low groan. Nate's eyes wrinkled instinctively, but he said nothing. 

His father was in that battered armchair near the corner of the living room, where the fabric had been worn thin by years of his weight pressing into it. His figure slouched deeply into the seat, one leg sprawled out lazily while the other bounced faintly, a restless energy lurking beneath his drunken haze. A half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey dangled precariously from his fingers. The TV blared an old baseball game, and the volume was far too loud for this late hour, rattling through the house as if daring someone to object. Nate's father's eyes flicked toward them as they stepped inside. Bloodshot and glazed, they still managed to carry an unsettling sharpness, a predator's awareness buried beneath layers of alcohol-induced lethargy.  

And just like that, Nate felt it.  

The shift.  

It was a physical thing, almost imperceptible but undeniable, like how the air changes before a storm breaks loose. 

He wasn't that scrawny kid anymore. He told himself that often enough these days. He had new clothes he'd bought with money, and his shoulders no longer slumped under invisible weights. He had strength in him now, a kind of quiet power earned by fighting back against a world that tried to keep him down. He'd found belonging somewhere else, far from this house and its suffocating walls.  

But none of it mattered here.  

Here, he wasn't that Nate. Here, he was Nathaniel, a name spoken only in anger or derision, a boy trapped in the shadow of something too big and cruel to fight against.

"Look who finally decided to come home," his father slurred, his voice thick with whiskey and venom. He tilted the bottle toward them in a mock toast, the liquid inside sloshing dangerously close to spilling over the rim. "The good-for-nothing and his whore mother."  

The words landed hard and fast. Nate's stomach twisted painfully, a knot forming deep in his gut, but he held his ground, refusing to flinch or react, not outwardly.

His mother didn't pause as she brushed past him with quiet grace, her face carefully blank like always. She set her purse down on the chipped countertop near the kitchen entrance and spoke softly without turning around: "I'll start dinner." 

His father snorted loudly and leaned forward slightly in his chair to better savor his next jab. "Yeah, you do that," he sneered with a cruel smirk, pulling at one corner of his mouth. "It's about all you're good for."

She didn't react, not visibly anyway, and for a second, Nate thought she might not have heard him at all. But then she reached up slowly to roll her sleeves past her elbows and moved toward the stove quietly as though nothing had been said at all, as though there hadn't been venom laced into every syllable her husband spat like poison. Nate swallowed hard against the lump rising in his throat.

The sound caught his father's attention again. His gaze snapped back to Nate with unnerving precision despite how glassy those bloodshot eyes seemed moments ago. "What about you?" he barked suddenly, his voice sharp enough to make Nate's spine stiffen instinctively. Still, it softened into something mocking as he gestured vaguely toward Nate's clothes with one hand while lifting the bottle for another swig. "Who the fuck you trying to impress walking around dressed like some goddamn rich kid?"  

Nate said nothing because he knew better by now. 

His father smirked bitterly at Nate's silence before leaning back into his chair exaggeratedly like he'd won some contest. "You think putting on fancy clothes makes you a man?" His tone turned meaner now, more biting, dripping disdain as he jabbed an unsteady finger in Nate's direction: "You think it makes you better than me?"  

Something sharp flared in Nate's chest, hot and bright like anger but tangled up with too many other things to be named so easily. Yes, it did make him better than this man sitting before him now, who had done nothing but tear others down to fill whatever hollow space existed inside him. But Nate didn't say it aloud. Instead, he held steady, his gaze even and unwavering despite the effort it took not to let anything show on his face.

His father scoffed again before muttering under his breath: "Ungrateful piece of shit."

The words should have bounced off Nate by now. They had been hurled at him like stones too many times to count, and he'd learned, or so he thought, to let them pass through him, to slide over his skin without leaving a mark. 

But the truth was, it never really worked. 

Because no matter how thick Nate tried to make his armor, no matter how many layers he built between himself and those words, they always found a way in. They burrowed under his skin, lodged deep in places he couldn't reach, festering like an old wound that refused to heal. Nate stared at the chipped paint on the wall just above his father's head, refusing to meet his gaze. If he looked at him, if he saw that smug curve of his lips or the lazy contempt in his eyes, he wasn't sure he could hold himself back this time.  

"Set the table, cariño." The voice from the kitchen was soft, almost apologetic. His mother's tone held no judgment or sharp edges, just an invitation for peace. Nate turned toward her voice instinctively, drawn by its gentleness. She stood by the stove, her hands busy stirring something in a pot that smelled faintly of garlic and onions. "Dinner's almost ready," she added lightly, as though nothing unusual had happened moments before, as though her husband hadn't just spat those words at their son like venom.  

Nate exhaled slowly, forcing himself to release the tension in his shoulders and let go of the anger in his chest. He didn't want to give his father the satisfaction of seeing him snap, not again. Instead, he turned silently toward the small dining table tucked into the corner of the room.

The table was old and battered, its surface scarred with scratches and faded rings left behind by coffee mugs and water glasses. It was too small for three people to sit comfortably around it. One chair always had to be pushed slightly away from the edge to make room for everyone's elbows. Nate reached for the stack of plates on the counter, his hands steady now despite the lingering frustration. One by one, he set them down on the table, not slamming them like he wanted to but placing them gently enough not to draw attention. Behind him, his mother moved across the kitchen floor, her steps soundless on the worn linoleum as she carried dishes to and from the stove. She didn't speak as she worked. She rarely did during such moments. Instead, she communicated with subtle gestures: a nod toward the silverware drawer when Nate paused after laying out the plates, a brief glance at the pitcher of water sitting on the counter when she noticed its absence from the table. Nate scanned her out of the corner of his eye as she worked, watching how her hands moved deftly between tasks. It was almost mechanical like she operated on autopilot rather than conscious thought.

For a fleeting moment, a heartbeat, he wondered what it felt like for her to move through life this way: silent and unassuming, slipping through rooms like smoke that went unnoticed until it was too late to breathe. Did she ever feel invisible? Did she ever feel like anything more than just another part of this house, a fixture as permanent and unchanging as the peeling wallpaper or creaky floorboards?

"Mom," he said suddenly before he could stop himself. She paused mid-step but didn't turn around right away.

"Yeah?" Her voice was calm but tinged with weariness, the kind that came from years of carrying burdens too heavy for one person alone.

Nate hesitated for half a second before shaking his head slightly. "Nothing," he muttered under his breath. If she heard him, which she probably did, she wouldn't press further. 

The moment they sat down, Nate knew it wasn't over. That heavy, suffocating tension filled the air, curling into every corner of the room, choking out any chance of normalcy. It wasn't just the silence, how his father moved, deliberate and slow, like a predator circling prey. The scrape of his chair against the worn kitchen tiles was louder than it should've been, each sound sharp and grating. Nate's eyes darted to the whiskey glass in his father's hand, the amber liquid sloshing lazily as he leaned back, his weight settling in with a dangerous calm. His father's gaze pinned him there, unwavering and heavy, his lips curling into that familiar smirk that never failed to make Nate's stomach twist. It wasn't amusement.

It was condescension. Control.  

"So, what is it, huh?" His father's voice cut through the silence like a blade, slurred from drink but still carrying that hard-edged sharpness that could slice through bone. "You think you're better than us now? Walking around dressed like some measly prince?"  

The insult hung in the air, and Nate tightened his grip on his fork. The cool metal bit into his palm as he tried to steady himself. He wanted to respond and lash out but could only stare at his plate. The worn porcelain was chipped at the edges and smeared with mashed potatoes and gravy.  

Finally, he forced his voice out, low and steady. "I don't think anything."  

His father barked out a laugh that wasn't really a laugh, more like a scoff drenched in poison. "Bullshit." He leaned forward now, resting an elbow on the table as he pointed at Nate with two fingers wrapped loosely around the whiskey glass. "I see the way you walk around here, acting like you own this place. Like you're too good for this family."  

The words hit their mark, and Nate felt his chest tighten. But he wasn't going to let them stick. Not this time. He inhaled deeply through his nose, forcing himself to meet his father's gaze head-on for once. "You wouldn't know the first thing about family," he said quietly.  

The room seemed to hold its breath.  

His father's smirk froze on his face for half a second before faltering. It was subtle, a flicker of surprise, but it was there. And then it disappeared under a mask of cold rage as his fingers tightened around the glass so hard Nate thought it might shatter. "What did you just say?" His father's voice was low now, dangerously quiet in a way that made Nate's pulse quicken despite himself.  

But he didn't back down. Not this time. Not anymore.

He lifted his eyes again, staring straight into his father's with a defiance that felt foreign but somehow right. "I said...you wouldn't know the first thing about family."  

Out of the corner of his eye, Nate saw his mother freeze mid-motion, her hand hovering over her napkin as if she'd been about to pick it up but had forgotten how to move entirely. Her wide eyes flickered nervously between them, her lips parting slightly as though she wanted to say something.  

His father let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Big man now, huh?" he sneered, leaning back again with exaggerated nonchalance even as his knuckles whitened around the glass. "Walking around doing errands for those Italians like some little dog? That's what you are now? Some mutt doing tricks for scraps?"  

The insult burned hotter than it should have, maybe because some truth was buried, but he refused to let it show. "At least they don't spend every night drinking themselves into a pathetic mess," he shot back before he could stop himself.

The words landed hard, and they were meant to.

His father's nostrils flared as a dangerous red flush crept up from beneath the collar of his shirt. His reaction was instant and visceral, the rage that turned men into monsters without warning or reason. "Watch your mouth, boy," he growled through gritted teeth.

"Or what?" The words slipped out before Nate could think. But once they were out there, hanging between them like a live wire about to snap, he didn't regret them, not even for a second.

And that was when everything shifted.

It wasn't just one thing. Everything was all at once: the way his father slowly set down his glass, the scrape of wood against the tile as he pushed back his chair, the sudden stillness gripping the room like a vice as everyone seemed to realize what was coming next.

"You think you're tough?" His father's voice was low now, quieter than before but somehow more menacing.

Nate didn't look away this time. He didn't flinch, falter, or shrink back into himself like always. "Tougher than you," he said.

Then came the slap. 

Nate's head snapped violently to the side, his vision momentarily swimming as a sharp, searing pain bloomed across his cheek. The sting spread like wildfire, hot and unforgiving as if the very air conspired to amplify his humiliation. He froze, his body stiffening as his fingers instinctively rose to touch the throbbing mark. His palm encountered the heat radiating from his skin, proof of the blow that had landed all too solidly. His father stood over him, towering like a storm cloud, chest heaving with fury. The man's face was a mask of rage. His nostrils flared, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed his teeth might crack under the pressure. His fists remained curled at his sides, trembling with barely restrained violence. It wasn't Nate's first time seeing this expression, nor would it be the last. But tonight, something inside him shifted.

And then, Nate snapped.

It was barely perceptible, like a thread pulled too taut, suddenly giving way. But in the span of a heartbeat, it unraveled utterly. A tidal wave of emotion crashed through Nate, rage, defiance, and years of pent-up resentment rising to the surface. His hand fell from his cheek as his body moved on instinct, driven by something primal and unrelenting. He surged forward with a guttural roar that tore from his throat before realizing it was there.

The chair beneath him screeched against the floorboards as it skidded back violently, clattering to its side. Nate lunged with a force that surprised even himself, his fists colliding with his father's solid gut. The impact reverberated through his knuckles and up his arms. The sound echoed in the small kitchen, followed immediately by the scrape of chairs and the deafening crash of the table overturning. Plates and glasses shattered against the hardwood floor in an explosive cacophony, shards dispersing across the room.

Above it all came the piercing cry of his mother's voice.

"Nathaniel!" The single word carried a mix of shock, terror, and desperation, cutting through the chaos like a knife.

But Nate barely heard her. He was too far gone now, too consumed by years of suppressed anger finally unleashed. They hit the floor in a tangled heap of limbs, he and his father, each grappling for control in a brutal clash that was more animalistic than human. His fists swung wildly, each punch fueled by memories that flashed behind his eyes like lightning: nights spent cowering in corners, bruises hidden beneath long sleeves at school, whispered apologies from his mother that did nothing to ease the ache inside him. His father grunted with each blow but retaliated just as fiercely. He was more powerful, stronger, a mountain compared to Nate's wiry frame, but Nate didn't care. Every strike he landed felt like reclaiming a piece of himself that had been stolen over the years.

"You think you're tough now?" his father spat as he wrestled Nate onto his back with one massive shove. His weight bore down like an iron press, pinning Nate to the ground so firmly he could barely move. "You wanna act like a man?" The words were venomous, dripping with disdain as they hissed between labored breaths. "I'll make a man out of you!"

Nate's eyes widened as he saw the belt come off. The leather gleamed under the light briefly before it whistled through the air. The first lash tore across Nate's back like fire, meeting the skin. He arched involuntarily against the pain, a strangled cry ripping free from his throat before he could suppress it.

"You think you can talk back to me?" Another strike landed, harder this time. Nate's vision blurred with tears as his body jerked involuntarily under each punishing blow. "I'll teach you respect, you fuckin' piece of shit!" his father growled lowly, pressing him down with one hand while the other brought the belt down again. 

And again. And again.

Each strike carved itself into Nate's flesh and soul, leaving raw welts on both. But even as pain threatened to consume him entirely, a spark of defiance flickered stubbornly within him. His fingers twitched against the floorboards before curling into fists once more.

And then they found a purchase: leather.

Nate yanked hard on the belt mid-swing with every ounce of strength he could muster. His muscles strained against his father's greater force, but still, he held on. He thought he might win this small victory for one fleeting moment, but then his father wrenched it free with ease and turned him onto his back instead. A new kind of panic gripped Nate as rough hands closed around his throat. The world narrowed to those hands, the crushing pressure stealing air and light until nothing else existed. He clawed desperately at his father's wrists, nails scraping uselessly against thick skin as darkness crept into the edges of his vision.

And then, a crack rang out like thunder.

His father's grip loosened abruptly as he reeled sideways, dazed and stumbling. Nate gasped for air, rolling onto his side as oxygen flooded back into his lungs. His chest heaved with ragged breaths. Every inhale burned but felt impossibly precious nonetheless.

Through watery eyes, he saw her: his mother standing there trembling violently. Her hands clutched tightly around a frying pan, its edge dented slightly from where it had connected with her husband's skull moments ago, and tears streamed freely down her pale cheeks.

"Nathaniel," she choked out between sobs before rushing toward him. Her hands fluttered over him anxiously as if unsure where to touch without causing more pain. "We have to go," she whispered urgently through quivering lips while tugging at him insistently. "Now."

Nate's limbs felt heavy, numb from exhaustion and raw pain, but somehow, he found himself moving anyway. He let her pull him up unsteadily onto shaky legs that threatened to buckle beneath him at any moment. Together, they stumbled toward the front door, yawning open ahead like some distant beacon promising escape from everything behind them.

Nate's breath came in ragged bursts, each inhale scraping like sandpaper against his throat as his mother shoved him toward the door. Her hands trembled violently against his shoulders, frantic, desperate, her nails digging into his skin as if she could physically transfer her urgency to him.  
Her voice cracked with raw desperation, louder than he'd ever heard. "Run!" she shouted, gripping his shoulders so tightly it felt like she might leave bruises. "You have to go now! Go get help!"  

Nate shook his head violently, tears blurring his vision. "I'm not leaving you!" His voice broke on the last word, high-pitched and trembling, betraying the terror clawing its way up his throat. 

"Go!" she screamed this time, her voice raw and guttural like it physically hurt her to say it. And then she shoved him hard enough that he stumbled backward, nearly falling over his own feet. He caught himself just in time to see her slam the door shut between them. 

"Mom!" Nate's fists pounded against the wood with all the strength he had left in him, but the barrier didn't budge.

Her voice cut through his, pleading like a knife through flesh: "Get help! Now!"  

From inside the house came a low groan, a sound so guttural and feral that it made Nate freeze mid-breath. His father's voice followed, slurred. "You bitch..."  

The sound of a struggle erupted behind the door, something heavy crashing onto the floor, and then his mother's scream ripped through the air. It was a sound Nate had never heard before, a primal cry of pain and terror that made his blood run cold.  

For a moment, everything stopped. 
And then Nate ran.  

His legs moved on instinct before his mind could fully catch up with what was happening. They carried him down the porch steps and onto the street as though some unseen force were propelling him forward. He didn't think about where he was going or how much it hurt, his lungs burning like fire with every breath, his throat raw from screaming for help at the top of his lungs.  

"HELP!" he cried out into the night, his voice cracking with desperation as he sprinted past darkened houses and parked cars that seemed oblivious to his panic. "PLEASE...SOMEBODY CALL THE COPS!" Porch lights flickered on one by one like fireflies waking up from slumber. Curtains twitched as silhouettes appeared in windows, people peeking cautiously but not stepping outside. "HELP!" Nate screamed again, the words tearing out of him like an animal clawing free from a trap. 

Finally, someone responded, and a woman burst onto her porch across the street in a motion blur. Her bathrobe flapped open slightly as she hurried down her steps barefoot, her face pale. "Nathaniel?" she called out in alarm, recognizing him instantly despite the chaos unraveling around them.  

"Call the police!" Nate gasped between ragged breaths, stumbling onto her porch steps and clutching her arm for support. "Please...he's gonna kill her!" His words tumbled in a frantic rush, barely coherent but dripping with urgency and terror.  

Her eyes widened in horror as realization dawned on her face. "Jesus Christ." She didn't hesitate. She bolted back into her house without another word, leaving Nate standing alone as he doubled over, clutching at his knees and struggling to breathe through the sobs wracking his body.  

The seconds stretched out endlessly as he stood there waiting for anything to happen. 

And then, he heard it. 
Two gunshots shattered the silence of the night. Back-to-back. Loud. Final.

Nate's entire body locked up as if someone had flipped a switch inside him and shut everything off at once. The street fell deathly silent again except for one sound, the faint creak of hinges as the neighbor woman threw open her front door once more and rushed back outside, panic etched across every line of her face.

"Stay here," she shouted urgently, but her voice sounded distant and muffled as though he were underwater.

Nathaniel didn't stay.
He couldn't.

He was already moving again before she even finished speaking, his legs carrying him back toward the house without hesitation because there was no other choice. As he got there, the front door was slightly ajar, swaying. Nate hesitated on the threshold, his hand hovering near the doorknob before he pushed it open further with a shallow breath that did nothing to steady him.

For a moment, all was still.
Then the smell hit him.

It was sharp and acrid, smoke, metal. Gunpowder.

His knees wavered, and for a second, he thought they might give out entirely. He forced himself to take another step forward. Each movement felt disconnected as if he were watching himself from outside his body. The ringing in his ears grew louder as he approached the kitchen doorway.

What he saw there stopped him cold.

The back door was wide open. It banged against the frame with a hollow, rhythmic sound that echoed through the house. The noise should've been mundane, but now it was deafening, ominous. Nate's gaze swept over the room frantically.

A trail of blood.

It wasn't much at first, just a smudge near the kitchen table, but as Nate's eyes followed it across the linoleum floor, it thickened into a dark, glistening streak. His stomach churned violently, bile rising in his throat. He wanted to look away but couldn't. The trail led deeper into the house, disappearing into the shadowy hallway.

"No," he stammered under his breath, barely audible. 

His legs moved before his brain could catch up. He followed the crimson path step by step until his foot hit something solid. Nate looked down. And when his eyes finally registered what lay before him, every bit of air left his lungs in a ragged gasp.

It was her.

His mother's body lay crumpled on the floor like a discarded rag doll. One arm stretched toward him like she'd been reaching for help that never came. Her face was too pale, but it wasn't just that. It was her stillness that shattered him. Her chest didn't rise or fall. Her lips were parted slightly as if frozen mid-breath. And then there was the blood, so much blood pooling around the lifeless form that it soaked into the floorboards beneath her.

"Mom...?" The word tore from Nate's throat in a hoarse whisper. He dropped to his knees beside her. 

Silence answered him.

He reached out with trembling hands and touched her shoulder lightly as if afraid she might shatter beneath his fingers. Her skin was still warm but fading quickly, too quickly, and that warmth only worsened everything because it meant she hadn't been gone long. "Please…please wake up."

Nothing.

His hands pressed against her shoulders harder now, shaking her more forcefully despite knowing deep down it wouldn't make a difference. A strangled cry tore from Nate's throat, a sound so raw and guttural that it barely seemed human. He collapsed forward onto her lifeless form, burying his face in her shoulder as sobs wracked his entire body. They came in waves, violent and uncontrollable until he thought they might tear him apart completely.

Time lost meaning after that.

He didn't notice when darkness fully enveloped the house or when distant sirens began to wail in the background like mournful cries echoing through the night. He didn't register the flashing red and blue lights painting jagged patterns across the walls or even when hurried footsteps approached from behind him.

All Nate could feel was a profound emptiness that threatened to consume him entirely.

His mother was gone. And no matter how much he screamed or cried or begged, she wasn't coming back.
 

*

Hours later, silence blanketed Nate's room, broken only by the soft whir of machines and the faint murmur of voices from the hallway.

Nate was cocooned under a thin hospital blanket, his body rigid as if encased in glass. The crisp white sheets were tucked too tightly around him, their sterility a contrast to the bruises blooming like dark flowers on his ribs and the faint pink streaks left behind where his mother's blood had been scrubbed away. The nurses had worked efficiently, their hands gentle but clinical, as they cleaned him up and checked his vitals. They spoke kindly to him, but their words and reassurances echoed, meaningless and empty.

He felt nothing.  

It wasn't numbness in the sense of relief or even exhaustion. It was a void, vast and consuming. He stared at the ceiling tiles, counting the tiny perforations on their surface as if they might offer some distraction. But nothing came, not anger, fear, or pain, just an endless, hollow quiet.

The door creaked open, but Nate didn't turn his head. A heavy presence entered the kind that could fill an entire space without speaking. And then, just as deliberately as it had opened, the door clicked shut again, sealing them off from the rest of the world.

"Nathaniel."

Nate's eyes flickered slightly at the sound of his name but quickly stilled again. He didn't move otherwise. His body remained frozen under the blanket as if even acknowledging Giorgio Taletti's presence required more energy than he could summon. Giorgio stepped further into the room.

"Nathaniel," Giorgio repeated softly as he stopped at the foot of the bed, pulling up one of the side chairs. His sharp eyes, dark and fathomless as onyx, studied Nate's face with an intensity capable of peeling back layers to expose whatever lay beneath. 

Yet, still no response.

Giorgio exhaled slowly through his nose, a sound that wasn't quite a sigh but carried a note of patience worn thin. "The police caught him a couple of blocks away," he said finally, his tone matter-of-fact but not unkind. At those words, something shifted in Nate's stillness. It was subtle, a twitch in his fingers beneath the blanket, but Giorgio noticed it immediately. His gaze sharpened ever so slightly as he continued. "He'll get a couple years in prison," Giorgio went on, his voice steady and precise as if delivering a verdict. "It'll be hard to prove he fired the gun. Your mother's prints were on it, too."

Giorgio moved to the chair beside Nate's bed with unhurried grace, lowering himself into it as if he owned this moment and every moment surrounding it. He adjusted his cuffs, a small but deliberate gesture, and leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

"You're feeling a lot of things right now," Giorgio began after a pause, his voice softer now but no less deliberate. "Rage." He paused again as if letting the word settle over Nate. "Grief." Another pause. "Maybe even guilt." 

That last word struck like a hammer blow to Nate's chest. His jaw clenched as he swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat. 

Seeing this reaction, Giorgio leaned forward just a fraction more, close enough to command attention without imposing. "Let me tell you something...about family," he said quietly. For the first time since Giorgio had entered the room, Nate turned his head slightly, not much, just enough for their eyes to meet. "Family isn't just blood," Giorgio continued smoothly, his voice steady and unwavering. "It's loyalty. It's protection. Knowing that no matter how bad or dark things get, it's never just you against the world."

Nate's throat worked as he swallowed again, harder this time. "I...I don't have a family anymore," he muttered bitterly after a long pause.

Giorgio didn't flinch at the coldness in Nate's tone. Instead, he held his gaze steadily and replied with quiet certainty. "Yes, you do." The words landed like a stone dropped into still water, simple yet rippling outward with profound impact. "You belong with us now," Giorgio said, breaking the silence without shattering it. His tone was calm but resolute, a statement rather than an offer. "You'll always have a home with us."

Then, something flickered in Nate's eyes, raw and fractured yet painfully human beneath all the numbness and anger. Giorgio saw it immediately but didn't comment directly. Instead, he let his expression soften just slightly, a rare glimpse behind the mask of calculated composure he wore so effortlessly. "I know what you're feeling. Trust me, I do," he said gently after another pause. "The anger. The hunger for retribution." Nate's pulse quickened at those words despite himself. They resonated too deeply to ignore or dismiss.

"That time will come, Nathaniel," Giorgio promised quietly but firmly, as though swearing an oath rather than merely making an observation. "But until then…" He reached out then, not abruptly but carefully, and placed one hand gently atop Nate's head. It was an unfamiliar gesture for Nate, a touch meant not to control or harm but to soothe. To comfort. "Rest, ragazzo mio," Giorgio murmured softly, a fatherly tenderness threading through his voice that Nate had never known. "We'll take care of everything else."

He turned, his polished shoes making a muted scuff against the floor. At the door, he paused for a breath, just long enough to glance over his shoulder. His gaze found his men stationed outside, in rigid postures and faces set like statues. "Proteggilo con la tua vita," he said, his voice low and unwavering, each word laced with quiet steel.

The taller of the two men gave a sharp nod, his hand instinctively brushing over the holster strapped to his side. "Understood," he replied curtly, his tone clipped but resolute. The other man shifted slightly, adjusting his stance and blocking the door.

*

(4 years later)

Nate strode with an air of quiet authority that seemed to part the crowd before him without effort. His movements were fluid, each step landing solidly as if he owned the ground beneath his feet and the air around him. His shoulders, broad and strong now, told the story of years spent turning boyhood awkwardness into something formidable. His arms, corded with lean muscle, swung quickly at his sides, betraying none of the restless energy that simmered beneath his calm exterior.

Gone was the lanky figure that had once been easy to overlook. The scrawny kid with too-big hands and knees stuck out awkwardly from beneath patched trousers was nothing more than a memory now. Nate had grown into his frame with startling precision, each feature honed as if by some unseen sculptor's chisel.

At seventeen, he was striking in a way that drew second glances and hushed whispers from passersby. Tall and imposing, his presence seemed to fill every space he entered. His face bore the sharp angles and edges of someone who had weathered far more than his years should allow, his jawline taut and defined, his cheekbones high and shadowed. His dark brown hair curled slightly at the ends, unruly strands catching the light in hints of gold. But his eyes, those deep eyes, held people captive. They now carried something more profound, something guarded. They were edged with an intensity that made it impossible to look away but equally impossible to decipher. 

He was beautiful in a way that left people unsettled.  

But something else was beneath that beauty, an undercurrent of hardness. Not just in his stance or how his jaw slightly clenched when someone lingered too long in his path but in his silence, in how his gaze could pin someone in place without him saying a word. Nate wasn't just admired. He was respected and feared.

People greeted him with subdued nods or murmured acknowledgments as he passed: "Buongiorno, Nathaniel." The name rolled off their tongues with reverence and caution, stripped of the venom it once carried when spat by his father years ago. Now, it meant something entirely different, something earned.

When Nate stepped inside Giorgio's bar, he was immediately met by a familiar bite of whiskey-soaked into the bar's well-worn counter. The scent wrapped around him like an old leather jacket that fit perfectly despite its flaws. The murmur of conversation faltered as heads turned toward him. 

"Eccolo!" someone called out from near the back corner, their voice above the chatter. "Guarda chi c’è!" The older men, fixtures of this place, lifted their glasses in greeting as Nate made his way toward them. 

"Nathaniel!" Pietro's voice boomed from a table near the center, drawing more attention. “Vieni qui, ragazzo!"

Nate smirked faintly but didn't rush. He moved through the room like he belonged there. Because he did. As he passed one of the tables, his fingers brushed lightly along the back of an old man's chair, a casual gesture that somehow felt deliberate.

"What's this?" Nate teased as he reached Pietro's table, leaning slightly on one hip and surveying them with mock disapproval. "You bastards drinking before noon again?"

Laughter erupted around him like thunder rolling through storm clouds.

"Oh no," Pietro grinned broadly, patting his round belly for emphasis. "Ma che dici? It's a late breakfast! You know, most important meal of the day."

"Is that why your wife kicked you out last week?" Nate shot back without missing a beat, plucking a piece of bread from their table and taking a bite.

The men howled with laughter at Pietro's expense while he groaned dramatically, shaking his head but unable to hide his grin. "Figlio di puttana," Pietro muttered good-naturedly. "This kid, I swear, he's got a mouth on him."

"And more than that," another man chimed in, tipping his glass toward Nate with an approving nod. "Kid's sharp. Got his head on straight."

"Of course he does," came a quieter voice from an older man seated near the corner, a voice weighted with meaning that cut through even their laughter. "He's Giorgio's boy now."

The atmosphere instantly shifted as if someone had taken all the air out of the room. The men exchanged glances but said nothing further.

Nate didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned back casually in his chair, draping one arm over its backrest as if he hadn't noticed or didn't care. "Yeah?" His tone was light, easy. "Is that supposed to mean something?"

Another pause stretched uncomfortably before one man finally spoke up. He was a little older than Pietro but not nearly as bold.

"It means you've got big shoes to fill," he said carefully. His gaze met Nate's directly briefly before flickering away again. "And that people are watching."

Nate's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before loosening again as quickly as it had come. He reached for his glass, a tumbler filled halfway with whiskey, and swirled its contents lazily before lifting it to his lips for a slow sip. "Let 'em watch," he murmured finally before his head lifted abruptly as though pulled by an invisible thread. His gaze snapped toward the door as it swung open, spilling in a gust of cold air that carried the faint scent of rain-soaked asphalt.  

Enzo walked in. 

And he had changed, too. There was no mistaking that. Gone was the wide-eyed boy who used to crack jokes with a crooked smirk that could disarm even the most hardened cynic. The man standing in front of him now was taller and broader, his shoulders squared with a weight that hadn't been there before. But it wasn't just his build or posture but his face. Time had carved sharper lines into it, chiseling away at the softness that once hinted at youthful arrogance. The curve of his jaw was harder now, his cheekbones more pronounced beneath the skin, which looked slightly paler. 

As Enzo approached, Nate's gaze flicked downward before snapping back up. He caught sight of it immediately, a bruise shadowing Enzo's left eye, faintly purple and green at the edges like an old wound refusing to fade completely. When Enzo reached him, he pulled off his sunglasses carelessly and slid into the seat beside him with an ease that belied the tension radiating from his frame. There was no greeting, handshake, or pat on the shoulder, just silence thick enough to choke on.  

Nate broke it first, his voice low. "What happened?"  

Enzo exhaled slowly through his nose, tilting his head slightly as if weighing whether or not to answer. "Father," he said finally, the word clipped and bitter on his tongue.  

Nate snorted softly, though there was no humor in it, just a dry acknowledgment of something they both understood too well. "What the fuck did you do this time?" His tone was casual on the surface, but there was an edge to it.  

Enzo smirked faintly, though the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. "Mind your business." The words hung between them for a moment before dissolving into silence again.  

The pause stretched out until it felt almost unbearable, and then Nate's expression shifted, his brows furrowing slightly as something colder settled behind his gaze. He leaned in closer, lowering his voice as if afraid someone might overhear despite the steady din surrounding them. "Well...did you find anything?"  

Enzo didn't respond right away. His shoulders tensed, a reflexive reaction he couldn't suppress, and something flickered across his face briefly. Whatever it was disappeared as quickly as it came. Without a word, he reached into his jacket and withdrew an envelope, plain and nondescript save for its slightly crumpled edges, and tossed it across the table toward Nate with a practiced nonchalance that didn't fool either of them.  

Nate caught it easily but didn't open it immediately. Instead, he let it rest before him while staring at it like it might explode if mishandled. It felt heavier than it should have, far heavier than mere paper ought to feel, yet he couldn't bring himself to tear into it just yet.  

"Go ahead," Enzo muttered after a moment, his voice quieter now but no less firm. "Take a look."  

Nate's fingers slipped under the flap almost reluctantly before pulling out its contents: several photographs, copies of legal papers marked with official seals, and signatures scrawled in ink that seemed too bold against stark white backgrounds. Handwritten notes scribbled hastily across lined pages with uneven margins where pens had pressed too hard against paper during moments of urgency or frustration. His eyes landed on one photograph first, a single image among many, and suddenly, everything inside him locked up tight enough to hurt. There he was. The man who had haunted Nate for four years.

His father.

He looked older. Thinner. Deep lines carved into his face—around his mouth, across his forehead, etched there by time and choices made without care for consequence. And yet, despite the subtle changes, one thing remained unchanged, that expression. That dead-eyed glare, cold and unfeeling. Beneath it simmered something feral, something violent. Like a predator crouched in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to pounce.

"When?" Nate asked.

Enzo hesitated. His lips parted as if he wanted to soften the blow somehow, to find words that wouldn't hit so hard, but there weren't. Finally, after a moment too long, he said it. "He got out fourteen months ago."

Nate's chest tightened, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe. Fourteen months. Fourteen months walking free. His fingers twitched, curling into fists before he forced them open again. He couldn't let himself lose control here. Not yet.

Enzo's voice broke through the storm brewing in Nate's mind. "That fucking defense attorney appealed," he explained cautiously, watching Nate react as though he were handling a live wire. "They couldn't prove who held the gun when it fired, so…" Enzo hesitated again before finishing. "They let him go."

Around them, the world carried on obliviously. But for Nate, all of it faded into nothingness. The sounds dulled until they might as well have been coming from another world entirely. He leaned back in his chair slowly, deliberately, his body rigid as though every muscle was braced against an unseen blow. His hands gripped the armrests so tightly that his knuckles turned bone-white, tendons pulling taut under his skin.

Enzo didn't move. He didn't speak either, but his eyes stayed locked on Nate like he was waiting for something to snap. Finally, he broke the silence with a quiet question. "The plan is to scare him, right?"

Nate didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted to the edge of the photographs lying on the table between them. His father's face stared back at him from those photos: indifferent and unrepentant as always. There was no remorse in his eyes, not even a flicker of guilt or shame. Just that same cold detachment that had haunted Nate's memories for years. Slowly, almost too slowly, Nate lifted his eyes again. When he looked at Enzo this time, he smiled.

But there was nothing warm about it, nothing human. It was cold, sharp around the edges like broken glass glinting under moonlight. "Yeah," he murmured finally, his voice soft but carrying an unmistakable weight. "That's the plan."

For a moment, for one brief heartbeat, Enzo tried to believe him. But then he saw the flicker in Nate's eyes that betrayed him completely. Enzo's hand tightened around his glass until his knuckles mirrored Nate's, white and bloodless against tanned skin. He leaned forward slightly across the table and said just one word: "Nate."

Nate met his gaze calmly and tilted his head slightly, confused by Enzo's concern. "What?" he asked innocently, but there was an edge beneath it, something sharp enough to draw blood if pressed too hard.

Enzo exhaled heavily through his nose before rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Just…remember what father said," he voiced, his tone firm but not unkind. "We don't do anything unless it's necessary."

Nate chuckled softly at that, an unsettling sound that sent shivers crawling down Enzo's spine despite himself. Shaking his head faintly as though amused by some private joke only he understood, Nate replied. 

"Right. Necessary."

*

(6 months later)

Nate sat in the driver's seat inside the van, his jaw clenched so tightly it felt like his teeth might crack under the pressure. His breath came slow and measured, each exhale fogging up the windshield in ghostly patches that faded just as quickly as they appeared. His fingers gripped the steering wheel with an intensity that turned his knuckles white, flexing once as if testing their strength before going still again. 

The house loomed ahead. Its facade was a mosaic of peeling paint and warped wood, the windows boarded up with mismatched planks that barely held together. The front yard was a graveyard of trash: crumpled fast food wrappers, shattered glass glinting faintly, and a rusted shopping cart tipped on its side like a casualty of neglect.

The passenger door creaked open as Enzo climbed back inside. He moved quickly, slamming it shut behind him to keep out the biting chill. His breath puffed out in short, visible bursts as he rubbed his gloved hands together for warmth.

"Fuck, it's freezing," he muttered through chattering teeth, shaking off the dusting of snow that clung to his shoulders. His voice was low but rough around the edges. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a battered pack of cigarettes, flipping it open before sliding one between his lips. The pack dangled loosely in his hand as he nudged it toward Nate. "You want one?" Enzo asked, his tone casual.

Nate didn't move. Didn't even glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on the rearview mirror, scanning the darkened street behind them with laser focus. Waiting.

Enzo sighed, his breath mingling with smoke as he lit up. The orange ember flared briefly before settling. "Suit yourself," he muttered, taking a long drag and leaning back in his seat. The cigarette crackled softly between his fingers as he exhaled a thin stream of smoke curling lazily upward, fogging the windshield even further.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between them, the kind of silence that pressed on your chest like a weight. 

But then, movement.

Nate stiffened instantly, every muscle in his body coiling tight as his eyes zeroed in on the figure stumbling into view from around the corner. The man's shadow stretched long and distorted, but there was no mistaking him. Tall. Broad-shouldered despite the years that had worn him down like sandpaper against wood. His gait was uneven and unsteady, a drunken shuffle punctuated by occasional stumbles, but it was him.

The man trudged forward with his head bowed against the wind, his coat hanging loose around his gaunt frame like an afterthought. It was threadbare and patched in places, offering little protection against the cold that painted his cheeks red and chapped his lips. He didn't look up once, not at the house ahead of him or the van parked just a few feet away. He passed by without a glance in their direction, oblivious to the eyes boring into him from behind tinted glass. Nate's breath hitched slightly, but it felt deafening in his own ears. His grip on the wheel tightened until he thought it might snap under the pressure. He could hear it now, his heartbeat pounding steadily in his ears. The rage simmered low and dangerous in his gut, coiled tight like a serpent ready to strike. It wasn't new. It had been there for years, festering like an open wound.

Four years.
Four fucking years since everything had fallen apart.

And yet here he was, living and breathing as if he hadn't ripped their lives apart at the seams. As if he hadn't turned their world into ash and rubble with nothing more than selfishness and cruelty.

As if he hadn't taken her away.

His father reached the door then, fumbling clumsily with the handle before shoving it open with more force than necessary. It slammed shut behind him almost immediately.

"Let's go," Nate said finally. His voice had no hesitation, only cold determination wrapped tightly around something darker.

With the precision of a well-rehearsed duo, he and Enzo hopped out of the car. Nate strode toward the house, his demeanor determined, while Enzo trailed closely behind, a hefty duffel bag slung casually over his shoulder, hinting at the secrets and plans concealed within.

The door rattled under Nate's fist, each pound a deliberate, thunderous command. Dust drifted down from the frame as if even the house itself flinched at the force of his knock. He didn't step back, didn't pause. He just stood there, his jaw tight, his breaths measured, waiting for the inevitable. 

Inside, there was a muffled thud, something heavy knocked over in haste, and a slurred and sharp curse followed. "Goddamn it…"

Then came the shuffle of footsteps. Slow. Uneven. Each dragging step was punctuated by the scrape of a shoe against worn floorboards. Nate pictured it, his father stumbling through the dim haze of whatever filth-ridden room he'd been holed up in. A metallic click echoed as the lock slid free, and the door cracked open just enough to reveal him. His bloodshot eyes squinted against the brightness, lids heavy with exhaustion or just years of cheap whiskey clouding his vision. The unkempt stubble on his jaw looked more like neglect than any attempt at ruggedness, patchy and uneven, curling over skin that hadn't seen water in days. And the smell hit Nate square in the chest, a nauseating cocktail of stale alcohol, sweat, and something sour lurking underneath it all. 

For a second, a fleeting moment, the man just blinked at him, confusion knitting his brow as he tried to place the person standing before him. His sluggish mind worked through the haze, piecing together fragments of recognition like mismatched puzzle pieces.  

That second was all Nate needed.  

His fist shot forward without hesitation, knuckles colliding with his father's nose. The sickening crack echoed down the empty hallway as if announcing an overdue reckoning to anyone listening. His father staggered back with a grunt, one hand flying instinctively to his jaw while his feet faltered beneath him. He toppled backward into the room with all the grace of a marionette whose strings had been cut. His head struck the edge of a battered coffee table on the way down, drawing out a groan of pain that sounded more like an animal's growl than anything human.  

Before he could fully register what was happening, before he could scramble to his knees or spit out whatever venomous words were coiled on his tongue, Nate stepped inside. Enzo followed close behind, shutting the door firmly behind them with a click that might as well have been a death knell.

"What the fuck..." The words spilled from his father's mouth in a garbled mess as he spat blood onto the threadbare carpet beneath him. He pressed trembling fingers to his split lip before glaring up at Nate with watery eyes that burned with anger and just a hint of fear buried deep beneath them. "You son of a..."  

Another punch silenced him mid-sentence. This one landed hard against his ribs with enough force to knock what little air remained in his lungs clean out of them. His breath hitched as he doubled over, coughing wetly and clutching at his side like it might somehow ease the pain radiating through him.

"Shut the fuck up," Nate muttered, shaking out his stinging fist as though brushing off invisible debris. 

Enzo moved without instruction, dropping the duffel bag onto what remained of the living room carpet, a faded thing stained with dark blotches. The zipper hissed open, revealing its contents: thick coils of rope, duct tape, and a shotgun. Tools of restraint.

The man on the floor stirred weakly, propping himself up on one elbow as if that small act might reclaim some shred of dignity or control. "What...what the hell is this?" His voice cracked, hoarse, rasping like sandpaper dragged across steel.

Nate didn't answer. Instead, he grabbed hold of his father's filthy shirt with both hands and hauled him across the floor like deadweight, ignoring every feeble thrash or half-hearted curse thrown his way. The fabric tore slightly under Nate's grip as he dragged him toward an old recliner now reduced to peeling leather and sagging cushions that reeked faintly of mildew. He shoved him into it without ceremony.

Enzo stepped in smoothly then, yanking Nate's father's arms behind the chair and binding his wrists tightly with rope until there was no room for movement, no chance for escape. The knots were precise and unforgiving. Enzo worked like an artist. Nate's father grunted sharply, jerking against the restraints in defiance, but it was futile. 

Enzo finished tying off the last knot before stepping back silently, a silent sentinel watching over Nate's storm brewing just beneath calm waters. "He's not going anywhere," Enzo murmured quietly, though there was no doubt in his tone.

Finally, Nate stopped pacing. He crouched down in front of his father until their faces were leveled. His father froze then, stilling completely under Nate's gaze like prey caught mid-escape. And then recognition dawned, slowly creeping into those bloodshot eyes like sunlight breaking over jagged horizons.

"Nathaniel?" The name fell from his lips not as a question but as something between disbelief and dawning horror.

Nate smiled then, a smile that didn't belong on anyone who still had kindness left within them. "Hello, Father," he murmured softly, almost gently, as if greeting an old friend rather than confronting an old enemy. The smile deepened, sharp enough to cut glass. "Miss me?"

Nate's father exhaled sharply through his nose, a puff of air that almost carried a laugh. The corner of his split and bloodied mouth tugged upward in a twisted semblance of amusement, though whether it was genuine or meant to provoke was unclear. "What the fuck is this, huh?" he spewed, his voice rasping. "You come all this way just to play gangster?" Nate's lips twitched into a brief smile, small and humorless. He shook his head slowly as if addressing a child who had missed the point entirely. "Jesus Christ...you know what your problem is, boy?" his father sneered.

Nate didn't move an inch except to blink hard enough now that his father winced slightly despite himself. "Enlighten me," Nate said coldly.

"You never learned to take a hit," he whispered.

And then, he spat.

The glob of blood and saliva hit Nate's cheek with wet finality and slid down slowly, leaving behind a crimson smear. Time seemed to stop for just one heartbeat as everyone froze, Nate, Enzo, and even Nate's father, who now observed what would come next. But Nate didn't explode. Instead, he raised one hand calmly, almost methodically, and wiped it away with two fingers. His breathing remained steady and measured as if nothing had happened at all.

"Nate..." Enzo called from across the room, pushing off the wall and moving toward him with careful urgency.

Nate didn't acknowledge him. Didn't even blink. His hand went for his waistband, and he pulled a gun out, pressing the muzzle against his father's head.

"You think pulling that trigger makes you a man?" His father's voice broke through, taunting but quieter now as though testing unfamiliar waters. A sneer curled across his lips, a grotesque parody of triumph laced with cruelty so profoundly ingrained it felt eternal. "You really were the worst mistake of my life."

Nate inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled slowly through parted lips, a deliberate action that betrayed no emotion except perhaps exhaustion. Inside him, something shifted or instead stopped. There was no storm raging anymore, no frantic heartbeat. 

Just silence.
It didn't break him.
It didn't shatter him.
It just went quiet.

His father growled after sensing something had changed but mistaking its nature entirely. "Nothing but a goddamn burden." His voice dropped lower now, more vicious than ever, as he leaned forward slightly despite himself. "Should've drowned you in that bathtub when I had the chance."

Nate's expression remained unmoved, his jaw set in calm defiance as he stared at his father, who shifted in his seat. His eyes flicked over Nate's face, searching for cracks in his son's armor for any hint of emotion that would give him an upper hand. But Nate gave him nothing. 

"Why aren't you saying anything?" his father finally barked. His voice carried an edge of frustration, but beneath it was something else, something quieter. Maybe desperation. Maybe fear. It was hard to tell beneath the bravado he wore like a second skin.  

Nate leaned forward slightly, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator closing in on its prey. Every inch he gained seemed to shrink the invisible chasm between them, and yet it only made his father lean back instinctively, as though retreating from something he couldn't name. When Nate finally spoke, his voice was calm, too calm. It carried no anger or venom. Instead, it was steady and controlled, making it all the more unsettling. 

"I want you to take a good look at me." His father blinked, his scowl faltering for a fraction of a second. There was something in Nate's tone that caught him off guard, an intensity that didn't need to shout to make itself known. It wasn't loud or aggressive. It didn't need to be. "I want you to memorize every detail of my face." His father's brow twitched ever so slightly. The man who had always seemed larger-than-life suddenly looked smaller under Nate's unrelenting stare. He opened his mouth to speak, retort, and defend himself, but whatever words he might have said died on his tongue when Nate spoke again. "Because it'll be the last thing you see."  

Nate's finger tightened over the trigger, his grip steady, his resolve unshaken.  

And then, just as he was about to pull the trigger...a creak.  

It was faint but unmistakable, the groaning protest of wood shifting underweight from somewhere inside the house. Nate's head snapped toward the sound almost instinctively, his sharp gaze darting toward the hallway. Enzo moved as fast, his body tensing as he reached for the gun tucked into his waistband.  

"What the fuck was that?" Nate hissed under his breath, his voice low but sharp as a knife.

"There's someone else," Enzo muttered finally, his tone grim and quiet but laced with urgency.  

Enzo moved first. His boots barely made a sound, but the tension in his posture screamed louder than words. His gun was steady in his grip, trained ahead, his knuckles pale from the pressure. His eyes scanned every inch of the hallway as if expecting the walls themselves to strike out at him. 

Behind him, Nate lingered at the entrance to the hall, his shoulders rigid. His gaze flicked back and forth, first to Enzo's broad back, then to the living room behind him. Enzo reached the single bedroom at the end of the hall ahead of him. He paused there, his fingers curling around the tarnished brass doorknob. He cautiously tested its weight, turning it slightly to gauge resistance. His breath hitched almost imperceptibly as he prepared for whatever lay beyond.

And that's when the door exploded open.

A blur of movement burst forth, a chaotic storm of limbs and desperation that blindsided Enzo before he could react. "Shit!" The curse tore from his throat as he stumbled back, caught off guard by the force of impact. His gun flew from his hand, spinning wildly through the air before clattering onto the wooden floor.

A woman emerged, a whirlwind of panic and raw survival instinct wrapped in disheveled clothes and bare feet. Her hair was wild, sticking to her sweat-dampened face as her wide, frantic eyes darted around like a caged animal searching for escape. She moved fast, too fast for thought. She bolted toward the back door without hesitation, her movements fueled by sheer adrenaline.

"Fuck..." Enzo growled as he recovered from the blow. He didn't waste time scrambling for his gun. Instead, he lunged after her with ruthless efficiency. His arms wrapped around her waist just as she reached for freedom, dragging her down mid-stride.

They hit the ground hard, hard enough to rattle both their bones. The impact sent a sharp crack through the air as her shoulder struck the floorboards awkwardly, but she didn't stop fighting. She screamed a raw, piercing sound that ripped through the house and thrashed beneath him with everything she had left. Her knees drove upward wildly. Her nails clawed at any exposed skin they could find.

"Fuckin' bitch...stop!" Enzo barked through grunts of effort as he tried to pin her down without hurting her further. One hand grabbed her wrist while the other pressed against her shoulder to keep her still. But she wasn't listening. "Jesus Christ!" Enzo snarled under his breath as pain erupted across his cheek, where her nails raked deep enough to draw blood. He shifted to cover her mouth with one hand in a desperate attempt to silence her before someone heard them. "Shut up!" he hissed through clenched teeth, leaning more of his weight onto her flailing body.

For a moment, a brief heartbeat, she froze beneath him.

And then she struck back. Her teeth sank into the fleshy part of his palm without warning, hard enough to break the skin and send white-hot pain shooting through his arm.

"FUCK!" Enzo recoiled instinctively, jerking his hand away as blood welled up from crescent-shaped wounds now embedded deep into his flesh. "Fucking psycho!" he spat venomously under his breath as he wiped at the blood smeared across his jacket sleeve. But even as anger lit up behind Enzo's eyes like wildfire, ready to consume everything in its path, he moved again faster. He grabbed her wrists in one swift motion and slammed them against the floor above her head with enough force to make her gasp but not enough to break anything. "Stay still," he growled low and dangerous, a command more animal than man.

Her chest rose and fell erratically beneath him. Panic radiated off her in waves so palpable they felt like heat against his skin. But this time, she stopped struggling.

And then, just as the silence began to descend over the house again, a sound cut through everything. Small. Faint. But unmistakable.

A baby crying.

Time froze, and the world around them seemed to shift on its axis as reality crashed like an avalanche no one could outrun.

Enzo's grip loosened automatically. 

Nate's pulse thundered so loudly in his ears that it drowned out everything else, including the creaking walls and Enzo's ragged breathing, which were reduced to background noise.

"I thought I told you to keep the fucking kid quiet," his father yelled from behind him.

Nate's body turned cold as ice flooded his veins all at once, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and stayed there long after you'd left it behind. The woman's body curled protectively beneath Enzo now, shielding something unseen yet achingly real, and Nate knew then that whatever line they thought they'd crossed tonight. This was worse.

The air in the house had changed.  

It was subtle at first. A shift, like the way a storm announces itself with an eerie calm before the winds come roaring in. The walls seemed to pulse, the silence between sounds growing heavier, pressing down like a weight on his chest.  

Then came the cries.  

The baby's wails, raw and jagged, filled every corner of the house now. They weren't just noises. They were alive, clawing their way through Nate's ears. He flinched as another cry ripped through the air, louder this time. Nate felt something then. Something foreign, alien, like it didn't belong to him. Yet it was there, tightening with every piercing sound until it became unbearable.

Pain.  
But it wasn't his.  

It wasn't the kind he knew, the kind he had lived with for years. This was something else, something more profound. He felt it radiating from the cries, like they carried more than sound. They had bruises and a vast loneliness that could swallow the world whole.  

It was coming from inside him now, too.  

He inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to focus. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't rid himself of that feeling, that ache that didn't belong to him but had somehow claimed him. He moved without thinking, his feet carrying him past Enzo and the woman without a glance. Enzo still had the woman pinned to the floor, her face turned away from Nate now as she trembled beneath his grip. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself in a protective curl, her breath coming in shallow gasps punctuated by soft whimpers. 

Nate barely spared her a second look, couldn't spare her one, not when something stronger pulled at him like a hook lodged in his chest.

He reached the door at the end of the hall and hesitated for only a moment before pushing it open wider with a rough shove of his hand. The cries faltered for a fraction of a second at the sound before resuming, softer now but still sharp enough to twist something inside him.

Nate stepped into the room and stopped cold. His lungs seized as if all the air had been sucked out of them at once.

The smell hit him first, a rancid cocktail of rot and decay violently churning his stomach. It was thick and cloying. Piss. Booze. The sour stench of sweat soaked into fabric left unwashed for weeks, months, maybe, and something else beneath it all: something sickly sweet that made his skin crawl. 

Needles glinted in scattered piles on top of a dresser coated with ash and cigarette burns. Empty pill bottles rolled lazily across the floor when his boot nudged them accidentally, their labels faded or torn off entirely. A whiskey glass balanced precariously on top of a mound of crumpled fast-food wrappers beside an unmade mattress shoved haphazardly into one corner. The mattress was stained beyond recognition, dark patches spreading outward like shadows creeping across its surface and covered in garbage: torn clothes, crusty blankets, and half-eaten food long forgotten.

And then, his gaze found it.
The crib.
If you could even call it that.

It sat tucked away in a corner like an afterthought, a flimsy thing that looked like it might collapse under its own weight at any moment. The paint peeled from its wooden bars in long strips, exposing splintered edges beneath. One side sagged inward slightly where one of the supports had given out long ago.

Nate's throat tightened as his eyes locked onto what lay inside.

A baby.

Tiny, too tiny, curled up amidst a tangle of dirty blankets that looked more like rags than anything meant to keep someone warm. The child's face was streaked with dried tears and snot smeared across chubby cheeks that should have been rosy but were pale instead.

The baby's cries weren't loud anymore. They'd softened into small hiccupping sobs as though even he had learned there was no point in screaming when no one came anyway.

Nate staggered forward without realizing it until his knees hit the crib's edge and buckled utterly beneath him. He sank to the floor with a breathless gasp he didn't realize he'd been holding back.

And that's when those green eyes met his. Big and wide and impossibly bright against all the filth surrounding them, so full of something Nate couldn't name but felt all the same.

Hope.

For a moment, everything stopped, the house, time itself may be, and there were only those eyes. Staring up at him as they saw straight through him to something he didn't even know was there anymore. The baby sniffled once before reaching out with one tiny hand, not shaking or hesitant but steady and sure, as if he already knew what Nate hadn't figured out yet.

That everything had changed.

And when those tiny fingers curled around Nate's trembling hand, the world shifted beneath him completely.

"Hey… kiddo."

(To be continued...)