Chapter 4 – Cyril
The stench of old blood and rot clings to the cracked concrete. Morning fog snakes through the broken windows of the warehouse, swirling in lazy ribbons over rusted chains and rotted beams.
I stand beneath a single gleaming bulb. The light stutters, casting jerky shadows on the walls. The bulb sways slightly from the ceiling, making the shadows dance like ghosts.
Behind me, Alvise leans against a pillar, arms crossed. Gael’s by the exit, his Glock resting lazily against his side. But I know better. Nothing about Gael is ever idle.
And in front of me, strung up by the wrists to an old meat hook, is a kid no older than twenty-three. His shirt’s soaked in blood. Some of it has dried, but some is still fresh, dripping in rhythmic taps onto the stained floor beneath him. The metallic scent cuts through everything, but I’m too used to it for it to be uncomfortable.
He breathes in wet, shallow gulps, chest shuddering. His cheek is swollen, purple bruises already forming. The eyes dart between me and the tools laid out neatly in a rusted tray.
“You had one job,” I say, quietly.
My voice echoes louder than I expect in the cavernous room. He flinches like it’s a whip crack.
“I didn’t know—”
I smash the butt of my pistol into his mouth before he can finish, and a tooth clatters to the ground. He screams, a bubbling, broken thing.
“No. You didn’t care,” I say with a disgusted smirk on my face.
I nod to Gael as he drags a metal toolbox across the floor with a screech. Inside are old knives, pliers, and a blowtorch, all cleaned and used more times than I can count. Gael pops the latch open with a practiced flick.
I reach down and select a blade, not the sharpest. I want the edge to drag.
The boy’s eyes lock on mine, glassy with terror. I hold the knife between two fingers, turning it slowly so it catches the light.
“You interfered with a Carfano gun-run,” I say. “That route’s been ours for five years.”
He sobs, trembling hard enough to make the chain above him rattle.
“I didn’t know it was your—”
“Bullshit,” Alvise mutters.
“You’re Scarlatti,” I continue. “That means you knew exactly whose route it was. You either thought you were smarter than me…or dumber than the man who sent you.”
I kneel in front of him and take his chin gently, almost like a father would. His lips quiver. I slice a clean, shallow line down his cheek, earning a silent scream from him. Blood wells instantly.
“This,” I murmur, “is what happens when children play soldier.”
He screams again, legs kicking weakly as a puddle forms beneath him.
“This…is your reminder.”
He tries to say something, but his breath catches in his throat. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“I don’t want to die,” he whispers.
“Oh, you won’t…not today,” I say. “But you’ll remember me every time you look in the mirror.”
I turn around and nod to Alvise. “Check his phone. Then dump it.”
Alvise cracks his knuckles and moves. Gael steps forward and cuts the chain loose. The boy drops like a sack of meat, groaning as his knees hit the floor. He stays there, hunched, coughing blood onto his shirt.
“Crawl back to Scarlatti,” I say. “Keep your tongue and lose everything else. And if I see you near my docks again….”
“You won’t! Please—” His voice breaks on the word.
“Then crawl,” I hiss.
He gets back up and starts walking, which looks more like crawling, given his state. He leaves a wide trail of red and spit. Each movement is agony. His breath comes in short, wet gasps. One hand falters, slips in the blood, and he chokes on a sob before pushing forward again. His skin is mottled with bruises, his knees shredded open from the concrete, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t dare look back.
Alvise watches him go with disgust. “Jesus,” he mutters. “They’re getting bolder.”
I keep my eyes on the kid as he disappears through the far end of the warehouse, dragging what’s left of himself into the morning fog.
Then Alvise glances at me. “You really gonna let him walk out of here alive?”
“He’s not walking anywhere,” I say flatly. “But yes. I’m letting him go.”
Alvise raises an eyebrow, waiting.
I finally look at him. “Because fear spreads faster than bodies. Let them see what happens when they test my lines. Let them remember.”
Alvise snorts. “You always were the dramatic one.”
“No,” I say. “I’m the patient one. They’ll bleed themselves dry trying to prove they’re not afraid.”
He nods once, slowly. “Message delivered, then.”
“Loud and clear.” I check my watch again. “Now, let’s get the hell out of here before my son asks me why my knuckles are red.”
My car whirs down the early-morning streets, tires whispering over damp pavement. The windows are still fogged from the chill, soft halos forming where the defroster hasn’t caught up yet. Manhattan is waking slowly. Coffee shops and blinking neon signs.
Ren sits in the backseat, feet too short to reach the floor, swinging idly. His backpack rests beside him, dinosaur keychain bouncing with each bump in the road. He sings under his breath, the tune aimless, and I can’t make out the exact words.
I glance at him in the mirror. His curls are still damp from the shower, his cheeks flushed from the heater.
My shirt is crisp and tailored. The kind you wear when you want to remind people who’s in charge. But there’s a faint red stain across my right knuckle, half-scrubbed but still clinging to the edge of my skin. I try to hide it, but thankfully, Ren’s oblivious enough not to ask.
We pull into the long driveway at the estate. The gate swings open like it knows me too well. Gael’s already waiting outside the front doors, hands behind his back, eyes on everything.
And then I see her.
Enya Hart stands just outside the threshold, one hand tucked into the crook of her elbow, the other brushing her hair behind her ear. She’s wearing a soft, slate-blue sweater that pulls at the curve of her waist, her jeans slightly cuffed at the ankle. There’s no makeup on her face, or if there is, it’s done in that way where it disappears into her skin. Natural and effortless.
She’s beautiful, but not the kind that screams for attention. It’s the kind that sneaks up on you and sits with you quietly, refusing to leave even after you try to forget it.
She waves when we pull up, that bright, easy smile already in place.
I watch her bend down to greet Ren as he jumps out of the car, throwing himself into her like she’s a security blanket.
“Miss Hart!” he calls, arms spread wide.
She crouches and opens her arms without hesitation. “There’s my brave explorer,” she says, adjusting his scarf and tapping his nose. “Did you conquer the week?”
“Twice,” he grins.
Then her eyes lift and meet mine.
“Mr. Carfano,” she says, rising to full height. “Another handoff? At this rate, I might start thinking you enjoy my company.”
I smirk faintly. “I believe in consistency.”
“Strange,” she replies. “You don’t strike me as the predictable type.”
“I’m not.”
She huffs something between a laugh and a breath, then turns to walk with us up the steps. I watch how the staff greet her. They are more relaxed now, more familiar. She nods at them, exchanges a few good mornings, making space for people like she belongs here.
We pause just inside the foyer. Ren takes off his jacket and starts whistling—or at least tries to.
Enya glances at me. “Is there a reason you’re here, Mr. Carfano?”
I’m surprised at her directness. “Do you have a problem with my presence, Miss Hart?”
“No.”
I tilt my head. “Do you enjoy being interrogated?”
“Only by the interesting ones,” she replies, a small smile creeping up on her face.
I step a little closer. “Then we’re the same.”
Her brow arches. “And when they’re not?”
“I don’t stay long enough to find out.”
She looks like she might laugh again, but it doesn’t come. Amusement glimmers in her eyes, but her face stays neutral. Her guard isn’t entirely up, but it’s not down either.
She’s holding back.
We shift to safer ground.
“He’s been calmer,” she says, her tone professional now, like she just remembered I’m her boss. “Still gets angry, but he’s learning how to sit with it instead of exploding.”
“That’s more than I did at his age,” I admit, glancing toward the hallway.
She follows my gaze. “He tries hard. He really wants to be good.”
I step closer, my voice dropping. We’re almost shoulder to shoulder now. Not touching, just close enough to feel it.
“He trusts you, Miss Hart,” I say. “I don’t say that lightly.”
She blinks, briefly thrown.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
“Don’t thank me yet,” I reply, trying to keep my tone neutral.
There’s a pause between us, not tense. Just filled with words left unsaid.
I know she has a boyfriend. She’s never mentioned him, but I’ve seen the signs on the nanny cam footage. The way her voice softens on certain calls when she thinks no one’s listening. The way she smiles down at her phone, quiet and a little distracted.
I could’ve discovered who he is. One phone call, a name, a background check, a history revealed in under an hour. But I’m not going to. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
Because she’s out of reach.
She’s too steady and good. Too bright for the kind of world I drag behind me like a chain. Besides, lately, she’s been Ren’s favorite person, and I can’t take her away from him by letting her into this world.
And whatever she’s holding back, I respect that. I have to.
So, even though I’m intrigued, I step back.
Then Ren, who’s been fiddling with his coat zipper this whole time, suddenly tugs it up too hard and yelps. The sound is exaggerated, dramatic, like he’s just fought off a dragon.
“Zipper tried to eat me,” he announces.
Enya laughs first, covering her mouth.
Despite myself, I chuckle, too, dry and low.
And for an instant, just a breath, we both look at each other, eyes lingering.
Then, it’s gone.
“Have a good weekend, Miss Hart,” I say, my voice quieter now as I turn toward the exit.
“You, too, Mr. Carfano.”