32. Mateo
32
MATEO
W e find the place under darkness and silence. The vineyard estate is nothing but rot and wire—overgrown vines strangling the last of the fences, stone walls faded to bone, with no cameras watching and no movement in sight. Just the echo of rain on the clay roof tiles and the slow creak of the wind through dying branches. Rafe, Alessio, and five men follow behind me, heads low, weapons ready.
We clear the main house first, moving room by room with our breath held and our steps measured, the only sound the soft click of safety releases and the faint rustle of boots against old floorboards. The kitchen is still stocked, plates crusted over on the counter like someone thought they’d come back. Upstairs, nothing. A bed unmade. A window broken. A rusted rifle under the mattress.
But then there’s the door on the north side of the cellar, steel-bolted and new, a jarring contrast to a house that hasn’t been touched in years. As I approach, I catch the low hum of a radio—its tinny broadcast echoes faintly down the hallway, the excited voice of a soccer announcer cutting through the silence like a bad joke no one asked for.
I peek around the corner. The man guarding it sits on a stool just beyond the threshold, lit by a bare bulb. He’s chewing on a sandwich, one hand draped over the gun on his lap like it’s just another shift. His posture is relaxed, completely unaware of me, the sandwich halfway to his mouth. He never even turns. He has no idea I’m there, no clue what kind of violence is standing ten feet away. He doesn’t know who I am or what I’ve done to get here.
I stay silent as I step into the frame, my breath measured, my aim steady. The man never sees me coming. I raise my gun and fire once into his chest, then again into his face. The sound cracks through the cellar like twigs snapping, and his body jerks before collapsing to the floor in a graceless heap, limbs folding under him. The sandwich slips from his hand and lands on the concrete beside the pool of spreading red, absurd in its mundanity.
The door is next. I kick the latch once. It doesn’t budge. I hit it again, harder, my shoulder crashing into the edge with everything I have. Something cracks. A hinge screams. Then it opens.
The air inside carries the stench of mold and damp stone, with a chill that settles into every breath and tightens the muscles beneath my skin. I step down slowly. The light is dim, coming from a barred vent high on the wall. The room is no bigger than a walk-in closet, concrete on every side.
Lev is there curled against the back wall, small and shivering, arms around his knees. His eyes are wide but dull, like he’s floated so far out he doesn’t even recognize me. For a second, I stop breathing.
I lower my gun. My knees nearly buckle from the rush of adrenaline and something deeper—something like grief, something like rage. I cross the room and kneel beside him, careful not to touch him too fast. His little body recoils at first. But then he sees me.
“Mateo?” His voice is so soft I almost miss it.
“Yeah, kid. I’ve got you now.”
He lets go of his legs and throws his arms around my neck so fast, I have to brace myself. His chest shakes against mine, tiny sobs racking through him. I hold him tighter than I should. I whisper whatever comes to mind. It doesn’t matter what I say, only that he hears it. That he knows I came.
Rafe appears at the top of the stairs. “Clear?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I answer, my voice hoarse. “We’ve got him.”
He nods once and disappears again.
I don’t move for a long time. Lev clings to me like if he lets go, it’ll happen all over again. Maybe he’s right.
I don’t let go either.