Olt woke from a restless nap, the quiet of the room amplifying the hollowness that often settled in his chest during these moments of solitude. The room had the familiar scent of his childhood. It offered little comfort. The setting sun painted the walls in melancholic hues of orange and purple. Emotional shadows sprung from them, stretching back to a past he never knew. This past was defined by the absence of a father and mother whose face he could only conjure from faded photographs and whispered stories.

  Olt sat up. He ran a hand over the surface of his desk, his fingers tracing the outline of a framed photograph—a younger Omar, beaming with pride, his arm around a man Olt never met: Rodrigo, his father. Rodrigo was a phantom presence in his life, a man whose death would define Olt’s existence before it even began.

  The stories, carefully curated by his family to shield him from the harshest truths, now danced in his mind. Disturbing sounds of his mother’s family’s disapproval, the weight of their judgment, the unbearable guilt that had driven her to take her own life. He carried that guilt, a silent debt he could never repay. It was a constant reminder of the sacrifices his family had made to give him a life she couldn’t bear; a life he wasn’t sure he deserved.

  Olt’s thoughts shifted to Jeffrey. He pictured him in the workshop. The rhythmic clang of Jeffrey’s hammer against metal was the sound of Olt's childhood. Jeffrey, with his strictness, his unwavering discipline, and the hard lines etched into his face were a reflection of the burden the man had carried. Jeffrey had stepped in, protected, and provided. Although frustrating, Olt understood that Jeffrey's harsh exterior was a shield, forged by grief and obligation. He’d seen resignation in Jeffrey's eyes when he told him about the deal with Ganjo and Rebecca. It was a silent acceptance of a path neither of them wanted.

  Despite Jeffrey’s gruff words of encouragement, Olt knew Jeffrey felt different. He could see Jeffrey’s heart ached at the thought of Olt stepping into the very darkness he'd spent years trying to shield him from.

  The deal felt like a betrayal. It was a violation of the unspoken promise to keep Olt safe, to allow him a life free from the violence and corruption. Yet, what choice did Olt have? He was trapped, caught between the desire to protect his family and the fear of becoming the very thing Jeffrey despised.

  Despite the gnawing doubt, a spark of defiance ignited within Olt. He wouldn't let his family's sacrifices be in vain. He wouldn't succumb to the same despair that had claimed his mother. He would fight. He would protect them, even if it meant making deals with demons.

  Olt stood up. He walked to the window. Even from their distance in the countryside, Olt could see city lights twinkling like a scattered handful of diamonds. He watched as the last sliver of sun dipped below the horizon.

  Am I capable of navigating this dangerous world? I’m about to fuck around and find out.

  A soft knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, pulling him back from the precipice of his anxieties. Cristina’s voice, usually sharp and laced with a cynical edge, was subdued, almost hesitant.

  “Olt? Ganjo’s here. Dad and Jeffrey are talking to him downstairs.”

  The knot in Olt’s stomach tightened. He knew this was it, the moment of no return. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation ahead. The hinges creaked softly, as he opened the door. He stepped out of the room and into the hallway.

  …

  The farmhouse kitchen, usually a warm hub of activity, felt cold and grim. Olt couldn't quite place the feeling. He stepped down into the room, the worn wooden floorboards familiar beneath his feet. The atmosphere was off. His family sat around the long, scarred table. Their faces were illuminated by the blinking lantern light that danced across the exposed beams and hand-hewn cabinetry. A crackling fire in the massive stone fireplace didn’t warm enough across the room . Jeffrey and Omar, their expressions mirroring each other in a grim resolve, nodded curtly as Olt approached. He took a seat.

  Ganjo, perched at the head of the table, and cleared his throat.

  “By now, I’m assuming Olt’s told you some…disturbing things. I said I would confirm with him and Rebecca first, but it turns out Veronica was more agreeable than I thought she would be.”

  He continued.

  "As you know, Jeffrey, Alonso… he’s gone. Although we don’t have any hard evidence, it looks like Hadic made good on his threats."

  Hannah gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Cristina’s eyes narrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line. Omar remained stoic, but Olt saw a bit of fear in his eyes.

  “I think it’s safe to say that Hadic’s moving towards consolidating power,” Ganjo said with a measured tone. “Anyone connected to Oliver, past or present…he's eliminating them. Rebecca…she was lucky. She barely survived.”

  Ganjo reached into the inside pocket of his worn leather jacket and pulled out a thick manila envelope. He placed it carefully on the table.

  “I’ve made a deal with a woman named Veronica Guzman. She’s…well, let’s just say she operates outside the usual channels. But she has resources and powerful connections. And they want Hadic gone.”

  He paused, his eyes settling on Olt.

  "Sometime ago she approached me wanting my help. It seems my past left a reputation. She offered to provide me with whatever I needed to get the job done. I, obviously, can’t do this alone. So, this is why I’m hoping to have Olt and Rebecca assist me. We provide Veronica with intel, she provides protection. A way out.”

  Ganjo tapped the manila envelope with a thick finger.

  “I insisted on this.”

  With a stern face and a hint of shame in his eyes, Ganjo addressed Jeffrey and Omar.

  “For your family. I know… I know how hard Jeffrey’s tried to keep y’all out of this life. To shield you. This is the least I could do.”

  He slid the envelope across the table toward Olt.

  "Just fill out those papers, and Veronica has promised to provide you with visas. For Uraan. A clean slate."

  Hannah’s face crumpled, the grief transforming into raw fear.

  "Leave?” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the crackling fire. "Leave Synoro? But where would we go? What would we do?”

  Cristina’s skepticism hardened into suspicion. She looked at Ganjo, her eyes narrowed.

  "How? With what guarantees? What if this Veronica woman… what if it's a trap?”

  Jeffrey, his expression still grim but now focused, leaned forward with intensity.

  “What kind of intel? What are the risks? Be specific, Ganjo. I need to know exactly what we're getting into.”

  Omar, still fixed on the dancing flames, finally spoke.

  "This house…this land… it’s all we have. Everything we’ve worked for. Leaving… it’s not a simple decision.”

  He looked at Ganjo, his eyes filled with desperation.

  “Uraan…I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  Olt watched the storm of conflicting emotions rage around him, trapped in the eye of it. He looked at the manila envelope, then at Ganjo. He had his own questions.

  What happens after we give her the intel? What guarantees? How do we know this isn't another one of Hadic's games?

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  The visas represented a tempting escape route, but the darkness beyond was vast, unknown, and the fear was strong.

  The lantern light flickered. Although full of rage and regret, Ganjo’s face was a carefully constructed facade.

  This bitch has me by the balls. Alberto Pointe…

  The memory of that place was a festering wound he’d spent years trying to cauterize. He shifted in his chair, the worn wood creaking beneath him. His gaze shifted to Olt, then to Jeffrey.

  Collateral damage.But they’ll be better off. Safer.

  Ganjo thought of Freddy, the smarmy landlord, and the Dasa Vech looming large.

  Two birds. One stone.

  Ganjo hesitated, then dropped the bombshell.

  “Initially, I wasn’t going to involve any of you in this. But with your… financial troubles, and Olt being coerced to work for that slimeball of a landlord he has, I wanted to offer a lifeline.”

  He looked at Jeffrey, his voice serious.

  “She’s building a network, Jeff. Her own intelligence operation…right here in Synoro. You know what that means.”

  Jeffrey nodded, his jaw tight.

  “Dangerous territory.”

  “Exactly,” Ganjo said.

  “That’s why I should be the one working with you,” Jeffrey demanded. “Not Olt.”

  Ganjo shook his head.

  “No, Jeff. You and I, we’re burnt. Too much history. Even Rebecca is a target. But she has the legal expertise, at least.”

  He looked at Olt.

  "Olt… he’s clean. He’d be the perfect face for a new Firm.”

  The word was a guillotine blade suspended, waiting to drop. The family stared at Ganjo, stunned into silence. Hannah's breath hitched, trapped in her throat. Cristina's eyes widened, reflecting the flickering lantern light like pools of fear. Omar’s face hardened. Jeffrey's jaw clenched, again, his knuckles white against the worn wood of the table.

  A Firm.

  This was not just intel, but a full-blown operation. The darkness Jeffrey had escaped was reaching out. Silence filled the room, but it felt more like a sharp scream.

  Hannah’s quiet gasp was the first crack in the dam. Her eyes widened, as she spoke.

  "Like… Krautzberger? That type of Firm?"

  She looked at Olt, filled with a desperate plea.

  "Olt, you can't. You can't do this!"

  Cristina’s skepticism exploded into a furious tirade.

  "Are you insane, Ganjo? You want to drag Olt into that world? After everything we've done to protect him, to keep him safe."

  She gestured wildly.

  "Those Firms… they’re nothing but dens of corruption and violence! You think this Veronica woman is any different?"

  Cristina turned to Olt with concern.

  "Olt, please, don't listen to him. There has to be another way."

  She locked eyes with Ganjo. She scoffed.

  “A Firm? You think Hadic will just let that slide? He's already brought in Krautzberger. Creating a new Firm is practically begging for his attention. It’s suicide.”

  Ganjo leaned forward.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Cristina. Hadic doesn’t operate like that. He’s a long-term thinker. He prefers to manipulate public opinion, to control the narrative. He won’t risk looking like a despot by cracking down on a legitimate business, especially one that’s providing a much-needed service.”

  Worried, Omar added to the conversation.

  “But a Firm… it attracts attention. You’d be operating under a microscope. One wrong move, and Hadic will crush you.”

  Ganjo nodded, acknowledging the risk.

  “That’s why we have to be smart, Omar. We have to operate within the law, building a reputation for honesty and integrity. We focus on the neighborhoods Krautzberger has ignored, the ones with no official police presence. We get licensed by the local assemblies, not the central government. By law, Hadic can't touch us.”

  Jeffrey, ever the pragmatist, saw the potential in Ganjo's plan.

  “He’s right. A Firm provides cover, legitimacy. Hadic’s operations can be investigated without drawing undue attention. They can build a network of informants, gather intelligence, all under the guise of providing security and legal services.”

  Hannah’s fear, a palpable presence in the room, remained undiminished.

  "But it's still too dangerous!"

  She pleaded, her voice trembling.

  "We’re better off taking the visas and leaving.”

  Ganjo addressed Hannah’s concerns with a carefully crafted empathy.

  "The visas are your escape route, Hannah. They're your insurance policy. But Olt… he needs to be a part of this. We need to fight back. And the Firm…the Firm is not just about gathering intel for Veronica. It’s about building something better, something that can truly protect the people of Synoro. Not just the privileged few."

  Ganjo locked eyes with Olt.

  “This is our chance to make a real difference, Olt.”

  Olt remained silent, his mind reeling. Ganjo’s words were persuasive, almost seductive. But the fear remained. He looked at his family, their faces worried and uncertain. He thought about Rebecca, alone and vulnerable, haunted by the ghosts of her past. He thought about the potential for uncovering Hadic's corruption, the chance to fight back within the system. He thought about the promise of a new life in Uraan, far from the shadows that were closing in on Synoro. The decision wasn’t an easy one. It was looking like he had to choose the lesser of evils.

  Olt, after a long moment of silence, finally spoke. He pushed himself back from the table, the chair scraping against the wooden floor, and walked over to Jeffrey. He was steady, his voice quiet but firm.

  "I told you I was ready," he reminded his uncle. “And I meant it.”

  Jeffrey was proud, but still concerned. He placed a hand on Olt’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

  "I know you are," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "And I’m with you. All the way."

  Olt turned to Ganjo.

  "I'll do it.”

  His eyes held Ganjo’s attention.

  “Not because I believe in this Veronica woman, or her ‘noble cause,’ but because it’s our only real option. We’re trapped, Ganjo. And if fighting back is the only way out, then I’m ready to fight."

  Omar, seeing Olt’s determination, nodded slowly, as the lines in his face deepened. He knew that arguing further was pointless.

  Hannah, though still filled with anxiety, reached out and took Olt’s hand. Her silent gesture of support was comforting.

  Cristina, ever the pragmatist, recognized the inevitability of the situation. She turned to Ganjo, her voice practical.

  "So, what’s the plan?"

  Ganjo, visibly relieved by Olt's decision, took a deep breath and outlined the next steps.

  “Veronica wants to meet the team in two days. She wants to see who she’s investing in. Figure out how we go after Hadic.”

  Ganjo pointed at the manila envelope on the table.

  “Fill out the paperwork I brought you by then. I’ll be here bright and early."

  Despite the newfound resolve, doubts and fears lingered beneath the surface. Olt glanced at the manila envelope. Claiming that insurance policy was something he hoped not to do.

  …

  The crickets chirped a steady rhythm as dusk settled over the farmhouse, painting the sky in hues of fading rose and deepening indigo. The warm, inviting glow spilling from the windows contrasted sharply with the encroaching darkness that crept across the yard. Ganjo stood beside his sleek black sedan, the polished chrome gleaming faintly in the twilight. He exchanged brief farewells with Olt and his family. There was a quiet understanding.

  With a soft but firm tone, Hannah expressed her gratitude for the visas, despite the fear in her eyes. Omar and Cristina, however, remained stoic, their expressions carefully guarded. Their focus lingered on Ganjo with suspicion.

  Ganjo slid into the luxurious leather of his car and turned the key. The engine sputtered, coughed, and died. He tried again, the ignition clicking insistently. A third attempt yielded the same result. He was pissed. The family watched with amusement and concern playing on their faces. Olt shared a knowing glance with Jeffrey, hinting at the the irony – the fancy new toy, now rendered helpless by faulty engineering.

  Jeffrey, leaning against the porch railing, couldn't resist a playful jab.

  "Isn’t that a new car? Never could trust 'em like the old ones."

  Jeffrey’s tone was light, but an undercurrent of I told you resonated in his words. He pushed himself off the railing.

  "Tell you what, I'll give you a ride back to the city. Tomorrow, I’ll take a look at that fancy engine of yours."

  The offer was genuine, but it also carried a subtle assertion of dominance.

  Ganjo's pride was visibly stung, but he masked it with a forced nonchalance.

  "I appreciate it," he said, stepping out of the car. "But don't worry about the car. I'll have it towed in the morning."

  He waved a dismissive hand, maintaining a facade of control. Then, vulnerability crossed his features.

  "This is what I get for dealing with low-lives. I took it from a patron that was drowning in debt. Can’t expect much.”

  The admission, a rare crack in Ganjo’s armored demeanor, created a fleeting moment of connection between him and Jeffrey.

  “What else is new,” Jeffrey said smiling.

  Moments later, Ganjo climbed into Jeffrey's older, but significantly more reliable, pickup truck.

  "Thanks again," Ganjo said, his voice regaining its usual smoothness. As they drove away, Ganjo exchanged one last, meaningful look with Olt. The truck’s taillights traced a red streak down the long, dusty road, as Olt watched until they faded into the darkness.