84

84
A FEW MONTHS AGO

The basement smelled of blood and damp cement. A single bulb swung from the ceiling, flickering in and out, slicing the dark in uneven breaths. Shadows stuttered across the room like broken memories—half-glimpsed faces, hands, and steel glinting in motion. Conan Valachi was tied to a chair in the center, gagged, wrists bruised raw from his own attempts to break free.

The men around him spoke in low tones—calculated, detached, as though planning dinner, not death. The air was heavy with the kind of silence that comes before screams.

In the far corner stood Poco. Young, jittery fingers tapped against his thigh, but the rest of him was still. His gaze lingered on Conan—on the boy’s sweat-slick hair, the blood that seeped down the side of his cheek. A thin smile tugged at his lips.

“Don’t rush,” one of the older men said, cracking his knuckles. “The boss wants him alive until the message is clear.”

The mysterious man stood apart from the others, face hidden by the low light, coat collar raised high. He didn’t speak often, but when he did, everyone listened. Power wasn’t always loud—it breathed through him like a quiet storm.

Poco stared at Conan again. He didn’t see the youngest Valachi brother sitting there. He saw his father—slumped over a steering wheel, glass in his neck, sirens wailing too late. The Valachis had ordered that hit, or so he’d been told. Ivon’s men, Leon’s orders, someone’s mistake—but it didn’t matter. The name Valachi was carved into his pain, and Conan was just the first face he could reach.

He moved closer, crouching in front of the boy. Conan’s eyes flared—fear, defiance, confusion. He was barely twenty, just old enough to think he was untouchable. Poco’s voice came out steady, too calm to be kind.

“You know who I am?”

Conan shook his head, trying to speak past the gag.

“Doesn’t matter,” Poco said, grabbing a fistful of his hair. “You’ll remember me when you meet your maker.”

He slammed a punch into Conan’s gut. The boy jerked forward, choking on his own breath. Another punch followed—harder, lower. The others barely reacted. Torture was a business, not a spectacle.

The mysterious man finally spoke. “Enough.”

Poco froze, knuckles slick with blood. The man stepped forward, his shadow swallowing them both. “He’s not yours to break,” he said softly, the tone colder than any shout. “He’s a message. Nothing more.”

He rose slowly, turning toward the men standing around. “Where’s the feed?”

One of them — tall, scarred, expressionless — handed him a phone. Aielle’s voice filtered faintly from the device, a recorded whisper from some other night.

“…are you fucking crazy?!... I'll send them in the morning… I have the files…”

Poco flinched. He knew that voice. The woman who came and went like smoke. The one the boss trusted more than anyone, though nobody really knew her.

“Good girl,” the man murmured at the phone’s memory. “But she doesn’t know what we’re doing tonight, does she?”

The others chuckled quietly, like hyenas sensing meat.

“She doesn’t need to,” another said. “If she finds out, she’ll bolt.”

“Exactly.” The man’s tone cut like a blade. “We don’t want her loyalty — only her access. And she’s given us that. The rest…” He looked back at Conan. “The rest is justice.”

He set the phone aside and rolled up his cuffs higher. "Your punches, what do you think it does to someone who's going to meet their end sooner rather than later?"

Poco straightened, jaw tight. “I just wanted him to understand why he’s here.”

The man tilted his head. “You think he understands?” He walked a slow circle around Conan. “The Valachis don’t understand mercy. Only loss. Only fear. And we’ll give them both.”

Conan’s muffled sob broke through the gag.

The man reached into his pocket and took out a lighter. The flicker of flame caught his eyes—unreadable, detached. “One year ago, they took someone precious from me, they touched something they were never supposed to touch because they had my loyalty, but these animals don't care about that. It isn't fair to take what's mine and walk away, so…” He bent close to Conan, voice a whisper against his ear. “…I take what they can’t replace. Hold him”

Two men stepped forward, gripping Conan’s shoulders. The boy fought, jerking violently, but the chair stayed bolted to the floor. When the first punch landed, it was so sharp and loud it echoed off the walls like a gunshot. The second came before Poco could blink. Then another.

Conan’s head snapped back; blood trickled from his nose, staining the tape. His muffled cries filled the room — angry, muffled, desperate. He tried to scream words that the tape swallowed whole.

The man in the suit didn’t raise his voice once. He only leaned in closer after every hit, speaking softly to Conan — things Poco couldn’t make out, things that made the boy thrash harder.

After what felt like an hour, the man straightened and wiped his hands clean with a white cloth. The contrast between the red and white made Poco’s stomach twist.

“Enough,” he said. He nodded once.

The others moved like a well-rehearsed play. A bucket of water was thrown over Conan’s head; electricity hummed from the corner. Poco’s pulse quickened—not from fear, but from the sick thrill of seeing justice done, his justice.

The first jolt hit. Conan convulsed, chair scraping across the concrete. The bulb swayed harder, throwing light in wild arcs. Poco watched, unmoving, the way someone watches a storm destroy the town that ruined them.

When the second shock came, he stepped forward again. “You should’ve kept your family out of the streets,” he said. “You’d still be breathing clean air.”

Conan’s eyes fluttered, unfocused. Poco almost wished he’d stay conscious longer.

A hand slapped across Conan’s face. Another tore away the gag. The boy gasped, coughing, blood and spit dripping from his lips.

“You think my brothers won’t find you,” he rasped, voice shaking but defiant. “They’ll burn you to the ground.”

The man’s grin was cold. “That’s the point, little Valachi. I want them to find me. Dispose of him,” the man said.

Poco’s head snapped up. “Me?”

“You wanted revenge,” the man replied. “Now take it.”

For a moment, Poco hesitated. He hadn’t expected the honor—or the burden. But then he thought of his father’s eyes, wide and glassy in death. He thought of the Valachis drinking fine whiskey in their high-rise penthouse while his mother begged for money to bury her husband.

He took the gun offered to him. It was heavier than he imagined.

Walking to Conan, he crouched again, tilting his head to meet the boy’s barely-open eyes. “You know who I am now?”

Conan didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“That’s fine,” Poco whispered. “Just remember this face when you see your brothers again.”

He pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening in the small room.

For a second, no one moved. Then the mysterious man spoke again, quiet and measured, as though closing a ritual.

“An eye for an eye,” he said. “A child for a child.”

He turned to Poco. “You did well. You’ll have your reward soon. Keep doing as I tell you, and I’ll make sure you get your piece of their empire. Leon and Ivon will fall—and you’ll be there to take what’s left.”

Poco’s lips curved. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

“Good,” the man said, already turning away. “Then clean up. Burn the body. Ashes in the street. Make it look like a ghost sent the message.”

As the others left, Poco stayed behind. He stared at Conan’s body for a long time, chest rising and falling too fast. He felt no guilt. Only release.

When the fire started, he didn’t flinch. The flames devoured the evidence, the air thick with the scent of retribution. He stood by the door, the orange glow reflected in his eyes.

“Rest easy, old man,” he muttered under his breath. “They’ll all burn soon enough.”

Later that night, when the last ember died, Poco carried a small urn of ash to the street corner where children played during the day. He opened it and let the ashes scatter into the wind.

They rose, caught by the city’s breath, vanishing into the night.

The sound of sirens drifted from somewhere far off. Poco shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away, a faint smile ghosting over his face.

He didn’t look back.