It's already been a month now since Reina and I made the great discovery of something so precious—the necklace.
The thorough analysis we conducted confirmed that the blood on it was indeed that of Sophie's, who, as we all know, is Reina 's sister. She has been missing for more than two interminable months now. A name, a recognizable face, and a sorrowful truth that's ruthlessly staring back at us, reminding us of the harsh reality of our situation.
It was evidence, irrefutable proof that the syndicate continued to function and operate within the shadows, remaining hidden from plain sight.
However, that was just what it became in the end—mere evidence.
No names. No locations. No leads.
If we are unable to come up with a new direction or perspective in the near future, there is a good possibility the case will again go cold and lose steam.
That was the way they functioned. Ghosts. Smoke that filtered between our fingers.
The syndicate had gone silent. Too silent.
No retaliation. No whispers in the underground. No threats to back off.
That was the issue.
They were eagerly and patiently waiting for us to make a mistake, prepared to attack at the first sign of it. Deep down in my stomach, I sensed it instinctively, just as I had when I was still a part of their world and I had sensed danger slinking up on me all those years ago.
Reina and I weren't acting weird, but we weren't prepared to move from where we were. Nevertheless, despite our determination, it seemed as if we were navigating a minefield in the dark, anticipating the detonation of the bomb, with a sense of impending disaster accompanying each step.
Sometimes I would text Zane and Adrian to catch up, or we would arrange to meet for coffee so we could chat and catch up.
We talked about normal things. Life. Business. Anything except the case.
I sat at my desk, which was in the hectic office of Hudson Security, and worked my way through a stack of files that, regrettably, contained no new information or data to offer.
Nathan stood straight across from me, his arms hugging himself tightly, and his face set resolutely stern and serious.
Not a single step, he grumbled.
"They are waiting for us to make a mistake," I said.
My own cell began vibrating rhythmically against the end of my workspace. It was a number, but it was one that would never seem to appear on the screen of mine anymore.
I took hold of it—then my hand froze.
Father.
For a moment, I was just staring at the name coming back to me on the screen.
The previous time he had made up his mind to call, I decided deliberately to let it ring and not pick it up.
And before that period, I did the same too.
It was simply that I did not look forward to talking to him or anything.
But the reason behind that was that I did not know how to communicate with him effectively anymore.
I paused, then hit accept.
The wire suddenly broke with a small flash of static for a split second.
And then his voice, close and distant. "Lorenzo."
I breathed out. "Dad.".
A moment of silence.
Neither of us had ever been particularly good at the art of small talk or light conversation.
"Fine, how have you been?" His tone had a guarded quality, as if he were tiptoeing on thin and unstable ice. He seemed not to know whether I would cut the call off at any given moment.
Busy, I said.
"I figured." A moment of silence. Then, softer, "You don't return my calls anymore."
Guilt settled in my chest like a slow burn.
"I know."
I could well imagine him now sitting easily in that house—the very same house where I had spent my teenage years and grown up. It was the very same house which had come to feel all the emptier and more deserted ever since the day when my mother had died.
We had been a family once. A good one.
No gangs. No blood.
Just us.
Abruptly, she vanished.
She was also moving as though she had brought everything with her.
Despite the many hours we had spent together, my father and I weren't together in the meaningful sense.
Time grew us apart.
The gang mess shoved us even further.
And there were a few other things—things that I couldn't even attempt to decipher or understand—that translated that distance into something that seemed permanent and unchangeable.
It was certainly not that we lacked a feeling of love for each other.
I never lost love for my father even once in my entire life.
And I knew in my heart of hearts that he never stopped loving me.
But love did not solve everything.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
A quick, deep laugh, the kind with a rough edge. "So, you finally answer my call after all these years, and instead of talking about the problem at hand, you're asking how I'm doing?"
"I—"
He answered in a softer, now very quiet voice, "I'm all right, son." "I just wanted to take a moment to check in with you." I rubbed my jawline gently with one hand while leaning back in the chair to allow myself to fully enjoy its softness.
"I'm perfectly fine," I replied again.
"I'm perfectly fine," I repeated in reply.
He did not trust me. I knew.
But he did not apply any pressure.
He never did.
"Still in that security business, are you?" he inquired after a moment's hesitation.
"Yeah."
"Are you actually any good at it?"
"Yes."
He hummed, as if considering whether or not to trust me. "That's good."
The silence persisted again.
But on this one, it certainly was different from anything I'd had previously.
Just like when we didn't want to be the one to end the call.
For a fleeting moment, I was considering sharing my mind with him.
About all.
The syndicate. The case. What I was trying to do. What I was trying to fix.
But I didn't.
No matter how hard I tried to deny the notion, in my heart I knew the inescapable reality.
My mother had died due to my own personal actions.
I hadn't pulled the trigger.
I had not placed the hit.
But if I never had taken the courageous step to enter into that specific world… and never had let them become a part of our lives in the first place…
She would not have been a target.
She would stay here in this location.
That idea had been killing me for years.
And I knew—on a deep level—that my father had also entertained the same thought.
He never accused me of anything.
Never said it out loud.
But it was always there, hovering between us like a silent Specter.
Dad, I exclaimed in a hurry before I could catch myself.
"Right?"
I shut my eyes.
I truly apologize.
The words hung, trapped in my throat like blades, slicing and raw.
But I could not utter them.
Rather, I swallowed them whole, letting those thoughts and emotions settle deep inside me, as a heavy weight lying comfortably in my chest.
"I'll call you in a minute," I said instead.
A brief pause.
Then, a gentle, "Okay."
I hung up before I could change my mind.
For the rest of the night, I had it very hard to focus.
My father would only call when there was a particular and emergent reason for doing so.
And yet, after all this, he never spoke something that would be exceptional or something other than what is always said.
Just stopping by.
It did… feel strange.
Or perhaps I was just thinking too much.
But there was something about that specific phone call that really left me feeling unsettled.
The past had already taken enough from me. I made up my mind that I was not going to let it take anything else from me.