Into The Light

by Wolfe, H. M.

  "What do you look like, Leon? Because you have a nice voice," the kid spoke, blushing.

  "Well, I am about six foot five inches tall. I have what they call an athletic physique, not too large but not skinny either, black, long hair and dark brown, almost black eyes,” he answered. ”Anything else you would like to know?”

  ”He looks that way, indeed " Liam confirmed, smiling brightly, and he also had a damn sexy smile.”

  ”I'm Darien, by the way, Darien Sandrigham,” the kid said, his breath slightly hitching.

  ”OK, big guy, let's move our sexy little asses. Otherwise, Daniel will kick them hard. Leon, thanks again, man, for being there and helping Dar-Dar. See you around!”

  Meanwhile, Ezra and Alasdair were having breakfast, when the sound of the doorbell interrupted them. The older one gestured to the redhead to continue eating, while he headed to the front door, opening it.

  ”Is there a Mister Alasdair, a redhead, living here?” the courier, a man in his late thirties, early forties, asked. ”I have a package for him.”

  ”Sure, wait a minute, please,” Ezra said, disappearing into the kitchen, from where he returned a minute later, the said kid in tow.

  ”I am Alasdair, my roommate told me you have a package for me," he turned to the courier, somehow surprised.

  ”OK, sign here, please,” the man gave him a pen, after examining his face and eyes with great attention. ”Here's your package, have a nice day.”

  ”It's quite a heavy bastard,” Alasdair complained, carrying the package into the living-room, while Ezra started to clean the table and wash the dishes.

  ”Aren't you going to open it and see what's inside? Or aren't you so curious, after all?” the raven-haired teen shouted from the kitchen, a note of disappointment in his voice. He wanted to add something, but the sound of the doorbell cut him short.

  ”I'm working on it, go open the door,” Alastair answered. ”It's Peyton, they aren’t going to bite you,” he added.

  But Ezra didn't hear the redhead anymore, as he stood in the doorway, breathless and speechless, staring at the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. Their wonderful green eyes, shadowed by thick, long, arched lashes, had a melancholy look and the full pink lips were oh so kissable. For a second, Ezra wondered how those lips would feel on his, but Alasdair's voice brought him back to reality.

  ”Hey, guys, what are you doing there? Peyton, aren't you going to come inside? Do you want to hang around outside the house or to hang out with us, inside?”

  ”Um... In a minute, Alasdair,” a sweet voice spoke, its heavenly sound music to Ezra's ears. ”I'm Peyton, the grumpy guy's friend,” the voice continued, its possessor extending a hand.

  ”I...I'm Ezra, sorry for being so bad-mannered,” the raven-haired kid stuttered, taking the small, soft hand and squeezing it lightly.

  ”You guys, I can't believe it, it's...Wow!” Alasdair exclaimed from the living-room, making the two other kids, who were lost in each other's eyes, to start.

  ”What is it now, redhead?” Peyton asked, rolling their eyes. ”What did you discover?”

  ”I'm not kidding, come and see what I got this morning,” the kid spoke again, shock and disbelief mixed in his voice.

  ”The package, you mean?” Ezra stepped into the living-room, Peyton closely following him.

  There, on the floor, sat Alasdair, shaking his head in disbelief, staring at the pile of books in front of him. Some of them were brand new, with shiny covers, while others were old, printed in fonts that hadn't been in use for decades, centuries even. Near the pile, Ezra noticed a rectangular piece of paper. Picking it up, he started to read the words written in cursive letters.

  ”To my little healer. Use them wisely. A.” The young man frowned, trying to remember if Alasdair had mentioned a friend of his whose name started with the letter A before. ”Who's this guy? Do you know him?” he asked the redhead, who still couldn't believe what he saw.

  ”No,” he finally said, raising the head, frowning from concentration. ”There's no one with the name starting with A that I know, from school or anywhere else.”

  Peyton, who hadn't spoken until then, cleared their throat. ”What about Paul? His last name is Anderson so that could be him. You've hung out a lot lately, and I thought...you know...”

  ”Well, that Anderson friend of yours must've screwed up big time, to send these books as a reconciliation gift,” Ezra said dryly. ”I don't know if you realize,” he continued, ”but there's a small fortune in books here.”

  ”Of course it was Paul, who else?” Alasdair said aloud. And he doesn't screw up; ever, I'm the one who...” The beep of his phone cut the redhead short. As he read the message, his body became tense, worry etching his features. However, all of that took just a second. ”I'll leave you guys, Paul messaged me, I'm going to meet him in half an hour, better not be late.”

  It seems that the Fates had other plans for the redhead that day, because, in as big of a hurry as he was, he ran his bike into a middle-aged gentleman, almost knocking him down. Mentally cursing his lack of attention, the kid got down to check on the man, only to have the second biggest surprise that day.

  ”Uncle Joraan! I'm so happy to see you! When did you get back from Pretoria? How did you know I'm here? Who told you?” The questions kept flowing from the boy's lips, one after another.

  ”Alasdair, dear boy! Look at you, how much you've grown up! You look so mature, you've changed! Come, hug your old Uncle Joraan! How come you are in New York, instead of Seattle?” the man asked, a little surprised.

  For a long moment, the kid didn't speak at all, hugging the man who was like a second father to him, inhaling his scent, that reminded him of so many happy moments from his childhood, when his parents were alive. ”So, you don't know anything? Daddy died two years ago,” the boy’s face suddenly shadowed with sadness.

  ”Tyler... died? But why are you here, isn't your brother Allen your legal guardian? Or is he in New York, too?”

  Alasdair's eyes grew darker, as he looked at the man in front of him. ”He abandoned me, Uncle Joraan. One week after daddy's funeral, he said he was going on a business trip to New York and that he wanted me to accompany him. Then, when we arrived, he left me alone at the airport, then boarded another plane to Seattle. He planned that all along.”

  Beyond shocked, Joraan was about to ask the kid more questions, when he saw a car heading to the house across the road, Alasdair running straight in front of it. ”Be careful, dear boy! What...”

  ”Leon, you are home!” the kid shouted, jumping in the arms of the man who stepped out of the vehicle. ”Come, Uncle Joraan, meet my older brother!”

  The man crossed the street, walking to where the pair stood, the man hugging Alasdair with one hand, while affectionately caressing his head with the other. He was young, most likely in his early thirties, with his long hair tied in a loose man bun, and warm, kind eyes.

  Stepping closer Joraan’s smile was friendly, but he sighed inwardly at the same time, as he realized how right Alasdair was about the man. His powerful grandfather wasn't going to like that at all, but there was not much he could do about that.

  CHAPTER 33

  "So, Mister Schilacci, you are here to become my ally out of the goodness of your heart, or so I understand from what you are saying. Are you sure you don't want any percentage from me and my father's side business?" Carter said, playing with a golden pen that belonged to one of his victims.

  "You, Americans are so mercantile, you reduce everything to money," the other man in the office said in a thick voice, laced with the rough Sicilian accent. "Completely different from us, the Sicilians, who value honor and the family's reputation, but don't give a damn about money. It's just rubbish," he huffed.

  "I'm not yet familiar with your way of thinking, I'm afraid," Carter retorted, somehow annoyed by the man's arrogance, "so please explain to me the whole plan in detail, Mister Schilacci."

  "Well, Mister Williamson, I'll help yo
u get back the three targets that matter the most for you: Ezra Redmayne, Elliott Spellmann and Hayden Bloom, at no charge. Some mutual friends told me that you are particularly upset about the last one escaping your control. Especially since it cost you seven highly trained men."

  "So you know my other Italian associates, the Gazzara family? Why didn't you say that from the start, Mister Schilacci? And what's with that Bloom boy? I don't know anyone with that name," Carter said, frowning.

  "My bad, I forgot that that is not the name you know him by. Hayden Owens, then, the biological son of the late Sebastian Bloom."

  At the mention of the name, the cogs inside the psychiatrist's brain started to work at warp speed — the possibility of getting his hands on a chunk of the large Bloom estate becoming very real, once that young Hayden was back in his clutches. And maybe, just maybe, the wall the Bloom clan surrounded themselves with for generations had other tiny holes that he could exploit.

  However, Carter had to act very carefully around this Roberto Schilacci fellow, at least until he knew what his real intentions were because the entire story with avenging the family's good name and honor was nothing but bullshit.

  Indeed, he'd heard the so-called traditionalists, the old-fashioned mafiosi still believed in this kind of crap, but the man in front of him didn't look like he belonged to them.

  "I want to take down the entire Bloom clan, and I need your help for this. In exchange, you will get all their money. I'm not interested in having it," the man from the other side of the desk suddenly spoke.

  "Are you out of your mind?! Mister Schilacci, with all due respect for your person and generous offer, this is a crazy, impossible to achieve such a thing!" Carter replied.

  "Yes, it is, if you attack them all at once. On the other hand, if they are isolated and eliminated one by one, starting with the most insignificant, their attention will be fragmented, and you can take them down quickly.

  "I see what you are saying, and I think I have an idea who I should start with," the psychiatrist's lips twisted in an ugly rictus. "This guy has lived too much anyway. It's time to get him out of the picture."

  "What guy?" Roberto's voice, flat until then, was suddenly laced with curiosity. "I'm only asking because I want to know how to help you better," he continued, seeing that the other man had started to become suspicious.

  "The Bloom boy's guardian, one Jeremy V. Grant, a wealthy stock market broker, whose sole heir is none other than Hayden Owens-Bloom, one of the targets who escaped," Carter reluctantly revealed. "I hadn't figured it up until now how, but the guy somehow is connected to the whole Stark-Bloom clan."

  Roberto Schilacci nodded, without saying a word. In spite of what he heard about the guy in front of him, the psychiatrist seemed a quite superficial individual, with no respect for the real values like reputation and honor. Anyway, Carter Williamson proved to be a very resourceful fellow, always flying under the police radar, so he deserved Roberto's trust, at least for the time being.

  "So, what's with all the story about revenge and honor?" Carter's voice brought Schilacci back to reality.

  "Everything started about seventeen years ago, when my uncle, who was then married to the sister of the most powerful Detroit don, discovered that his wife's bastard son had unnatural inclinations. He took the little fag to a monastery, to exorcize the demon inside him. Anyway, the don's consigliere found out and tortured my poor uncle to death."

  "Just like I thought, a classic Italian vendetta," Carter thought to himself, but instead he asked. "Why didn't your family revenge your uncle's death right then, by killing the one who was responsible for it, that consigliere guy? Or even better, the one who ordered it, the brother-in-law?"

  "Giuseppe Fenelli, the don, was in prison when my uncle was murdered and getting to him was impossible, s he was closely guarded. The consigliere, his right hand, ran the organization in his boss' absence, and killing him would have equaled a war declaration. Unfortunately, back then, my family wasn't as influential to afford that, so..." Schilacci let out a long, frustrated sigh when he finished the last part of the sentence.

  "What about the Blooms? What do they have to do with this revenge?" If he was to become an ally of that man, Carter had to know everything about what he'd gotten into and why.

  "Nine years ago, Fenelli got out of prison, and our men were ready to revenge the death of their boss. Out of nowhere, some teenage boy jumped on him, stopping the bullets with his own body. My enemy adopted him, and since then, no one could get close to the bastard, that goddamn boy sensing danger like a predator."

  "Wait a minute, are you saying that the kid was, in fact, a Bloom?" Cold shivers ran down Carter's spine at the possibility. If it was so, they didn't stand a chance against that family, especially if all of them were like that kid.

  "Exactly. So, are you in or out?" Schilacci pressed, wanting to be sure where the other man stood, so he'd know what measures to take. "There is a lot of money out there. I bet your old man would be proud of you," he added.

  ”Definitely in,” Carter said, thrilled at the idea of making his father even prouder of him than he already was. ”I have a special request, though.”

  Schilacci cast him a curious look, hiding his annoyance. Just like he was warned, the American would start to ask favors even before sealing the deal. Anyway, as long as they didn't jeopardize his mission, he was more than willing to give the fellow whatever he might ask.

  "Sure, go ahead," he said, relaxing into the chair. "I'm all ears."

  ”This guy, Jeremy V. Grant. I want him dead, as soon as possible,” Carter said in a cold, determined voice.

  "Very well, my friend, he won't live to see another day," Schilacci said, extending his hand over the desk. "Ah, I almost forgot," he added, gesturing with his hand to his forehead. You are not alone in this. Some people will gladly help you with everything."

  "What kind of...people? Could you be more specific, please?" Carter's interest was visible, mainly since it was about potential allies ready to join and help him. However, this also meant a smaller profit, but that didn't bother the man very much, because it also meant less effort on his part.

  "Some well-reputed scientists, whose mentor, Fenelli's cousin, was unjustly condemned by a mockery of a Council. They developed all kind of treatments for body and soul if you get what I mean. One of them, in particular, has solid reasons to participate in our mission," Schilacci winked knowingly.

  "And the other allies?" Carter was now excited at the idea of having some twisted-minded scientists on his side. The man from across the desk, he admitted to himself, was a godsend gift.

  "The most valuable of them is a woman, Tarian Alexander Stark's ex-wife, Julianna Nixon. She is a valuable source of information about our enemies' habits, strong points, and weaknesses. Only that..." Roberto Schilacci hesitated.

  "Is there a problem with her? Tell me, I'm sure we can work it out," it was Carter's turn to wink knowingly.

  "She works in one of the Russian mafia's brothels, under strict surveillance. You could only get her out of there if you pay for her contract."

  Oh, if it's only that, money's not a problem," Carter made a dismissive gesture. "Consider it done."

  Schilacci nodded, taking a look at his watch. "Oh, my goodness, it's late," he voiced his thought in a worry-laced voice. "I have an urgent meeting in less than half an hour. I have to hurry not to be late. We'll keep in touch," the man shook Carter's hand, almost running.

  Twenty minutes later, the Italian mobster was sitting in an armchair in a luxurious room serving as an office. Across the desk, dominating Schilacci from all points of view, sat a man of around fifty years, although, judging by his jet black hair, he could be younger. His piercing blue eyes examined the face of the Italian, searching for any sign of fear or hesitation.

  ”So, tell me about your meeting with that Carter Williamson fellow. Is he as scary as Ricardo Gazzara told us, or is he just a cub who pretends to be a mature lion?” the man smirked
.

  "He's a predator, boss," Schilacci spoke in a meek voice. "He still has a lot to learn, but there's a lot of potential in him, at least as far as I could see."

  "Good. If Williamson does good work, the reward would be a generous one. As for you, I'm a man of my word: take the Fenelli clan down, and you'll get the whole of Detroit. Once I become the Supreme Dragon, the Schilacci family will have total control over that city," the man said in a deep, ominous voice.

  "Thank you, boss, that's very generous of you," the Italian bowed his head with utmost respect and gratitude.

  "This meeting's over," the man dismissed him. "Go and wait for my orders," he said dryly, pointing to the door.

  Behind the closed door, the man relaxed into his armchair, a cruel smile dancing on his lips. So, it was the time for him to go home, to claim the place that always belonged to him, in spite of everyone telling him otherwise. Oh, it would be fun seeing how everyone gave attention to the boy they'd all neglected. Everyone, the mighty Alastair Stark included.