Location: Fenwick District — Ashwick Corridors — Andreas Ferrano's Private Suite — Day
Andreas set the photograph down.
His fingers lingered on its edge, tracing the faded border, the worn crease, the ghost of a memory that didn't feel like his own. The room was silent. The staff had retreated—Ba and the others, dismissed with a wave of Arturo's hand. Now only five people remained: Andreas behind his desk, Alma on the couch, Arturo standing by the window, and Elijah standing in the center of the floor, still wearing Diego's face, still holding Diego's posture, still breathing Diego's soft, uncertain breaths.
Andreas leaned back.
His chair creaked.
"Diego," he said. "Tell me about your parents. About the ranch. About the extended branch."
Elijah's eyes—Diego's eyes—didn't waver.
"My mother was Elena de la Torre. Your grandmother's sister's daughter. She married a man named Javier, a farmer from the southern valley. They lived on a small ranch outside the town of Santa Rosa. Goats. Chickens. A few acres of corn that never grew tall."
His voice was soft. High. The voice of a man who had spent his life being overlooked.
"The ranch was called La Esperanza. The Hope. It was a joke, really. There was no hope there. Just dust and debt and the same faces at the same market every Sunday."
Andreas's expression didn't change.
"The extended branch?"
"Small. Poor. Most of them crossed the border years ago. Some are in Eva. Some are in Coprendes. Some are dead."
"And your mother? Your father?"
"Both dead. Tuberculosis. Five years ago. Within months of each other."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. They were never going to leave that place. At least now they're not suffering."
Andreas was quiet for a moment.
His eyes moved across Elijah's face, searching for the lie. He didn't find it.
---
Arturo stepped away from the window.
His hands were behind his back. His posture was stiff, military—the posture of a man who had spent years learning how to stand and years more learning how to intimidate.
"So," he said. "You just decided to show up. After all these years. No call. No message. No letter. Just... here I am, cousin. Hire me."
"I was referred," Elijah said.
"Referred?"
"By a close relative. Someone who knew I was struggling. Someone who knew Andreas was in a position to help."
"A close relative." Arturo's eyebrow rose. "Name."
"I'm not at liberty to say."
"You're not at liberty—"
"They asked to remain anonymous. I'm respecting their wishes."
Arturo's jaw tightened.
"And this close relative—this anonymous benefactor—they just happened to know that you and Andreas were both in the same city? At the same time? That you both were within walking distance of each other?"
"Crestwood is a large city," Elijah said. "But the Mexican community is small. Word travels."
"Word travels."
Arturo laughed.
It was not a happy sound.
---
Alma uncrossed her legs.
Her dress rustled. Her hands—small, pale, with nails painted the color of dried blood—rested on her knees.
"It doesn't make sense," she said. "You just... remembered you had a cousin? After all these years? And you decided to come knocking on his door, looking for work?"
"Yes."
"Why now?"
"Rent is high. The economy is worse. I was working at a laundromat in Fenwick, folding sheets for minimum wage, and the owner told me he was cutting my hours. I needed something else. Something better."
"And you thought your cousin—a cousin you've never met, never spoken to, never written—would just welcome you with open arms?"
"I thought he might at least hear me out."
Alma's eyes narrowed.
"You're either very brave or very stupid."
"Maybe both."
---
Arturo stepped closer.
His shadow fell across Elijah's face.
"Look here, brat," he said. "You might be fine. You might be polite. You might even be telling the truth. But relation isn't on the resume. Loyalty is. And loyalty isn't easy to find nowadays—especially in the kind of business that guys like us deal in."
Elijah's expression didn't change.
But behind Diego's eyes, his internal thoughts churned.
Nosy, he thought. Downer. Looking for trouble where there isn't any.
Does he want me to fail? Does he want me to leave? Or is he just testing me?
Either way, I need to push back.
"Arturo," Elijah said. "Alma."
His voice was still soft. Still high. Still sweet.
"Are you the gatekeepers of the Muchachos? The ones who decide who gets in and who stays out?"
"We're just looking out for—"
"Because the way you keep bulldozing me with questions, it's as though you're in charge. Not my cousin."
Arturo's face flushed.
"Watch your mouth, brat."
"I'm just asking."
Alma's hand rose.
Her fingers pressed against Arturo's chest—a gentle push, a reminder to step back.
"Little brother," she said. "For a sweet-talking brat like yourself, your tongue can be quite sharp. You'd better be careful with it."
Elijah's head tilted.
His eyes—wide, brown, innocent—met hers.
"Oh," he said. "If you'd like, I could make it sweet and honey. Just for you."
Alma's face flushed.
Her lips pressed together. Her eyes darted to Arturo, then back to Elijah.
"You stinky brat," she said. "You really are not good, are you?"
"I've been told."
Arturo's jaw tightened.
His hands curled into fists.
"You think you're clever?"
"I think I'm honest."
"Honest." Arturo's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Honest like a fox in a henhouse."
"At least I'm not jealous like a dog watching someone else get a bone."
Arturo's face went from flushed to crimson.
His nostrils flared. His breath came in short, sharp bursts. Steam seemed to rise from his shoulders—not literally, but the way his body tensed, the way his muscles coiled, it was as if he was about to explode.
Andreas laughed.
The sound was sudden, surprising—a bark of genuine amusement that cut through the tension.
"You really are quite something, cousin," he said. "I'll give you that."
He leaned forward.
His elbows rested on the desk. His hands interlaced.
"But I'm sorry. My premises are full right now. We're not hiring."
"I really need the job," Elijah said.
"I'm sure you do. But—"
"Hey, didn't you hear him—"
Arturo's voice cut off.
---
Elijah moved.
Not fast. Not slow. Just... there.
His hand shot out—palm open, fingers spread—and closed around Arturo's wrist. The grip was not hard. It was precise. His thumb pressed against the soft flesh between the bones. His fingers wrapped around the other side, finding the gaps, the weaknesses, the places where the human body forgot it could be broken.
Arturo's eyes widened.
His other hand came up.
Elijah's other hand caught it.
The same grip. The same precision. The same pressure.
He twisted.
Not Arturo's arms—Arturo. His body turned, off-balance, his feet leaving the ground for a fraction of a second. His shoulder dipped. His chest opened. His back pressed against Elijah's chest.
Black Widow, Andreas thought. The move from the films. The one where the smaller fighter uses the larger fighter's momentum against him.
Arturo's knees hit the carpet.
His hands—still in Elijah's grip—were pressed against his lower back. His body was folded, helpless, his face inches from the floor.
"Get off me!" he shouted.
"Get off me, you—"
"Cousin," Elijah said.
His voice was still soft. Still high. Still sweet.
But there was something underneath it now. Something that sounded like confidence.
"I could be really useful to you."
Andreas stared.
Alma stared.
Arturo struggled—his legs kicked, his shoulders twisted, his breath came in ragged gasps—but Elijah's grip held.
The room was silent.
The only sound was Arturo's breathing and the distant hum of the city outside the tinted windows.
"Useful," Andreas repeated.
"Yes."
"How?"
Elijah's lips curled.
Not a smile. The beginning of one.
"Let me show you."
---