Waking up in a warehouse in Italy wasn't exactly how Florian planned to spend his Saturday. But there he was—on a creaky metal chair that smelled like mildew and vintage despair, arms zip-tied, knees knocking, surrounded by Very Serious Men with tight shirts, tighter haircuts, and the collective emotional range of a wet sock.
Everything was dimly lit like someone watched *The Godfather* once and thought "Yeah, let's base our lighting budget on THAT."
Florian blinked, groggy. "Okay, so, um. Where am I? And why does it smell like expired axe spray and masculinity in here?"
A guy with neck tattoos and the personality of a filing cabinet grunted. "You're in Italy."
Florian's jaw dropped. "Italy? You kidnapped me to another country? This is giving *human trafficking*, not gonna lie."
The guy didn't respond. He just crossed his arms. Which, to be fair, was probably his primary form of communication.
Moments later, the warehouse door creaked open like a haunted barn in a C-list horror movie. In walked a kid. No, not a kid—a *guy*, but like, barely. Seventeen? Eighteen? Maybe twenty if he moisturized aggressively.
He was dressed in all black, complete with a designer jacket and a subtle gold chain, like a fashion-forward vampire. His expression was equal parts brooding, bored, and "my dad owns the country."
"Ah," he said. "You're awake."
Florian squinted. "Are you the leader? Of *this*?" He gestured to the dim room, the goons, the vibe. "You look like you're late for AP Euro."
The guy arched an eyebrow. "Name's Rico. And yes. I'm the boss."
Florian blinked. "No offense, but did you, like… not go to school? Because I assume running a cartel is kind of a full-time gig. Just wondering if your high school offered 'Advanced Crime' as an elective."
Ricco crossed his arms, looking personally wounded. "I was homeschooled. My tutor had a PhD in economics."
"Wow. Okay. So you're, like, an *educated* mafia prince. That's new. I do go to school, actually. Public school. Loud. Horrible. I'm failing algebra, but that's whatever. Are you illiterate though? Is compulsory education not a thing here?"
Ricco stared at him, mouth slightly open. "Did you just call me illiterate?"
Florian shrugged, zip ties creaking. "It's a valid question. Statistically speaking."
One of the men behind Ricco muttered something in Italian that probably translated to "Can we please throw him in the sea now?"
Florian flinched. "Wait, are you gonna kill me? Like, legitimately? I'd like to not be murdered, thanks. I haven't even kissed anyone yet. Also I left my phone unlocked and if my friend Amber sees my search history I *will* haunt you."
Ricco pinched the bridge of his nose. "No one's killing you. Yet."
"Okay but 'yet' isn't reassuring. Do you *want* me to spiral? Because I *will.*" Florian's voice cracked. "I have needs, okay? Like. A quiet space. Snacks. A 15-pound weighted blanket. Preferably lavender-scented. Also I need low lighting and maybe a squishmallow if you've got one lying around. This floor is giving me tactile trauma."
Ricco looked like someone had just handed him a sudoku made of bees.
Florian kept going. "I swear to God, if I have a sensory meltdown and your cement floor is the last thing I see, I *will* make this everyone's problem."
One of the henchmen whispered to Ricco, "Should we sedate him?"
"Absolutely not," Ricco snapped. "He's a guest."
"A *hostage,*" the henchman corrected.
"A guest," Ricco repeated, gritting his teeth. "A complicated one."
Florian sniffled. "So you're not gonna kill me?"
"No. We just needed leverage." Ricco leaned against a pillar, trying to strike an intimidating pose but mostly looking like a teen TikToker trying to go viral for brooding.
Florian blinked at him. "Leverage for what? My parents are just… boring. Like, painfully boring. My papa wears fuzzy socks and watches *British Bake Off*. My father once made me organize our spice rack alphabetically by *flavor profile*. Like what do you even *want*?"
Ricco stared at him. "Your fathers are Alex Rosenthal and Yerik rosenthal."
Florian blinked. "Okay, weird that you know that, stalker. But yeah. So?"
"They used to work for an agency that doesn't officially exist. They took down half the Zaffari network fifteen years ago. My first uncle got extradited because of them. They're not boring. They're ghosts with kill counts."
Florian opened his mouth. Then shut it.
Then opened it again. "Hold on. You're telling me… my father and papa were, like, spies? Actual, real-life, sneaky-deaky, shooty-splodey spies?"
Ricco nodded.
"No wonder Father can assemble Ikea furniture without instructions," he said sarcastically. He was absolutely not buying it.
"Your parents ruined a lot of lives," Ricco said, arms folded.
"Well they also ruined my seventh birthday by making me do a trust-building ropes course, so I guess we've all got trauma."
Ricco looked at one of the goons. "Can we get him some food or something? Would shut up his crying."
"and a blanket. And- im not crying," Florian said, crying.
Someone handed him a granola bar and what looked like a military-issued wool blanket. He looked at it like it had personally offended him.
"Okay, so this is *not* weighted. And it smells like someone's armpit. Do I look like someone who responds well to being denied comfort items?"
Ricco sat down across from him, his patience visibly unraveling. "Listen. You're not in danger. Yet. I just need your fathers to come out of retirement. When they do, we'll settle a few things. Then you go home. End of story."
Florian sniffled. "So I'm bait. For my very normal fathers."
"You're leverage."
"I'm a Pokémon card. Got it."
Ricco sighed. "You're insufferable."
"I get that a lot."
"I wonder why."