"Peter, Peter, you son of a bitch!". A voice slammed through the hallway like a glass bottle shattering against tile. Eight-year-old Peter froze in the kitchen doorway, his small fingers gripping the chipped wooden edge of the table. Jeromy's wails cut through the air from the corner of the living room. That desperate, wet, choking kind of baby-cry that clawed its way under your skin and didn't let go.
"Where is it?!" His mother's voice cracked into a shriek, bouncing off the peeling wallpaper. "Don't you dare tell me you don't know! I left it right here last night!" She stumbled into view, and even in the dim yellow light Peter saw the glassy film over her eyes, the wild tangle of hair hanging over her face. Her breath came in quick, shaky bursts...her pale skin glistened with sweat.
Peter's lips trembled. "I didn't...". "Don't you start with me!" she snapped, stabbing a finger toward him like a knife. "You hide my stuff because you think you're smart, huh? You think you can play games with me?" Jeromy's cries rose another pitch. Peter flinched but didn't move toward him. He knew better than to look away—she took that as guilt.
From the sitting room, his father's gravelly voice exploded like a gunshot.
"Jesus Christ, make that baby shut the fuck up! I'm trying to think here!" Peter risked a glance toward the doorway. His father sat slouched on the stained couch, a deck of bent cards spread across the coffee table. The flicker of the television washed over his sunken face, making the red veins in his eyes stand out. Beside him sat a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey, the glass catching the TV light every time he reached for it.
His father's gaze landed on Peter for half a second—not with concern, but irritation. Then he went back to his cards like Peter and Jeromy were nothing more than background noise. His mother stepped closer, the sharp stench of stale smoke and that sour-sweet chemical tang flooding Peter's nose. "You little bastard," she hissed, grabbing his arm so hard her nails dug into his skin. "If you don't give it back right now..."
"I didn't take it," Peter whispered. Her grip tightened until his arm throbbed. "You're lying."
A loud bang came from the sitting room his father slamming his fist on the table. "For fuck's sake, shut that kid up before I throw him out the window!" Peter's heart kicked against his ribs. Jeromy's cries had turned into hiccuping sobs, his tiny fists flailing from inside the crib. Peter tried to move toward him, but his mother yanked him back. "Not until you give it to me!"
"I don't have it!" Peter's voice cracked, tears brimming. Her hand flashed, striking the side of his face. The crack of skin on skin echoed in the kitchen. He bit down on the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. She shoved him away. "Go! And if I find out you took it, you'll wish you were never born!" Peter stumbled toward the crib. Jeromy's face was blotchy and wet, his mouth wide open in a soundless gasp between cries. Peter scooped him up, rocking him against his chest.
"It's okay, Jer," he whispered, though his own voice shook. "It's okay… shhh…" From the couch, his father muttered, "Finally. Took you long enough." He picked up his cards again, mumbling numbers under his breath. Peter sat on the floor with Jeromy in his lap, swaying gently. His cheek stung. The air was heavy, thick with cigarette smoke and the sour reek of beer—but he'd grown used to breathing it.
He could hear his mother rummaging in the kitchen now, drawers slamming, cupboard doors banging against warped frames. "It was right here!" she kept muttering. "I know it was here…" Peter didn't need to see to know what she was looking for. He'd seen the little bag before, the way she hid it behind the sugar jar like it was some kind of treasure. And he'd seen what happened to her when she couldn't find it.
Jeromy's cries softened into little hiccups, his face buried against Peter's shirt. Peter stroked the baby's head with one hand, his other arm wrapped tight around him like a shield. His father's phone rang. A loud, harsh buzz against the cluttered table. He glanced at the screen and swore under his breath before answering.
"What?" he barked into the receiver. "Yeah, yeah, I got it. I told you I'd have your money." Peter's stomach sank. He didn't know the man's name, but he knew the voice on the other end—smooth, dangerous, the kind that could smile while breaking your legs. His father's tone shifted, a little more pleading now. "Just give me another week. You know I'm good for it...No, I...Listen, Cater, I said I'll get it!" Peter's fingers tightened around Jeromy. He'd heard that name before. Cater Di'armore. The one people whispered about. The one you never owed, he is a known predator and owns one of the most powerful syndicate in the city.
"Two weeks, Hale. That's how long it's been since the last time you said you'd have my money. Two weeks of me being patient. And patience is… expensive."
Mr Hale leaned back, eyes darting toward the hallway where Peter's small shadow lingered. "I told you, Cater. I'm good for it. Just..."
"No." Cater's tone sharpened. "You've told me a lot of things. None of them involve cash in my hand. And now I'm thinking maybe you're not taking me seriously." Hale rubbed his face. "Look, I've had a rough month. The tables..."
"The tables don't give a damn about you, Hale. And neither do I. You owe me twenty grand. Interest is stacking. And if I don't get it..."
"You'll get it!" Hale snapped, louder than he meant to. He took a breath, lowering his voice. "I just need a little more time." Silence. Then Cater chuckled softly, A sound that somehow made the room colder.
"Time? That's the one thing you don't have. You see, debt's like a sickness. And if I let it fester, it spreads. Makes other people think they can get away with it too. I can't have that." Hale's stomach knotted. "I said I'll pay you..."
"You're out of moves, Hale. And when a man's out of moves, I start looking at other… assets." Cater's voice slowed, each word deliberate. "Maybe your little boy. The older one—Peter, right? Or that baby… Jeromy. Cute kid with those adorable eyes."
Hale sat forward, the hand holding the phone shaking. "Don't. Don't you dare talk about my kids." "I'm just saying," Cater continued, ignoring him, "life's unpredictable. Accidents happen. People disappear. Sometimes… kids get caught in the middle when their daddy makes bad decisions."
"You son of a bitch," Hale growled, his voice low but shaking with rage. "You keep their names out of your mouth. You want your money? Fine. But if you lay one finger on them..."
"You'll what?" Cater's tone was calm. "You'll come after me? You can't even keep the lights on, Hale. You're drowning. I'm offering you a lifeline. Pay me. Or I start collecting in other ways." Hale's pulse thundered in his ears. He wanted to scream, to threaten, to throw the phone across the room but he couldn't shake the truth in Cater's words.
"You'll get it," he said finally, his voice a gravelly whisper. "Every cent."
"Good," Cater said, almost cheerfully. "Because family is priceless, Hale. And I'd hate to put a price tag on yours." The line went dead. Hale stared at the phone for a long moment before setting it down. His hand trembled as he reached for the whiskey.
The room was quiet for a moment except for the flicker of the TV and Jeromy's little sniffles. Then his father muttered, almost to himself, "Son of a bitch…" and took another swig from the bottle. Peter looked down at his brother. Jeromy's tiny hand had curled into the fabric of Peter's shirt. His eyes were closed now, but Peter knew it wouldn't last. He pressed his cheek against the baby's head and whispered, "I won't let them hurt you. I promise." It was the kind of promise an eight-year-old shouldn't have to make. But Peter knew even then—no one else was coming. Not for him nor for Jeromy. Not ever.