December showed up with dirty snow and a Christmas tree that looked like a decorated corpse.
Three broken ornaments. Lights that flickered like they were having seizures. A yellowed plastic star on top, leaning to one side like it had already given up.
Poverty—efficiently managed.
Simon was mesmerized by the lights. I was mesmerized by something else.
Elora headed for the basement.
I watched her open the baby gate. I watched her go down. I watched her disappear.
And there was my chance.
I moved fast—well, as fast as a nine-month-old baby could crawl while still pretending to be clumsy—toward my parents' room.
Simon stayed on the rug, staring at me with those eyes that always tracked me. Like he knew I was about to do something interesting and didn't want to miss it.
But he didn't follow.
He still hadn't learned to disobey on his own. That came later.
The room smelled like cheap detergent and something else—stale sweat, tobacco soaked into fabric, and that metallic scent I associated with poorly cleaned guns.
Double bed. Two nightstands. A window facing the snowy forest. A built-in wardrobe that looked older than the house itself.
I dragged myself to the left nightstand. The one near the wardrobe.
My fingers were trash. Thick. Dumb. But I'd learned to use the lip of the drawer as leverage.
I pulled. It squealed. Opened half a centimeter.
I pulled again.
It opened.
The inside sat too high to see. I could only shove my hand in. Feel around.
The first thing I touched felt like a notebook. I eased it out.
A phone book. Old. Yellowed pages. Numbers handwritten in the margins.
I memorized it. Put it back exactly where it had been.
I reached deeper.
Plastic. Something long-ish. Like a baton.
I pulled it out carefully.
And choked on a sound.
It was a fucking dildo.
Skin-colored. Textured. Fake veins molded into the plastic.
Jesus.
A shiver ran through me when I realized I'd been feeling it up with focus and dedication, while also knowing—very vividly—where it had probably been.
I dropped it back like it burned.
Shut the drawer. Breathed. Crawled to the other side of the bed.
Right nightstand. The one by the window.
This drawer opened easier.
And there it was.
Bingo.
Loose cash. Not much. Five pounds in wrinkled one-pound notes. A few coins.
And a photograph.
Black and white. Bent edges. Thick, good-quality paper.
Gregory stood with three other men. All in dark suits. All wearing expressions I knew way too well.
They weren't mates grabbing a pint.
They were partners. Or temporary enemies. Hard to tell sometimes.
I heard a sound on the stairs. Figured it was Elora coming back up.
I shoved the photo and the cash into my onesie fast. I was about to close the drawer when a voice made me flinch.
"Luca, what are you doing in there?"
I turned.
Elora stood in the doorway with a basket of damp laundry, her face alarmed.
I did what any baby would do: I pointed at the open drawer, babbled something incoherent, and smiled with the purest innocence I could fake.
"That drawer isn't for you, sweetheart," she said, stepping closer to shut it and pick me up. "That's Dad's."
But I heard the nerves in her voice.
It wasn't just a mum scolding her kid. It sounded like she was scared I'd seen something.
A cold wave hit me when I remembered the other nightstand.
That night I heard them talking in the kitchen.
I was in the crib, Simon snoring softly beside me. My brain was wide awake.
Their voices came muffled through the walls, but I'd learned to read tone. Silences. The tiny rhythm shifts that meant something important was being said.
"The boys are growing really fast," Elora said. "They crawl without fear now. They grab things. They open drawers."
"That's good," Gregory replied. His voice was deep. Distant. "Means they're strong."
"Do you think it's normal? Sometimes I feel like Luca… knows things. He looks at me like he understands what I'm thinking."
Silence.
Long.
Footsteps. Coming closer.
"Kids are more perceptive than we think," Gregory said at last. "But we have to be careful. Some things are better not… understood so soon."
I didn't know what he meant then.
But something in his tone put me on alert.
The following months turned into a quiet war.
Me versus my own body. Me versus the limits of being a useless little baby.
By eight months, I couldn't take it anymore.
I stood up.
I started walking.
Clumsy. Bow-legged like I'd just soiled myself. But walking.
Simon tried to follow.
He couldn't.
He fell on his arse three times before giving up and going back to crawling.
It took him two more months to catch up.
By then I'd memorized every corner of the house. Every loose floorboard. Every drawer that opened without making noise.
And every time I looked toward the basement stairs, I felt that pull.
Constant.
Patient.
But I had a bigger problem.
I needed real autonomy. Not just physical.
I needed to communicate.
I couldn't keep crying and pointing like a trained monkey. It was driving me insane.
So I did the only thing I could.
I turned Simon into my accomplice.
During naps, when Elora thought we were asleep, I trained him in whispers.
"Simon," I said, pointing at the crib. "Repeat after me. This is a crib. Crib."
At first he answered with babble.
But he copied my mouth. How my lips moved.
It took him three days.
And then he said it.
"Crib."
I almost screamed.
"That's it. Perfect. Now…" I pulled out Gregory's photo, the one I'd hidden in the crib corner. "That's Dad. Say: Da-da."
He said it on the first try.
"Da-da."
I stared at him.
That wasn't normal.
Not even for a smart kid.
"Simon… can you understand what I'm saying?"
I touched his shoulder to turn him so he'd look at me.
He just babbled and started drooling on my hand.
Alright. So probably not.
Unless he was playing me.
Which would be disturbing.
But useful.
Day after day, I taught him words.
Not just to pronounce them—how to use them. How to combine them.
Simon absorbed them like a sponge.
By ten months, he could put two words together.
By twelve, full sentences.
I didn't know if it was some weird twin connection or if the kid was genuinely a genius.
But he was fast.
Too fast.
And I used it.
I told him, clearly, not to speak in front of Elora until I gave the signal.
And he obeyed.
Like a soldier waiting on orders.
At fourteen months, I decided it was time.
We sat in our high chairs. Trapped. Elora fed us oatmeal with a tired face.
I gave Simon the signal.
He nodded.
"Mum, is Dad coming home today?" I asked—careful toddler pronunciation, but the sentence structure was way too complex for my age.
Elora froze.
The spoon of oatmeal hung halfway to my mouth.
"W-what… what did you say, Luca?"
"That Dad—if he's coming today," I repeated, slower. "Simon wants to see him too."
Her eyes flicked between Simon and me.
My brother watched me with that curious expression he always wore. Like he was waiting for his turn to shine.
"Luca talks really good," Simon said, exactly like I'd taught him. "I can talk like that too."
Elora's face lost all its color.
The spoon clattered to the floor.
That night, when Gregory came home, Elora waited with her arms crossed and her jaw tight.
"We need to talk about the boys."
"What about them?"
"They talk, Gregory. They're not even two and they're forming sentences. They talk like… I don't know. Like they understand more than they should."
Gregory took his coat off slowly.
Never taking his eyes off us.
"What kind of things do they say?"
"Questions. They ask questions about you. About food. About everything."
Gregory went quiet for a moment.
Then he walked toward us.
He crouched by the crib.
Looked at both of us.
Straight on.
Like he was assessing livestock.
Or soldiers.
"It's fine," he said finally. "Smart kids ask questions. That's not bad."
But something in his tone told me he wasn't as calm as he wanted to sound.
And when he stood up, I saw something on his neck.
The scar I'd noticed before.
But this time I noticed something else.
It wasn't an accident scar.
It was a knife scar.
Clean. Precise.
Done by someone who knew exactly where to cut.
One afternoon, while Elora made dinner, I crawled over to Simon on the animal-hide rug.
He was playing with wooden blocks. Stacking them into towers, then knocking them down with a satisfied grin.
"Simon," I whispered, "wanna play a new game?"
His eyes lit up.
"Yes! What game?"
"It's a spy game. We're spies, and the house is our territory. You're my partner. Got it?"
Simon nodded hard.
"As spies, we can't tell anyone about our identity. Because it would put Mum and Dad in danger. We don't want that, right?"
"No," Simon said, suddenly serious.
Perfect.
"Then I need you to make a distraction. When I tell you, I want you to start crying and throw yourself on the floor. Like I taught you. Remember?"
Simon grinned.
Nodded.
And when I gave the signal, he threw the tantrum.
Perfect.
I moved fast toward my parents' room while Elora rushed out of the kitchen to see what was wrong with Simon.
I opened the drawer.
Grabbed a few more bills.
And then I saw another photograph.
This one was different.
More recent. Color—faded, but color.
Gregory with the same three men, but there was a fourth with them now. They stood in what looked like a warehouse. Metal frames in the back. Polished concrete floor. Industrial lights hanging from the ceiling.
I studied the faces one by one.
And then I saw him.
The guy in the middle. Shorter than the rest. Crooked smile. Hands in his pockets.
Alright, Gregory… what the hell are you mixed up in?
I put the photo back exactly where it belonged. Closed the drawer. Moved to the other nightstand.
I pulled the phone book out again.
Checked it page by page. Looking for something. Anything. A name. A number. Something that connected me to Palmer.
Nothing.
Not a damn trace.
Frustration. Pure baby frustration.
If I wanted to rebuild my empire, Palmer was a key piece. A contact like that opened doors I didn't even know existed.
But there was no way to reach him.
Not yet.
I put everything back. Shut the drawers.
Crawled back into the living room right as Elora came up the stairs with Simon in her arms, still sobbing theatrically.
Good actor, the little bastard.
The next day, I repeated the operation.
Simon already knew what to do. I gave the signal. He started his tantrum.
But this time I didn't go to the bedroom.
This time I went to the basement.
Because something told me the answer was down there.
My instincts almost always hit. And this place… something was off. Something didn't fit.
I unlatched the baby gate. Went down the stairs carefully.
The space was dim. It smelled of damp. Cold cement. And something else I couldn't name.
I reached the bottom.
And there it was.
A reinforced metal door. Locked.
Not a normal basement door. A security door. The kind you use for things you don't want anyone seeing.
I tried to shove it.
Nothing.
I searched for a way to open it. A tool nearby. Somewhere a key might be hidden.
Nothing.
Shit.
I went back up. Latched the baby gate again. Crawled into the living room just as Simon stopped crying.
He looked at me like: Did you get anything?
I shook my head.
But I didn't quit.
The months after that turned into a systematic hunt.
While Elora dealt with Simon, I searched. Every drawer. Every high cabinet that needed a chair to reach. Every coat pocket. Every corner where Gregory might've stashed something.
The key had to be somewhere.
And I worked on something else too.
Money.
Loose coins. Wrinkled notes Gregory left on the dresser. Pennies wedged between couch cushions. Pounds forgotten in trouser pockets Elora tossed into the wash.
Little by little.
Without them noticing.
Under a loose floorboard in our room, I built my first stash.
By the time we turned three, I had twenty pounds. One-pound notes—shockingly still a thing—some fivers, and a pile of coins.
Not much.
But it was a start.
And in this world of crap, a start was all I needed.
That night Gregory came home earlier than usual.
He brought toys. Children's books. Like he always did for our birthdays.
But something was different.
His face.
It wasn't the happy mask he normally wore. It was something else. Something he didn't even bother hiding.
Worry. Real worry.
That put me on edge.
Gregory almost never showed what he actually felt. If it was leaking through now, it meant it was big. Very big.
After the gifts, after the birthday song with a half-melted candle he pulled from God-knows-where, they put us to bed.
Earlier than usual.
I waited five minutes, then crawled to our bedroom door.
Left it cracked. Just a little.
And listened.
"Elora," Gregory said, "we need to talk."
"What happened?"
"Nothing yet. But… I might have to travel more often. For work."
"More often than you already do?"
Silence.
Footsteps. Wood creaking.
"The boys are growing," Gregory said at last. "Soon they'll start asking more questions. Questions we can't answer easily."
More silence.
"Maybe it's time they start kindergarten," he said. "It would do them good… socializing with other kids."
I went cold.
Kindergarten.
Other kids.
Forced socialization with little snot-eaters who probably ate their boogers and cried over everything.
Great.
That was the first time I knew something big was coming.
And it wasn't going to be good.