My father wasn't just any criminal; he was a man who held power in places where most people didn't even know power existed. Saying 'no' to him was like playing Russian roulette with all the chambers loaded. I was born to the devil, and being called back to hell was unavoidable.

"This is what you've made of yourself?" Lombardy asked, his voice light but dripping with disdain.

His presence was a force, a shadow that swallowed up every inch of space in my small studio apartment. The black-and-white aesthetic didn't seem to impress him. It was simple, minimal, everything in its place-the opposite of the chaos that surrounded him. His fingers trailed along the back of the couch facing the bed, the soft leather making a faint sound under his touch. He lingered there for a moment, looking out through the tall glass window at the city beyond, before turning his attention back to me.

"You're living like... what? A monk?" He gestured to the apartment with a sweeping motion, as if the carefully chosen monochrome aesthetic was some sort of childish rebellion.

My heart pounded, but I stayed quiet, trying not to flinch as my father walked over to my bed. He sat down heavily, his hand knocking on the bed frame. "Cheap. You could've done better, but I guess this is what you settle for when you cut ties with the family." He laughed softly to himself, a low chuckle that sent a chill down my spine.

He ran a hand over the white duvet, his fingers brushing the fabric like he was testing its quality, but it was all a game. He didn't care about the sheets. He cared about control. His eyes drifted to the glass window once more, the rain tapping lightly against it. The city lights glimmered outside, but inside, it was just me and him-locked in this invisible battle.

"Did you use any of the money I sent you?"

I didn't respond. It wasn't a question anyways.

He stood up suddenly, crossing the room with a predator's grace. He paused near the piano in the corner, running his fingers along the black lacquered finish. "This," he said, with a slight nod, "is more like it."

He touched the keys softly, playing a single note that echoed through the room. "I remember when you used to play for me. You were good." His voice was soft, but there was a sharpness to it, a reminder of who he was, and what I used to be to him.

"Why are you here?" I asked, my voice more strained than I'd hoped. Why did I even ask him a question that I already knew the answer for?

He gave a slow, almost theatrical smile, his face like a mime-mask-like, exaggerated, and yet completely void of real emotion. "Well, Castsey told me you were so upset that I hadn't come to see you after you moved out," he said, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. I watched as he walked up to the bed and collapsed onto it with casual arrogance.

"I thought I made it clear to you that I want nothing to do with Matteo Lombardy anymore," I said, my voice steady, though my body remained stiff by the door. I couldn't move. My defiance felt like it hung in the air between us, weak and irrelevant.

"Do you still play?" Instead of answering my previous question he tossed another question my way. But there was no real interest in his expressions for an answer from my end. It was more of a taunt.

I stayed silent, my muscles tight, watching him as he surveyed the room again, as if cataloguing every flaw, every weakness. I could feel the weight of his gaze, even when he wasn't looking directly at me. He paused near the window again, his reflection blurred by the rain running down the glass.

"You think this is your life now?" he asked, his back still to me. He turned around slowly, his eyes locking onto mine, the coldness in them making my stomach churn. "You think you can just walk away from who you are?"

"I did everything you asked me to do. In return you promised to let me be."

"Mm. I did," he said, standing up and walking toward me with that same eerie, deliberate pace. He smiled again, that mime's smile-a smile that never touched his eyes. "But Timothy's snakes are still everywhere. Your pesticide hasn't worked properly."

His face was close, too close, and I felt a familiar paralysis take over. My muscles locked, my throat tightening with the fear and tension that came from years of knowing what he was capable of. He was a man without morals, without remorse, and that look on his face-the way he loomed over me-it reminded me that, to him, I could just be a piece on his board that he'd sacrifice any time.

"I don't know what you expect from me," I managed to say, my voice quieter now, more desperate.

"I expect you to clean up the mess," he said, his voice low, dangerously calm. There was no request in his tone, only a command. "Timothy's becoming a problem. A big one. And you're going to deal with it."

"But father-"I stared at him, unable to move or speak, as his words sank in.

"You know what you need to do," he said, stepping back slightly, as if he'd already decided I was going to comply. "Make it clean, make it fast. And make sure no one ever speaks Timothy's name again."

He was calling me back to his world, the world I had fought so hard to escape, and deep down, I knew refusing him wasn't an option. The weight of his expectations felt like a noose tightening around my neck. I swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising panic.

"You can play house all you want, but you're still Matteo Desman Lombardy's son. And no matter how much you try to hide it, the world knows it too, Garret Swan Lombardy."

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms, but I didn't respond. What was there to say? He had a way of stripping away any illusion of control I thought I had. Even in this place-my sanctuary-he made me feel small.

"So get it done soon. I need everything cleared before the elections."

***

I had been here before, pulled off this exact manoeuvre, and I had survived every time. This time won't be any different. But I wanted to see you. Just once. Just like me and not as one of Matteo Lombardy's men. In case things didn't go right I needed you to have a reason to forgive me.

I was anxious, but I hoped it didn't show on my face as I walked into the cafe as usual, the bell chiming as if to announce my arrival to you.

The café was the same, a familiar refuge cloaked in the warm, muted hues of dawn. It was always a little crowded in the mornings, filled with all sorts of people, chasing dreams that were theirs and not. You were there, as I knew you would be behind the counter, your eyes tracing patterns in the steam rising from the steamer. I had watched you so many times, from so many angles, but never like this-with the weight of a looming uncertainty pressing down on my chest.

I had thought about not coming, about letting you slip away into the safety of my memories, untainted by what might happen from now on. But I couldn't. Something in me needed to see you, to imprint this moment into my mind, a quiet anchor in the storm that was about to break free.

But when I reached the counter, your eyes lit up. The way they always did when our eyes met, as if my mere presence had a place in the rhythm of your day. It was a small, almost imperceptible shift, but to me, it was everything. The storm inside me quieted, soothed by the light in your gaze.

"One avocado toast and a dark coffee, please."

You nodded and turned away, heading towards the back counter. I watched you move with an easy grace. The rhythmic clinking of utensils and the soft hum of the espresso machine filled the air, blending into the warm, comforting atmosphere of the place. For a second, I wanted to forget everything else, to let this simple moment be enough, to stay here with you in this quiet, sunlit café where the world couldn't touch us.

I traced the contours of your figure, noting the small details: the way your apron tied neatly at the waist, the focused look in your eyes as you prepared the order, and the subtle way you brush a stubborn strand of hair out of your vision. A small frown of concentration tugging at your lips as you paused to adjust the grind on the espresso machine.

I watched as you finished, a soft smile playing on your lips as you slid my toast and coffee across the counter. I hesitated, my breath catching in my throat as I absorbed the warmth of your smile. Finally making it safely out of the trance you put me in I managed to smile-I bet I looked so weird, scratching my head, smiling like an idiot.

"Sorry for not coming yesterday," I said, trying to sound nonchalant.

The first words we shared outside of our usual pleasantries could have been something better. I internally cringed at my own bluntness, but I couldn't help it. I was running out of time. What if I never got another chance to tell you even this much?

You froze. I could almost see the gears turning in your mind as you processed what you'd just heard. So, I wasn't entirely wrong. This makes two of us. I watched you, feeling a pang of guilt for making you wait, but also a strange satisfaction as your eyes widened slightly, taken aback by my words.

For a moment, we stood there in silence, the hum of the café fading into the background. I couldn't decipher the look on your face, but I saw the way your gaze lingered on me, studying every detail of my expression. It was as if you were trying to understand what I meant, or maybe what I was feeling. You should've seen your face. Adorable. I couldn't help but chuckle.

I wanted to sit with you, talk for hours, get to know your name, and discuss life. I wanted to reach out, touch your hand, and reassure you that everything would be alright. But I knew that would betray the calm façade I was struggling to maintain. Instead, I stayed where I was, standing just a few steps away, hoping my presence would convey everything I couldn't say aloud.

"Thought you'd miss me."

I was sure you did.

But I didn't want you to acknowledge. It would be best for both of us if you didn't. Because whatever this was-this strange awareness of something alive and thick between us-was too precious for me to handle. I couldn't afford to be vulnerable around you when I was so lost inside.

So, I turned to leave. Before it was too late. I couldn't let you fall into the same abyss I was trapped in. I couldn't be that selfish.

Just as my fingers closed around the door handle, your voice cut through the quiet space.

"I did."

I froze, the door handle feeling cold and unyielding in my grasp as an electric current of shock ran through me. I turned slowly, hoping it wasn't all just in my mind, and that you had actually spoken.

"Don't disappear like that again," you said, your voice softer this time, almost pleading.

You have no idea how happy I felt inside. Though I was not supposed to, I should have been afraid to hear those words but I let the feeling sink into me. And I made a silent promise then and there to never leave your side, no matter what.

That's how you became the only colour to my black and white world. You said you were blue. A quite muted blue that seeped through the cracks of the facade I used to hold together. When I was with you I didn't want to be anything else. I could be me. And I was home.