Family Reunion

Lea helped John down the hallway to his apartment. By now, the doctor’s drugs had fully kicked in, and John was more or less walking on his own, but she still kept his arm over her shoulder. That was just how she was. Reliable.

At 5’10, Lea was tall for a woman. In high school, she played basketball and competed in long jump for track. Like John, she had been athletic her whole life. Unlike John, she had wanted to work for the government since she was a kid.

She had originally applied to the FBI but switched paths at the last second. She never told him why. They reached his door, and before he could react, Lea shoved her hands into his pockets.

John instinctively shifted his hips to the side. Without hesitation, she slapped his wound.

He winced.

"Stop moving. I’m getting your keys," she said.

"You could’ve asked," John said.

"Stop being such a baby."

She pulled out his keys, unlocked the door, and swung it open.

John should have been greeted by darkness—the same two-bedroom apartment he had lived in for years. The one he had meticulously cleaned that morning, stalling before heading to his father’s funeral.

Instead, the lights were on, and for the second time tonight, the CIA had a gun to his head.

An agent stood by the entrance, weapon drawn.

The moment he recognized them, he lowered it and stepped aside.

John and Lea walked in to see a flurry of activity.

Monitors, computers, wires snaking across the floor. Agents moving back and forth, their conversations quick and clipped. No one even acknowledged his presence.

The most people John had ever had in this apartment at one time was five.

Now?

There were at least fifteen to twenty, using his home like a command center.

His heart pounded as he rushed toward his bedroom.

He could hear voices inside behind the closed door.

His blood boiled.

He shoved it open.

He started to yell—then stopped on a dime.

Sitting on his bed were Chief Roman and CIA Deputy Director Jill Stein.

In his $1,500 gaming chair, typing on his keyboard, messing with his three-monitor setup, was none other than CIA Director Stan Hoffman.

They all turned to look at him, as if he were the one invading their space.

John swallowed his anger and forced himself to sound respectful—but forceful.

"Hello, Director. Deputy Director. It’s an honor. Chief."

"Boom!” said Roman with a smile. “I told you!"

“Damn.” said Stein. Deputy Director Stein sighed and pulled a wallet from her jacket, handing Roman ten dollars.

Director Hoffman did the same.

Roman pocketed the cash. "Did I ever tell you you’re my favorite Black-Italian?"

John gave him a deadpan look. "I’m your only Black-Italian."

"Still true!"

John exhaled sharply. "With all due respect, what the hell are you people doing in my apartment?"

"We have a situation nearby, and this was the best place to set up the sting’s support area," Stein said. "Plus, we thought you wouldn’t be here because you’d be… uh—"

"Dead?"

"Incapacitated," she corrected. “We heard some blonde woman had you occupied. Especially after what happened a week ago.”

"Also," Hoffman added, "you won’t be using this apartment anymore."

John’s stomach twisted. "What do you mean by that?"

The three of them exchanged looks.

Then the Director stood, and the others followed suit.

"We’ll give you some privacy," Hoffman said, heading toward the door. "Meet us in the kitchen when you’re ready. But don’t take too long."

Hoffman paused in the doorway. "By the way, what kind of chair is that?"

John blinked. "...It’s a gaming chair."

Hoffman nodded. "Send me the link, will you?"

"I’ll send it to you, Director," Lea called from the hallway.

She shoved past Hoffman as if he were an intern, stormed into John’s room, and slammed the door shut behind her.

John rubbed his temples. "What the hell is going on?"

"Get dressed," Lea said. "Then worry about the chaos."

"They were sitting on my bed, Lea."

"Worse things have happened in that bed. Get dressed."

John grumbled but complied.

He stripped off his shirt, then his pants, then his underwear.

When he glanced at Lea, he saw that she was staring at him.

She caught his eyes, and her face flushed.

She turned her head—but only for a moment.

As he pulled on a fresh pair of boxers, she turned her head back, her gaze lingering.

She probably thought he couldn’t see her watching.

But he could.

The reflection in the bedroom window made it obvious.

Not that he minded.

It reminded him of the last time they were alone in a room together…

Had been exactly one week ago.

In Boston.

When his world started falling apart. Again. 

***

John adjusted his red tie in the hotel bathroom mirror, smoothing out the fabric with steady hands. Behind him, Lea leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching.

He turned to her. “How do I look?”

She stepped forward, straightened his tie, then adjusted his jacket with careful precision.

For a brief moment, their eyes met.

The air between them shifted, something unspoken lingering just long enough to be noticed. He could feel her heartbeat.

Then Lea punched him in the chest.

John frowned. “What the hell was that for?”

“Just making sure the wire’s secure,” she said with a smirk. “Can’t have you walking in there and getting shot full of holes.”

John sighed. “I really don’t want to wear this thing.”

“You knew this was coming eventually. Just remember, we’re here for you.”

She left the bathroom and returned a moment later with a shoebox. “Speaking of which—here.”

John raised an eyebrow but took the box. Inside were brand new dress shoes, the kind that if you had to ask, you couldn’t afford them.

He let out a low whistle. Pulling back the tissue paper, he spotted a folded note.

He opened it.

"Remember to put your best foot forward! - Chief Roman"

John smirked and slipped the shoes on. Perfect fit.

“How does he know my size?”

Lea leaned against the doorframe. “He asked me a few days ago. Guess he had these ready to go.”

***

As they walked through the hotel lobby, John found himself thinking about the note.

Chief Roman wasn’t the sentimental type. He rarely gave gifts. But every once in a while, he had his moments—especially when it came to family affairs.

He had been the one to vouch for John when he applied to The Farm, personally going to bat for him. Used his own past as proof that someone’s history shouldn’t define their future.

John would never admit it, but he looked up to the man.

Like a father.

A father…

He reached into his pocket, pulling out the note again.

He read it once.

Twice.

Then folded it neatly between his fingers.

“I need a card,” he said.

Lea shot him a look. “What?”

“A card. I haven’t seen these people in six years. I was just a kid when I left. I have to bring something.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. It’s a sign of respect.” His voice was firm. “At the end of the day, I’m a Nero. Whether I like it or not. And if I want to make it all the way inside, I need to be respectful.”

Lea groaned. “Pretty sure I saw a gift shop back there.”

***

The car ride was mostly silent.

Lea kept her eyes on the road, the soft hum of the radio filling the space between them. John sat beside her, signing the card with steady, deliberate strokes. Once finished, he slid it into the envelope, sealed it, and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

Lea glanced over. “What did you write?”

“I told my mother I missed her cooking.” He exhaled through his nose. “That’s about the only thing I can say.”

“You nervous?”

“No. Are you?”

She scoffed. “Why would I be nervous?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “You’re the one who insisted on coming with me.”

“I just thought you shouldn’t go alone,” she said quickly. “Seems… sad. And what if something happened and no one was around? Who would be the last person who saw you? Who would start the search? There’s an FBI headquarters nearby, but that’s not our branch. What if—”

She caught herself.

John was watching her with that smug, knowing look.

“Fuck you, dude,” she muttered, yanking the car over to the curb. “We’re here anyway. You know what to do, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” John opened the door and stepped out. “Walk three blocks up the street, reunite with the family that banished me, and let you guys listen in on the whole ordeal.”

“And don’t get shot.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So I have to be?”

He shut the door and started walking. When he glanced back, Lea was already gone.

She was still watching, of course. She always had eyes on him. But for now, he was alone.

As he started walking, his spine began to tingle. His pupils dilated and he walked with more and more care. The building he was going to was another hotel with the windows right above the water.

He could smell it. He could feel it. It was as if the city was welcoming him home after all this time.

One by one they started to change.

They became more and more expensive. More and more tinted.

Darker and darker till they were black.

Then blacked out. Windows dark. License plates missing.

The streets that started off empty weren’t empty anymore.

Men lingered in alleys, by parked cars, near building entrances.

And their clothes…

At first, streetwear.

Then business casual.

Then full suits.

By the time he reached the block, the sidewalk was packed.

John walked forward, careful, controlled, spine straight.

One by one, the men moved for him.

Not in a friendly way. They stepped aside with glares, their jaws tight.

Guys like these didn’t just move for anyone.

Which meant only one thing.

They were expecting him.

He reached the entrance.

Standing directly in front of the turnstile doors was a giant of a man.

Slavic.

Broad.

Two bullet-hole scars sat on either cheek, mirrored. His shades hid his eyes, but not the sharpness of his expression. He wore the darkest suit possible, a red bow tie against a black undershirt, and large gold rings on every finger.

John noticed the dried blood still crusted in the grooves of the metal.

The man removed his sunglasses.

A deep scar ran between his eyes.

“You really think you’re just gonna walk in here?”

At that single sentence, the others shifted.

Not aggressive. Not tense.

Ready.

They surrounded him in an unspoken move, their posture relaxed, but their faces giving away a different story.

“To be honest, I was hoping I wasn’t on the guest list,” said John. “You probably don’t even recognize me.”

The man grunted. “I got a lot of scars. But this one?” He pointed to the deep line between his brows. “I’ll remember this one for the rest of my life.”

John shook his head. “How many times do I have to say it? I’m sorry. It was an accident. I was just a kid.”

The man turned to another bodyguard, gesturing at the scar. “I give this kid his first switchblade, and within an hour? He accidentally lets it slip and it comes hurdling at my face! Almost took my damn eye out.”

Then he grinned.

A wide grin.

“It’s good to see you, John. You got big.”

John smirked. “It’s good to see you too, Bullock.” He paused. “You think I’m walking outta here today?”

Bullock shrugged and stepped aside. “Sixty-forty.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“Not in your favor,” Bullock clarified. “You got balls, kid. I’ll give you that. Me? I don’t know if I’d have shown up.” His grin faded slightly. “They’re pissed.”

John swallowed. “Better stop stalling then.”

And with that, he walked through the doors to face the horror within.